6. Chapter Six #3
“You don’t control me,” I whisper fiercely, meeting his gaze head-on. “You can have Sinclair Media, but you’ll never have me.”
He smiles, slow and devastating, leaning closer until his mouth is inches from mine, voice dropping dangerously. “Interesting theory. Too bad your body keeps proving you wrong.”
“You arrogant bastard,” I spit out, trembling with anger, humiliation raw and bitter. “You humiliated me in front of everyone. Tried to destroy everything I’ve built. But I’ll fight you every fucking step.”
He leans even closer, lips grazing my jaw, the casual intimacy burning through my resistance. “I’m counting on it.”
He gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the tenderness mocking, poisonous, knowing exactly how deeply he’s gotten under my skin. “Now you know exactly how to get my attention,” he murmurs roughly. “All you have to do is beg.”
The car halts smoothly at my family’s brownstone, and I wrench the door open, escaping into air not tainted by his scent.
I force a brittle smile, sharp and defiant. “Hold your breath while you wait.”
I straighten my spine, refusing to look back, refusing to acknowledge his laughter, low and cruel, chasing me into the night like a shadow.
Because no matter how much I fight it, I already know I’ll end up back in his arms, shattered, shaking, craving more of what will ruin me.
Kane
I watch her go.
I don’t chase.
I don’t have to.
She’ll carry me with her, under her skin, between her legs, in every breath she tries to steady. My presence is a bruise, blooming beneath the surface. She can scrub her skin raw, drown herself in heat and guilt, but she won’t wash me off.
The townhouse door slams.
And I breathe.
Not relief.
Possession.
Upstairs, a light flickers on. Her shadow crosses the glass.
My jaw tightens.
My fingers twitch on my thigh, still tingling from where I touched her. Where I ruined her.
She’ll fight it. She’ll pace in her perfect little room, rehearse lines, whisper denials. Try to stuff me into a box marked mistake.
Let her.
That box is already burning.
I lean back in the seat, inhale deep, but she’s still in my lungs. On my tongue. Under my nails. A fucking fever I can’t sweat out.
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.
Wouldn’t make those raw, breathless sounds. Wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t claw at me, wouldn’t beg for release even while cursing my name.
I shut my eyes, and suddenly, Camille is there, burned into my memory, back arched, hips bucking, voice shattering on a broken moan. Nails carving into my shoulders as she tried, hopelessly, to shove me away, all while her body surrendered with a desperate honesty her mouth tried to deny.
I open my eyes, chest tight, frustration and hunger twisting in my gut.
I’m done pretending.
I lean toward the brunette slowly, deliberately, and watch her lips part, anticipation sparking in her gaze. Just as she’s about to smile, I smirk instead, voice low and indifferent.
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
Her expression falters. “Excuse me?”
But I’m already standing, straightening my cuffs, adjusting my sleeves, leaving without a backward glance.
Because I don’t want hollow.
I want Camille.
Not when she’s ready.
When she’s desperate.
***
The city lies beneath me, glittering, vicious, and cold, every building, every streetlight, every shadow hiding another lie. I stand at the balcony railing, glass of whiskey clutched tight, my other hand already pulling my phone out before I can talk myself out of it.
This obsession claws at me, relentless, vicious, my own personal brand of poison.
She’s probably lying in that pristine glass townhouse, drowning in thousand-thread-count sheets, convincing herself it meant nothing. That it was just weakness. A momentary lapse.
But Camille and I both know better.
I type slowly, deliberately.
You sore, Muneca?
I let the words linger there, bright against the dark screen, imagining her reaction, the sharp hitch of breath, the heated flush crawling over her skin, thighs pressed tight before pride kicks in, before she tries to deny the ache I know she still feels.
Because I know her now.
Not just her body.
I know her secrets. Her lies. Every carefully built mask she’s crafted, I tore them all away, piece by perfect fucking piece.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, savoring the burn, and type again.
Bet you’re still wet.
Send.
I stare at the screen, lips curving into a cold, satisfied smile.
Because no matter how desperately she hates me, no matter how high she tries to rebuild those walls, the truth remains:
I already broke her.
And she fucking loved it.
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.
I am.
My skin is hypersensitive. My nerves lit.
You’re stronger than this, Camille.
Ignore him.
Block him.
Bury my phone in a drawer and pretend I’m still in control.
But instead, my fingers move on their own.
Go fuck yourself.
I hit send.
My hands shake.
My heart races.
And I know, I know, this is exactly what he wanted.
And I hate that it’s exactly what I needed.
Kane
I chuckle as I read her reply, the ice in my glass clinking softly as I swirl my drink.
She answered.
That’s all I needed.
I lean against the railing of the penthouse balcony, tapping my fingers against my phone before sending another message.
I could, but I’d rather fuck you instead.
Camille
I could, but I’d rather fuck you instead.
Heat rushes through me so fast it’s dizzying. My knees threaten to give out, my core tightening in betrayal, a traitorous pulse thrumming between my thighs.
I hate him.
I hate him for knowing.
For saying exactly what he shouldn’t.
For making me want it anyway.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply. My skin is still too hot, too sensitive, the ghost of his hands still on me, his mouth still pressed against my throat, his fingers still buried inside me.
I should stop responding. Stop engaging.
But the words are already forming, my thumbs moving over the screen before I can stop them.
You disgust me.
I hit send, heart pounding.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Kane
I drink my fill. Her anger. Her shame. Her pride trying so damn hard to choke down that hunger. She’s magnificent.
Flustered. Wound tight. Probably pacing her room, hating herself for even reading my messages, for letting them slip under her skin like I slipped inside her tonight.
I type two words. Two final blows that will leave her ruined and restless until she crawls back for another fix:
You’re dripping.
I send it and wait.
Camille
My breath stops.
A fresh surge of heat floods through me, wicked and molten, spreading through my limbs, I could strangle him through the screen.
I should be furious.
I am furious.
But my body?
My body is traitorous.
My nipples tighten beneath the thin silk of my nightgown. My thighs press together, my core aching in a way that makes me feel sick with shame.
Because he’s right.
I grip my phone so tightly I half expect it to shatter in my palm. My throat tight with something I refuse to name.
I need to end this.
Now.
Lose my number.
I hit send, my fingers shaking.
That’s it. I’m done.