Page 35 of Corrupting Camille
Held. Owned. Kept.
His mouth finds my ear, voice soft and dangerous. “Sleep, Princesa,” he murmurs, a promise tucked beneath every syllable. “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”
And maybe I should feel caged.
Maybe I should fight the possessiveness laced through his voice.
But I don’t.
Because somewhere in the wreckage of who I was it feels like safety.
Like freedom.
Like surrendering was always the answer.
***
I wake softly, the faint blush of dawn slipping through the curtains, coloring the penthouse in shades of smoke and amber. My body aches, beautifully bruised, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his ruthless possession burned into every nerve. Slowly, carefully, I turn onto my side, and my breath catches.
He lies on his back, breathing deep, eyes closed, vulnerable in sleep. It’s the only softness I’ve seen in him, the only time the dangerous, relentless edge isn’t sharpening his features. For a long moment, I allow myself to truly look.
His beauty is rugged, brutal, devastatingly masculine. Dark hair, tousled and shadowed against the pillow. Sharp jawline,dusted with stubble I still feel scraping between my thighs. His chest rises and falls, broad and powerful, every muscle defined, sculpted from strength, dominance, raw violence.
My eyes follow the ink etched into his skin, intricate tattoos sprawled across his shoulders and chest, swirling down his powerful arms. Bold, dark lines curve over lean muscle, mysterious symbols and hidden meanings I crave to unravel. Scattered among them are scars, marks of violence, sharp-edged and vicious, fading to pale reminders against his bronzed skin.
A brutal, precise, jagged scare slashed across his ribs. A deep scar just below his collarbone, violent proof of a past I can only imagine. My pulse quickens as I drink in every ruthless detail, my fingertips aching with the need to trace those scars, to ask for their secrets. To taste the violence they hold. To hear him whisper the stories he hides behind those dangerous eyes.
My gaze trails lower, down his chiseled stomach, the sharp lines of his abdomen leading to the place where the sheets rest low on his hips, black silk barely covering him. My mouth goes dry, heart pounding as I stare hungrily, remembering exactly what lies beneath that fragile barrier. The taste, the weight, the fullness that left me trembling, undone, broken in his arms.
I swallow thickly, thighs clenching, desire stirring hot and reckless all over again. I could move the sheet. I could wake him, slide down his body, take him in my mouth, feel his fingers tangle in my hair again. Taste him, claim him, have him continue his lesson in… breath control… giving and taking… choking…
And the worst part, the most terrifying, intoxicating part is how badly I want it again. How desperately my body craves to surrender once more, to be shattered and rebuilt by his hands, his mouth, his ruthless commands.
I catch myself reaching out before I can stop, my fingertips hovering inches from the black silk that covers him. My hand trembles slightly, and for a single, reckless heartbeat, I almost…
No.
I pull back sharply, breath shaking free. I can’t do this again. I can’t lose myself deeper in the obsession of a night I was never supposed to have. Already, he’s left bruises beneath my skin, fingerprints on my soul. One more touch, one more taste, and I might never leave.
Slowly, silently, I slip from the bed, my body protesting every step. The ache between my legs, raw and tender, is a constant reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me. My blue silk dress lies discarded on the floor, crumpled, a relic from another life. It feels strange pulling it back over my skin, like trying to fit myself into a shape I’ve already broken.
I gather my scattered belongings, heart pounding quietly as I pad barefoot across cold marble, the quiet hum of dawn pressing against me. In his bathroom, I pause. The woman staring back at me from the mirror isn’t Camille Sinclair, not the polished heiress. She’s someone new. Someone unraveled. Doe-eyed, flushed, with dark circles from mascara that’s smudged by tears and passion. Soft skin, neck, chest, cheeks marred bruises, faint now, but not unnoticeable. This woman…this woman is one he’s remade overnight.
Almost without thinking, I reach into my purse, fingertips finding my lipstick, Rosewood, and slowly glide it over my swollen lips. Leaning forward, I press a deliberate kiss against the mirror’s smooth surface, leaving behind an imprint. A mark. Proof I was here. Proof he touched me, broke me, and left me wanting more.
I step back, studying that defiant kiss, something reckless and bold flaring in my chest. A declaration of war or surrender, I don’t even know anymore.
Grabbing my heels in one hand, I move quietly to the penthouse door, pulse racing, heart heavy with something close to regret. But I don’t look back. I don’t whisper goodbye.
Because if I do, if I turn around, see him again, even sleeping, vulnerable, brutally perfect, I know I’ll never make it out the door.
So I slip away, breath tight, my lipstick on his mirror, my taste still on his sheets, and leave behind a piece of me I’ll never get back.
Chapter Four
Kane
She’s gone.
