Page 63 of Corrupting Camille
The craving’s a hum beneath my skin.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asks.
I hesitate. I should go home. Walk it off. Bleed it out.
But adrenaline still thrums like a live wire under my skin, and my control is wearing thin.
“Take me to the club.”
***
The bass hits like a heartbeat.
Dark. Dirty. Slow.
The air’s thick with smoke and sweat and lust, everything too loud, too hot, too shallow.
I step through the doors and the energy shifts. Heads turn. Voices hush.
They know who I am.
This place exists because I allow it to.
But tonight? I couldn’t give a single fuck.
Because she’s still in me.
Camille. Perfection, peeled apart in my hands.
I roll up my sleeves as I make my way to the back. Security parts like water.
VIP booth. Corner seat. Whiskey neat.
I don’t speak. Just drink.
But I see her.
Not the brunette sliding in beside me, her hand gliding up my forearm, her perfume cheap and aggressive.
No. I see Camille.
The way she looked at me like I was the last man she should want and the only one who’s ever made her come undone.
“Mr. Rivera.” Her voice slides across me, smooth, practiced seduction wrapped in glossy nothingness.
I glance sideways, taking her in.
Beautiful enough. Soft lips. Vacant eyes.
Irrelevant.
She leans closer, her voice low and silky. “I thought I’d find you here.” Warm breath ghosts against my jaw, a practiced tease. “Need a distraction?”
My grip tightens on the glass in my hand.
For a second, I let myself imagine it, her straddling me right here, grinding against me, gasping out my name into expensive leather. I could fuck her. I could bury myself deep, chasing something, anything, that’ll make me forget the real thing.
But she wouldn’t be Camille.
