Page 68 of Corrupting Camille

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I press a hand to my stomach, inhaling deeply, trying to steady myself. This is over. I won’t let him get to me again.

I won’t.

I slip into bed, flipping off the lamp, yanking the covers over me like they can shield me from the way Kane still lingers, on my skin, in my head, in the aching pulse between my thighs.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m going to be engaged soon. I have a future. A plan.

And Kane Rivera has no place in it.

I repeat that to myself like a mantra, forcing my body to relax.

But as exhaustion pulls me under, my last conscious thought is the feel of his hands on me, the way he whispered my name against my skin.

I dream of him.

Kane

I don’t expect her to answer.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.

I exhale a slow chuckle, setting my phone down, rolling my wrist as I pace my penthouse.

She’s unraveling.

She thinks if she ignores me, if she shoves me away hard enough, she’ll be able to go back to the life she had before. That she’ll be able to scrub me out of her mind like a bad fucking habit.

She’s wrong.

Because Camille Sinclair was never meant for a life of perfection. Never meant for a man like Preston Caldwell, with his clean-cut image and carefully curated future.

She was made for something darker.

Something real.

Something that only I can give her.

I could let her have this night.

Let her convince herself she’s in control.

But where’s the fun in that?

I grab my phone, smirking to myself as I type.

Dream of me, Princesa.

I send it.

And then, finally, I let her sleep.

For now.

I lift the glass to my lips, still tasting her on my tongue, when the phone buzzes again.

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