Page 5 of Corrupting Camille

Maybe he’s telling the truth.

Maybe he’s already made peace with dying.

Either way, I’ll find out.

And when I do?

It won’t be a clean ending.

I’m still nursing that first glass when Camille Elouise Sinclair walks in and incinerates every coherent thought in my head.

It’s not the dress that seizes me; it’s her. Royal blue silk cascades down her body like spilled secrets, the backless cut dipping low enough to shatter morality. She moves with an innate sensuality, effortless grace wrapped around polished rebellion. Her legs flash beneath the high slit, smooth and sculpted, weapons perfectly crafted to destroy men lesser than me.

Her bloodline alone is intoxicating, an explosive mix of East Coast aristocracy and deep Louisiana Creole heritage. A decadent lineage woven from Bourbon Street mystique, Spanish moss-draped LIVE oaks, and whispered secrets passed down through generations of scandal and voodoo queens. The Sinclair name may shine from Manhattan's glittering towers, but her soul pulses with the fire of New Orleans' darkest nights. She's sugarcane sweet beneath a refined facade, while Creole fire simmers just below her cultivated poise.

She hasn’t seen me yet. Her mask slips, the carefully curated Sinclair heiress performance cracks, revealing a vulnerability that begs to be exploited. Away from the gala’s relentless eyes, she finally allows herself the luxury of breathing.

Mistake number one.

Because I don’t want her breathing…I want her gasping. Crying. Begging. Screaming.

I want her on her knees, desperate and trembling beneath every filthy fantasy I've harbored since I first tasted her name.

She sinks into a velvet chair, unaware of my gaze, and empties her champagne flute with quiet fury. Her throat arches, a flawless column of bronzed silk begging for the scrape of teeth, the cruelty of my mouth. I imagine my fingers wrapped around her skin, hot, fragile, bruised from holding her exactly how I please.

Under the dim lounge lights, she glows golden, precious metal forged from tragedy and privilege, wealth clinging to every lush curve, trauma haunting the depths of those dark eyes.

And I want it all.

She isn’t beautiful. She’s devastating. Bourbon Street bravado wrapped in Fifth Avenue polish. A Creole princess whose veins thrum with defiance, whose lineage drips scandal, secrets, and sorcery. Money might armor her body, but heartbreak colors her soul, and I will strip her of both.

I don’t just want to fuck her.

I want to own her.

To plunge my hands into her lush curls, force her head back, and make her meet my gaze while I take her apart. I want to erase every refined lie she was raised with, until all that remains is raw, shaking desire utterly dependent on me. Until her perfect pedigree means nothing, reduced to begging whispers and desperate pleas.

No tenderness. No mercy. Just violence dressed as worship, obsession masquerading as pleasure.

She'll become my favorite possession, a prize handled roughly but guarded fiercely. I’ll ruin her so completely that Preston fucking Caldwell’s touch will become meaningless, his kisses pale shadows against the marks I leave behind.

My eyes trace the line of her thigh again, picturing those legs locked tight around my waist, feeling her shudder and plead as I teach her that power isn’t inherited, it’s conquered. She was bred to be untouchable, trained in perfect restraint.

I’ll teach her the thrill of losing control.

How sweet falling can taste.

She shifts restlessly, oblivious until…

There it is.

A tiny ripple of awareness, primal and involuntary. Her elegant spine stiffens, shoulders tightening in subtle alarm.

She feels me.

Not gently. Not poetically. Viscerally…like a wire stripped bare, sparking at the first threat of contact.

She doesn’t jerk or gasp, doesn’t lose her careful composure. Instead, she turns slowly, deliberately, graceful as a predator disguised as prey.