Page 141 of Corrupting Camille
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I swallow hard, forcing a composure I barely feel. I take a slow breath, leaning forwardmyself, pushing my bishop into position, another subtle strike. “You think you can turn the tables on me?”
His eyes flicker, meeting mine, something hot and primal burning deep in his gaze. “You already know I can, Camille.”
I shiver, the ache he left inside me suddenly reigniting with full force. I reach for the whiskey glass again, the liquid smooth and hot on my tongue, mingling with the taste of him still lingering on my lips. I set the glass back down slowly, my voice dropping to a whisper, a quiet challenge. “Prove it.”
His chest expands slightly, pulse thrumming visibly at his throat. He moves his rook suddenly, capturing my bishop with a decisive strike. “Check.”
I suck in a sharp breath, heart thudding violently. He’s turned it around fast, ruthless, without mercy. Every nerve in my body is a light, my awareness sharpening. But I’m not finished.
I move swiftly, repositioning my king, pulse racing faster, body warming beneath his intense stare. “Your move.”
He leans in closer, voice rougher. “Careful, Muñequita. You’re getting reckless.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, leaning into his space, daring him. “Or maybe I just like the thrill.”
He reaches forward, fingers sliding around my wrist, thumb pressing firmly into the fluttering pulse there, his voice low with barely restrained desire. “Don’t provoke the devil unless you’re ready for hell.”
My heart pounds, his words sliding down my spine. But the reckless spark inside me won’t be quieted. It whispers to me to push him further, to see exactly how close to the edge Kane Rivera can come before he snaps.
“Maybe hell doesn’t scare me,” I breathe, voice soft, defiant, a seductive dare lingering between us.
His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist, the pressure sending heat spiraling low, throbbing between my thighs. Hestares at me, eyes glittering, dark amusement curving his lips. “It should.”
I hold his gaze defiantly, despite my heart racing violently. “Make your move.”
He watches me a second longer, dark eyes holding mine like a physical touch, then releases me slowly, turning his attention back to the board. And something shifts, subtle but unmistakable. The playfulness melts away, replaced by pure, calculated ruthlessness. Kane Rivera is a predator finally ready to strike.
His rook slides forward, cutting sharply into my line of defense, capturing my knight with ruthless precision. My stomach tightens.
Shit.
“Check again,” he murmurs calmly, voice deceptively quiet. He lifts his gaze slowly to mine, satisfaction burning dangerously in those dark eyes.
My pulse spikes hard, breath quickening as my fingers flutter nervously over the pieces, desperately searching for escape. I see an opening, small but workable, shifting my bishop defensively, blocking his immediate path. A temporary reprieve.
He smiles faintly, a dark, cruel twist of his mouth. “You’re running, Camille. I thought you liked the thrill.”
My cheeks flush hot, desire and frustration bleeding together beneath my skin. “Maybe I’m just playing with you,” I bite back, voice wavering only slightly.
His eyes narrow, satisfaction deepening. He moves forward swiftly now, precisely placing his queen into position, slicing deeply through my carefully laid defenses. My heart sinks sharply, the realization dawning on me like ice through my veins. He’s been baiting me, drawing me closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“Check,” he repeats, low and dangerous, eyes never leaving mine. “Again.”
I exhale shakily, scanning the board, desperate for escape. But every exit is blocked. Every path closed off with merciless efficiency. My fingers hover helplessly, panic flickers.
“You planned this,” I whisper, realization sharp, breathless. “You set me up from the start.”
He leans forward slowly, palms resting on the table, voice dropping to velvet-edged darkness. “Always. Every single move.”
I move my king desperately, a last-ditch effort to evade his grasp, to delay the inevitable…
But he’s already anticipated me.
His bishop slides forward calmly, decisively, trapping my king with ruthless finality.
“Checkmate,” he murmurs softly, gaze locked onto mine, the triumph raw, undeniable. Complete.
I stare helplessly at the board. He’s won, not just the game, but the battle beneath. He’s dominated every move, every breath, every moment since the second I walked into this penthouse.
