Page 57 of Corrupting Camille
Her nostrils flare.
She knows I mean it.
Knows I don’t care about optics, reputation, or the little kingdom she thinks protects her.
Her eyes dart to the cab.
Her out.
Then, under her breath, something sharp. Defeated.
She opens the door.
Good girl.
She slides inside, body tense, face set, and the door clicks shut, sealing her inside the space with me.
The air in the car is thick. Still.
Like it’s holding its breath.
She angles herself away from me, like space matters. Like there’s anywhere to run in here.
I stretch my legs out, lean back, let the silence bloom around us. Let the weight of me settle over her.
The driver pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic like nothing inside this car is on fire.
I say nothing.
She sits there, spine rigid, every muscle pulled tight like piano wire, beautifully tense, barely breathing. I watch the anger simmer beneath her carefully practiced composure, watch the pulse flickering erratically at the base of her throat. She’s furious, yes, but something else mingles dangerously beneath her rage, something soft, vulnerable, something she desperately wishes wasn’t there.
She lifts her eyes, finally forcing herself to look at me. Defiant. Icy. Utterly fucking gorgeous in her attempt to regain control.
“You realize,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence, clipped and frozen, “this little game of yours ends the minute I file a restraining order.”
I can’t help the slow curl of my mouth, the amusement seeping into my voice as I taste the absurdity of her threat. “A restraining order,” I repeat, savoring the words, drawing them out like a punchline that hasn’t fully landed.
Defiance sharpens her gaze, ignites the fire behind those deep, dark eyes. “Exactly,” she snaps, voice harder, colder. “You stay away from me, my family, my life or you face consequences even you can’t buy your way out of.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying her. Watching that icy resolve, that carefully crafted armor hiding the tremble beneath. Fuck, I like her this way. Fighting. Resisting. Breaking beneath me, even as she denies how badly she wants it.
“Oh, Camille,” I murmur, deliberately softening my voice, tasting her name slowly, like aged whiskey, smooth and potent and just a little intoxicating. “You don’t want me restrained. You want me reckless. Dangerous. Close.”
Her pulse jumps, rapid and frantic beneath her skin, even as she clenches her jaw tighter, eyes flashing with resentment. “You’re delusional.”
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice further, making her strain to hear every devastating word. My eyes stay locked ruthlessly onto hers, not letting her escape, not letting her hide.
“Go ahead and file it, Princesa,” I murmur, each word coiling tight around her throat, holding her gaze captive. “But ask yourself, how exactly do you plan to explain it?”
She freezes, eyes flaring wide, pupils dilating with panic she can’t hide. Her breath stutters in her chest, hitching just enough to betray the cracks in her carefully built armor.
“That restraining order comes with a story, Camille,” I continue softly, ruthlessly. “You’ll sit across from some bored detective and detail every filthy moment we shared. Every moan. Every gasp. Every single way you willingly…and so fucking eagerly…submitted.”
A flush floods her cheeks, hot and angry, shameful and beautiful. Her eyes blaze, dark and desperate, revealing far more than she wants to.
“And then what?” My voice grows darker, cutting deeper. “Then your family finds out. Your father learns exactly how you begged a stranger to fuck you raw and reckless, how you screamed for more until your voice broke.”
I pause, just long enough for the blow to fully land, before twisting the knife further.
