Page 175 of Corrupting Camille
Her eyes widen, disbelieving, wary. “You’re serious.”
I let my gaze drag slowly over her bare skin, her tangled hair, the flushed, bruised lips still swollen from my kisses, my bites, my punishment. The shirt will barely cover her thighs, barely hide the marks I’ve already left behind. Good. I want every fucking eye to see what’s mine. To see exactly what I’ll bleed for.
I step forward, gripping her chin firmly between my fingers, forcing her gaze to mine. “If anyone so much as breathes in your direction,” I murmur darkly, “I’ll break every goddamn bone in their body. Do you understand me, Camille?”
Her breath catches, eyes darkening, fear and something else, something raw, something she won’t admit to yet, surfacing behind those lush, anxious eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she picks up my shirt, slipping it over her head, fabric sliding over bare curves, clinging like a second skin. No bra. No panties. Nothing beneath but flesh, heat, and my fingerprints still pressed into her bones.
I watch every movement, possessive, merciless, letting her feel my eyes like a brand. When she looks up again, voice cautious and small, there’s a question hovering between us, fragile as glass, dangerous as a blade.
“What kind of business, Kane?”
I run my thumb slowly along the sharp line of her jaw, tracing her pulse, feeling the tension beneath her skin.
“The kind I handle myself,” I answer quietly, final and unyielding, watching as understanding flickers into her expression, dread and fascination twisted into something beautifully destructive.
Because Miami isn’t just a city.
It’s the place where the darkest parts of me live, thrive, consume. And this time, I’m taking her with me, straight into the heart of that darkness.
Camille
Somewhere over the Carolinas, the adrenaline fades and reality settles in.
I have nothing with me. No heels, no makeup bag, not even my phone. Just Kane’s shirt. No bra. No pants. Just this oversized black T-shirt that swallows my body and stops around mid-thigh, and nothing else. That’s all I have between me and him.
The shirt smells exactly like him, cedar, leather, and the kind of trouble that makes my stomach flip. Somehow it feels more like armor than anything designer I’ve ever worn.
I curl up in the plush leather seat beside him, bare legs tucked beneath me, painfully aware of how little clothing stands between us. His palm rests casually on my thigh, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles that send shivers skittering over every nerve ending.
“You realize I packed nothing,” I murmur, my voice low, blending into the steady hum of the jet. “Not a bra, not even toothpaste.”
His gaze dips slowly, deliberately, down my body, darkening at every inch of exposed skin he claims along the way. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re heated, possessive. “You don’t need anything else,” he says quietly. “You look better in my clothes anyway.”
I snort softly, glancing down. “You mean I look like a half-naked hostage.”
“No,” he corrects, voice calm, controlled. “I mean you look exactly how I like you…mine.”
He doesn’t say it like a tease or a threat. Just cold, blunt fact. My pulse quickens, and I look away first.
“Still,” I mutter, clearing my throat, fighting back the flush climbing my neck, “unless you plan for me to wander around Miami half-naked, I’m not exactly decent.”
His thumb slides up just beneath the hem of his shirt, brushing bare skin. Heat pools between my thighs instantly.
“We’ll go shopping when we land,” he says simply.
My eyes narrow suspiciously. “Your version of shopping better not involve leather and restraints.”
He smirks, eyes sparking dark amusement. “Would you wear them if I asked?”
My pulse trips, but I manage a bold glare. “Would you take them off if I did?”
His grip tightens on my thigh just enough to make my breath hitch. “I’ll buy you whatever you want.” He leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice velvet-edged with sin. “But for the record? You’ll always look best wearing nothing.”
My cheeks burn hot, and I duck my head, refusing to let him see exactly how much he affects me. But he already knows, he always does. Sitting here in nothing but his shirt, bare beneath thin black fabric, feels more like myself than anything else I’ve worn.
More like I’m already his.
Outside the jet window, darkness rushes past, city lights flickering beneath us. Miami feels closer now, a storm on the horizon I’m not ready for.
