Page 142 of Corrupting Camille
Slowly, Kane stands, until he towers above me. He looks down, fingers grazing my chin, forcing me gently to meet his gaze, possessive, victorious, darkly satisfied.
“You should know by now, Muñequita,” he whispers, voice rough velvet, sliding dangerously against my ear, “Ialwayswin.”
My breath trembles softly, lips parting as I stare up into the raw darkness of his eyes. My heart crashes violently against my ribs, panic and excitement twisting sharply in my chest. He’s so close, so overwhelming, heat radiating off his skin, filling every last inch of space between us.
He trails his thumb slowly across my lower lip, the pressure soft yet possessive, tracing my mouth with a maddening patience.
“And when I win,” he murmurs quietly, voice sliding into something rougher, deeper, darker, “I always take my prize.”
My pulse spikes viciously, heat spiraling low, an aching throb igniting between my thighs. I tilt my chin up, trying to hold onto the fragile threads of defiance, but my voice comes out breathless, unsteady. “And what prize is that?”
His lips curl slowly, dangerously. The victory in his eyes sharpens, deepens. He leans in further, breath hot against my cheek, whispering softly into my ear.
“You.”
A tremor shivers through my body, anticipation pooling dangerously, overwhelming any remnant of control. His hand moves slowly, deliberately, sliding down to grip my wrist, gently pulling me to my feet until we’re standing chest to chest, my body pressed flush against the solid heat of his.
His eyes skim over my face, my throat, lower where the robe slips open, revealing more skin than intended. His gaze darkens further, hunger clear, undeniable.
“Give me what I’ve earned, Camille,” he says softly, brushing his lips against mine, barely touching, a cruel tease that shreds my composure.
“And what exactly is that?” I whisper, my voice shaking softly.
He smiles darkly against my mouth, the answer a ruthless promise whispered into my very soul.
“Everything.”
My head spins gently, whiskey finally catching up with me, clouding my thoughts, my reason, loosening every last bit of control.
His mouth claims mine fully, no hesitation, no mercy, lips hot and demanding, tongue sliding over mine, tasting the whiskey, tasting himself, devouring me whole. I gasp against him, dizziness hitting sharp and sudden, hands gripping hisshoulders, fingers sinking into muscle and sinew, clinging desperately as reality slips.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur, voice velvet-rough and possessive, “I’ve got you.”
Before I can respond, his hands drop lower, gripping my thighs firmly, lifting me effortlessly. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist, locking tight, the robe slipping further open, exposing nakedness, bare skin, pressed shamelessly against him. His heat sears through me, branding, claiming, leaving nothing untouched.
I bury my face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, intoxicated by him more than any drink. He carries me easily. The bedroom door opens, his bedroom, a sanctuary of shadows and black sheets. He moves inside without breaking stride, gently lowering me onto the bed, his weight following close, pressing down against me, pinning me in place.
Kane’s mouth finds mine again, deeper this time, slower, devastatingly thorough. His voice rasps against my lips, the quiet promise wrapping around me, dark and absolute:
“Now, Muñequita, let’s see how gracefully you surrender.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kane
The penthouse breathes quiet. Darkness cloaks everything, the city muted and distant, almost unreal through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Shadows drip like ink around us. Camille’s beside me, bare skin cool against mine, breathing steady, controlled, but her fingertips betray her restlessness. They trace my tattoos, reading me like Braille, navigating scars and inked truths no one else dares to touch.
Her hand pauses just above my heart, hovering over words burned into me:
Lo que se pierde, duele más en silencio.
Every muscle in my body tightens as her fingers explore, tracing reverently every letter like a hidden scripture. It’s not idle. Not playful. It’s cautious, intimate, and dangerously vulnerable.
Her voice shivers softly in the dark, uncertain yet steady.
“What is lost hurts more in silence.”
My jaw clenches tight, heart slamming hard against my ribs. “My father used to say that,” I admit roughly. The confession drags out reluctantly, scraping raw edges inside me. “Whenever he caught me shutting down. He was never gentle, couldn’t afford softness, but he understood. Knew silence was the slowest poison.”
