Page 65 of Corrupting Camille

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Camille

The vibration rattles against the marble, sharp and sudden.

I freeze.

My phone sits on the bathroom counter, screen lit up, buzzing again like it knows I’m too weak to resist.

I shouldn’t look.

I already know who it is.

Kane.

My stomach coils.

My body is still damp, still flushed from the scalding shower I just stepped out of, water hot enough to burn, to punish, to cleanse.

It didn’t work.

Nothing will.

I reach for the phone anyway, hand trembling as I turn it over.

Still sore, Muneca?

The words land like a slap.

Or a kiss.

I don’t know which.

A sharp, searing heat licks down my spine. My legs tighten without permission.

No.

I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, forcing myself to look up.

My reflection stares back, hair damp, cheeks flushed, eyes too fucking wide.

Wrecked.

I hate him.

I hate how I let it happen. Again.

How I begged for it. Again

How I want it again.

Another vibration. Another hit.

Bet you’re still wet.

A gasp catches in my throat.

My knees nearly buckle.

Because I am.

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