Page 49 of Corrupting Camille
He sees the woman who sobbed pleasure and pain into his black silk sheets. Who begged shamelessly for his mouth, his hands, his cock. The woman who surrendered everything to a stranger she now knows as Kane Rivera.
Heat floods my cheeks, humiliation and arousal coiling together, igniting beneath my skin. I hate that he can still affect me like this. Hate how quickly my body remembers the weight of him pinning me down, the taste of him, the feel of him stretching me, owning me. Hate how badly I still crave it.
His gaze sharpens slightly, as if sensing the sudden spike in my pulse. A small, cruel smile forms at the corner of his mouth, invisible to anyone but me.
My fingers curl tight beneath the table, nails digging painfully into my palms. I fight to keep my face composed, calm, unaffected, even as every cell in my body screams with recognition, with need, with panic.
Because Kane isn’t just here for Sinclair Media.
He isn’t here to play by anyone’s rules.
He’s here for me.
And from the dark, ruthless look he pins me with, he has no intention of letting me run away again.
Kane
She doesn’t look at me.
Not at first.
But she knows I’m here, feels it deep in her bones, in that rigid, perfect spine, in those delicate hands folded too carefullyon the table. She holds herself like one wrong move could shatter everything she’s spent a lifetime building.
And she’s right.
I shake her father’s hand, smile polite and calculated. Just enough charm to reassure the room, just enough civility to hide the truth that I’m not here for pleasantries.
I’m here for her.
Two long weeks since she fled my bed like she could erase the filthy way I marked her. Now she’s seated across the boardroom table from me, composed, trying desperately to look untouched. White blouse buttoned high, hair pinned back in a pristine bun. Lips pressed in a thin, perfect line.
But I see the cracks. I placed them there myself.
She didn’t expect this. Didn’t anticipate my intrusion into her safe, sterile little world. Hasn’t even fully realized why I’m sitting in her family’s boardroom.
I sit back slowly, legs relaxed, hands casual, posture deceptively calm. I don’t need to posture like the suits around this table. They’re background noise. They’re irrelevant. I already have everything I came for.
And Camille is unraveling quietly, beautifully, right in front of me.
Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I see it because I know exactly what to look for. Her pulse fluttering fast at the base of her throat. The slight tremor in her fingertips beneath the table, clenched tight as if gripping a lifeline. The small, rapid movements of her eyes, calculating escape routes, assessing the damage.
She was never built for my brand of warfare.
I let my gaze drift slowly across the table, through the suits discussing numbers and strategies that mean nothing to me, until my eyes find hers.
And hold.
I don’t smile. Don’t blink. Just watch.
I want that night to replay vividly behind her careful facade. I want her to remember how I claimed her mouth, how I traced every trembling inch of her skin with my tongue. How she writhed and moaned beneath me, back arched, hips grinding, begging shamelessly for more.
My filthy little nympho, on her knees, choking beautifully, surrendering her dignity, her control, her entire fucking being.
She remembers. I can see it, how her breath catches, how her lips part subtly before she forces them closed again. How the faint flush rises up her elegant neck, betraying her.
The suits around us drone on about investments and growth strategies, but all I hear is the echo of her sobs, the slap of skin, the desperate, broken way she begged me not to stop.
She thought she could lock me away like a dirty secret, erase me from memory. She thought her name would protect her, keep me at a safe distance.
