Page 2 of Corrupting Camille
Heat.
Not the kind that warms. The kind that warns.
That coiling, pricking sensation, like being watched. Not admired. Observed. Not the gaze of someone curious. Studied. Undressed, dissected, Chosen.
I should be used to it by now. I’ve been looked at my entire life, evaluated, rated, complimented as if I were a showroom model instead of a person with blood and breath and boundaries.
But this? This is different.
This heat doesn’t skim. It claws.
I open my eyes, a small frown tugging at the corners of my lips as I glance around.
And then I freeze.
He’s sitting directly across from me, legs spread, elbows resting on the arms of the chair like he owns the entire goddamn lounge. I don’t know how I missed him. Maybe because he blends in with the shadows so well, like they’re his. Like the darkness made room for him and swallowed the key.
A stranger. But not really.
He doesn’t look like someone you meet.
He looks like someone you survive.
Tall. Striking in a way that steals logic, rough edges carved into beauty so violently, it almost hurts to look at him. His shirt is black. His slacks are black. His eyes… are….
God.
His eyes are the color of oceans at night…inky and endless, like they’ve pulled bodies down before and didn’t blink while doing it. There’s no bottom to them. No mercy. Just depth. Just danger.
And he’s staring at me.
Openly. Rudely. Vulgar in the way he makes no attempt to look away.
Like he’s daring me to be uncomfortable.
Tattooed hands rest on the armrests, fingers flexing slightly. Not trendy tattoos. Not delicate scripts or Pinterest-ready symbols. These are thick, raw, brutal. Marks that weren’t made to be beautiful, they were made to mean something. Stories inked into skin like warnings.
My breath catches. He hasn’t looked away. Neither have I.
The moment stretches. Sharp. Heavy. Intimate in a way that makes my skin burn.
Something in me twists. Tightens. Like my instincts recognize him before my mind can catch up.
Danger.
Every woman knows the feel of it. But this isn’t fear exactly.
It’s fascination.
It’s heat.
It’s that quiet little voice whispering: Run.
And the darker one that answers: What if I don’t?
His gaze drops, slow, deliberate. My bare shoulders. My neckline. My legs crossed with Sinclair-approved grace. He doesn’t leer. That would be too human. He assesses. A predator reading weakness.
My fingers curl around the stem of the glass. I square my shoulders. I raise my chin. I give him the same polished, polite look I give every man who forgets that women aren’t theirs to consume.
