Page 21 of Corrupting Camille

Possessive.

The kind of grip that makes your knees weak and your mind go quiet. He drags me against him, all hard muscle and heat, mouth ghosting over mine without giving in. Teasing. Torturing. Dominating.

“Take off your heels,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal. Like velvet dragged across a blade.

I don’t speak. I can’t.

I nod, breath catching in my throat, and place a trembling hand on his chest to steady myself as I slip one heel off, then the other.

Bare feet against marble. Cool floor. Hot skin.

The loss of height doesn’t make me smaller; it makes me his.

He palms my hip, fingers sliding over silk like it offends him. His touch is slow, too slow, mapping me like a man cataloging all the ways he’s going to destroy me.

His thumb grazes the underside of my breast. A circle. A press. Just enough to make my nipple harden through lace. Just enough to make me want to cry, the ache building between my thighs.

“You’re shaking,” he breathes against my neck, lips dragging over my pulse like he’s marking time.

“Nervous or needy?”

“Cold,” I lie, breathless.

He laughs. Quiet. Dark. Dangerous. It rolls over my skin like smoke.

“Liar.” He says.

And then he kisses me.

No build. No warning. Just crash. Like he’s claiming something that already belongs to him. His mouth devours mine, tongue slipping past my lips, arrogant and consuming. My hands claw into his shoulders, dragging him closer, needing more, needing everything.

The kiss doesn’t just end it’s ripped from me. He pulls back, chest heaving, eyes devouring me like he’s still starving.

“Your dress,” he rasps, voice gravel and fire. “Take it off.”

My heart jumps. But I don’t look away.

I want this.

I want him.

I slide the straps down my arms slowly, letting the silk fall, glide to the floor like it’s committing a sin.

I’m left in lace. Barely.

Sheer, black, high-cut, and useless against his stare. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t move. Just watches. Watches like he’s already inside me. Like he knows exactly how I’ll sound when I break.

“You’re even more beautiful without your pride,” he says, voice low, lips hovering over mine. His words stroke every exposed nerve I have. “Even better stripped of all that control.”

His knuckle trails along the edge of my bra, teasing the lace, tracing the top curve of my breast. Every movement is deliberate. Measured. Cruel.

“Tonight,” he breathes, mouth brushing mine, “I’m going to make you feel everything you’ve spent your whole life avoiding.”

My breath stutters. My thighs clench. I can’t stop it.

His thumb presses softly to my lower lip. “Tell me, Princesa…” His voice drops, guttural and possessive. “…have you ever been made to beg?"

"Never," I breathe, lifting my chin defiantly, even as my pulse races beneath his touch. "I've always gotten exactly what I wanted."