Page 154 of Corrupting Camille
I groan loudly, burying my face into my knees, embarrassment scorching my skin. “Lena, it was never supposed to get like this. It was just sex. Hot, mind-blowing, addictive sex…but still just sex. And now he’s deep in my bloodstream, like some fucked-up addiction I can’t shake. He’s everywhere. And it scares the absolute shit out of me.”
She whistles softly, a grin of pure mischief curling her lips. “Girl, you went from Mr. Oat Milk Vanilla to literal DarkRomance Book Boyfriend. It’s honestly iconic. I mean, fucked-up and probably therapy-worthy…but iconic.”
“It’s beyond fucked-up,” I whisper shakily. “but that’s the thing. Despite how fucked it all is, I just spent the last seventy-eight hours locked away with him. No interruptions, no outside bullshit. It was like living in our own world. Just him and me, Lena. And it was… heaven.”
Lena's brows shoot even higher, a wicked smile curling her lips. “Hold up…seventy-eight straight hours? Camille. Babe. The sheer stamina. I’m impressed as fuck. Seriously, did you two at least hydrate or something?”
“Lena be serious!” I laugh despite myself, cheeks flaming hotter.
“I am dead-ass serious! Three days with dick that good is basically an Olympic event,” she insists, eyes bright with mischief. “I’m talking electrolytes, protein bars, basic survival shit. You gotta hydrate to dominate, bitch.”
I shake my head, laughing through fresh tears. “You’re ridiculous.”
She nudges me gently, eyes softening just a fraction. “So, what went wrong?”
“I freaked the fuck out. Self-sabotaged,” I confess bitterly, shame heating my skin all over again. “Panic-buttoned so hard I said things cruel, ruthless things just to cut him. Lena, I told him he was beneath me, just a good fuck and nothing more. I said I was going back to Preston and my safe little life.”
“Damn, babe, that’s savage.”
“I know,” I groan, pressing my palms into my eyes. “It’s literally the worst thing I’ve ever done. The look on his face, Lena…” My voice cracks painfully, another sob clawing up my throat. “There’s no coming back from that.”
Lena rolls her eyes dramatically, leaning back and kicking her bare feet up onto her coffee table. “Girl, please. Did you forgetthe part where he bought into your entire fucking legacy? Kane Rivera is certified, obsessively invested. You could literally torch his closet, slash the tires on one of his million cars, and key your name on his door, and this man would still be like, ‘Aw, cute, she noticed me.’”
I snort despite myself, shooting her a half-hearted glare. “This is not funny, Lena.”
“Oh, but it is,” she retorts wickedly, sipping her wine. “Because the alternative is you marrying Preston Caldwell’s beige-ass and living your life stuck on missionary Wednesdays and oat milk brunch Sundays. I refuse that tragedy for you. I swear to god, Camille, I’ll show up to your wedding in couture funeral black if you marry that bland motherfucker.”
I stare at her for a long second before the laughter finally breaks free, real, genuine laughter that shakes my entire body. “God, Lena, you’re insane.”
“Insanely right,” she corrects, smirking unapologetically. “Seriously, babe. Preston is the human equivalent of dry toast. Like, yeah, he’s handsome, but so is every other rich white boy with a tennis membership. You deserve better. Hell, you deserve fireworks.”
My stomach flips, the humor fading into something raw and aching. “That’s the thing, Lena,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Kane’s not fireworks. He’s an atomic bomb. He’s chaos and destruction and the most terrifyingly perfect thing that’s ever happened to me. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough for it. For him.”
Lena softens immediately, eyes turning fierce, her hand squeezing mine tight. “Camille Sinclair, look at me. You’re the strongest bitch I know. You handle your parents’ bullshit, your family’s entire fucked-up dynasty, and Preston’s bland-ass, expectations every day like it’s nothing. You don’t need ‘strong enough.’ You’re already there.”
I nod slowly, tears spilling freely again, blurring my vision. “But what if it’s too late? What if I really destroyed us for good?”
She sighs dramatically, flopping her head back on the couch, exasperated. “Bitch, please. This man infiltrated your entire company, stalked you, ghosted you, chased you down, and then locked your ass up for three days of uninterrupted dick therapy. You think a little tantrum from his favorite obsession is gonna scare him off now?
“Lena…”
“Camille, babe,” she interrupts firmly, eyes flashing stubbornly. “Listen to me. Kane Rivera might be dangerous, ruthless, and borderline psychotic…scratch that, definitely psychotic…but men like that don’t walk away. Ever.”
My heart clenches at the thought, sharp and aching. “And if he doesn’t?”
She leans in, eyes suddenly deadly serious, gripping my hand like we’re plotting an international scandal. “Then we go full slut gear. Lingerie. Heels. Lip gloss disrespectfully shiny. You show up, drop to your knees like an apology in human form. Bonus points if the lace is see-through and he ends up spanking you as punishment.”
I gape at her. “Lena.”
“What? I’m giving you options!” she grins, raising her glass like she just solved the global crisis of heartbreak. “You lost your damn mind for a second, it happens. But trust me, if that man laid pipe the way you described? He’s thinking about you right now, pissed, hard, and one hundred percent waiting to see if you’re woman enough to crawl back for it.”
I laugh again, softer this time, grateful for her chaos. “I don’t deserve you, Lena.”
“Facts,” she agrees, raising her wineglass. “But you’re stuck with me anyway. Now finish your wine, take a breath, and then tell me again, slowly, with more graphic details…about howpremium this man’s pipe game actually is. I’ve got popcorn in the pantry, and nothing but time.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Lena disappears briefly, returning with an oversized bowl of popcorn balanced on her hip and a freshly rolled joint between her fingers. She sinks onto the plush rug beside me, holding out the joint like it’s a sacrament.
