Page 161 of Corrupting Camille
She smiles softly, full of quiet hope. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Taking a breath, I follow my sister back into the perfect façade, leaving the messy truth tucked safely in the shadows behind us.
***
The dining room is all gleam and crystal.
Preston’s mother is talking about flatware. Rose gold versus antique silver. I’m nodding politely, lips fixed in a smile I haven’t meant in weeks. My dress is crepe. My posture is perfect. Myfork is untouched beside a plate of food I can’t look at without feeling sick.
They’re all talking around me, Preston, his parents, some family friend wearing a tie that costs more than rent in most boroughs, but I’m not listening to a single word.
Because I’m not here.
I’m still in Kane’s penthouse.
Still tied to his bed. Still aching from the weight of his hands on my throat and the filth in his mouth when he told me I was his. Still sore between my thighs where he split me open, whispering things no diamond ring could ever drown out.
The glass in my hand is sweating. My palms are damp.
And then, my phone vibrates on the table.
Once.
Twice.
A soft little buzz against linen, a ghost of a sound, but I feel it like a slap.
My heart seizes.
I turn it over.
Kane
No message preview. No words. Just the name.
I shouldn’t look.
I shouldn’t touch it.
But I do.
I unlock the screen and tap the notification, and my breath leaves my body like a gut punch.
Three images.
They take a second to load. Long enough for my stomach to drop, long enough for my heart to pound against my ribcage like it wants out.
They explode onto the screen, obscene and brutal, forcing every ounce of air from my lungs.
Me, bound to Kane’s bed with black leather belts, wrists tied tightly above my head, legs spread wide, shamelessly exposed. Naked, flushed, dripping wet and aching, the filthiest version of myself laid bare beneath his merciless stare.
My heart slams violently against my ribs, my blood roars in my ears as heat floods my cheeks. Humiliation and longing swirling painfully together. My hands tremble so badly I nearly drop the phone onto the gleaming linen tablecloth.
He didn’t just capture me, he fucking destroyed me. Every vulnerability, every secret need he’d ruthlessly exposed. The next image zooms closer, and my stomach twists, breath hitching painfully as I stare at the close-up of his strong, tattooed hand pressed possessively against my soaked pussy, fingers spreading me wide, claiming me in the most primal way possible.
My body betrays me, heat pooling low, a vicious ache spreading between my thighs. I’m dizzy, heart hammering, fighting desperately for air in this perfectly polished room full of crystal glasses and meaningless conversations.
I shouldn’t keep looking.
