Page 206 of Corrupting Camille
His jaw flexes hard. He doesn’t answer.
He just grips my hip harder with one hand and grinds against me, slow and punishing, until I gasp, until my nails dig into his shoulder, until I don’t remember what breathing feels like.
Our bodies slide, grind, connect and retreat again like heat and gravity are pulling us apart just to slam us back together. My hands move up the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. His mouth brushes my jaw, my temple, my cheek, everywhere but my lips.
It’s too much.
And not enough.
I don’t care that people are watching.
I forget that anyone else exists.
It’s just Kane, his body, his rhythm, his restraint that’s fraying more with every step.
My forehead rests against his as I breathe, “Please.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes.
And that’s when I see it.
The unraveling.
That line between control and obsession going slack.
He doesn’t speak.
He just grabs my wrist.
Gently, but like a decision.
And leads me off the dance floor.
Kane
I don’t let go of her hand.
Not once.
Not even when we move past Rosa and Diego and a few cousins who know better than to stop me. Not when Reina calls something lighthearted after us. Not when someone whistles low and the music swells again.
I don’t answer.
I don’t look back.
I keep walking.
Camille’s steps are silent behind mine, barefoot on the stone, her breath just slightly uneven. She knows where we’re going. She knows what I need.
It’s not sex.
Not this time.
It’s silence.
It’s stillness.
I take her into one of the side wings, an open hallway lined with Spanish tile and half-lit sconces. The house is too big, too quiet here. The sounds of the courtyard echo faintly behind us.
