11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
C amille
It’s quiet.
The kind of quiet that sinks into your bones, waits patiently, and whispers dangerous little suggestions until you’re desperate enough to listen.
I step inside.
The penthouse is exactly as I remember, sharp edges, sleek lines, ruthless luxury.
Cold and beautiful and absolutely merciless.
It doesn’t matter how much distance I put between us or how many lies I tell myself; the moment I cross his threshold, reality snaps back like a rubber band, stinging my skin raw.
And then there’s the scent.
It punches straight into my chest…dark, spicy, unmistakably Kane. It lingers, taunting, like he’s still standing right here, breathing down my neck, ready to remind me exactly what happens when I dare to forget.
My heart kicks violently, blood roaring in my ears.
My hands shake, fingertips burning.
“Kane?”
Fuck.
One word and I already sound desperate. Weak. Aching with longing I’ve spent weeks denying, drowning in lies and forced smiles and a ring that doesn’t mean shit. One word, and all my carefully constructed lies crumble, leaving me exposed on his cold marble floor, stripped bare and trembling.
I swallow hard, fists clenching. Waiting. Wanting.
No answer.
But silence is Kane’s weapon.
He knows exactly how to wield it.
And then…he appears.
He steps into view slowly, like he knows exactly how badly I’m breaking, exactly how fucking desperate I’ve been, waiting to see him again. My breath catches sharply, lodged in my chest, trapped beneath humiliation and the shameless heat already crawling between my thighs.
Kane pauses there, leaning casually against the doorway, damp steam rolling off his skin in waves.
Every brutal, beautiful inch of him gleams beneath the low lights, his body glistening, carved from relentless discipline and violent self-control.
His dark hair is slicked back, wet strands clinging to his forehead, dripping slow, lazy droplets down a face that could tempt angels to sin and saints to ruin.
My gaze drags over him shamelessly, drawn down his powerful shoulders and across thick biceps wrapped in ink, dark tattoos twisting like secrets along muscle and sinew, winding up the side of his neck, hinting at the kind of darkness that should make me run, not fucking drool.
But I don’t run.
Instead, I stare helplessly, drinking in the breadth of his chest, wide and strong, dusted lightly with a trail of dark hair that tempts my fingertips, my tongue, my sanity.
Water beads roll torturously slow down his skin, following the deep grooves carved beneath, every rigid line of his abs sharply defined, an obscene work of art crafted from sweat and obsession.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He simply lets me look, daring me silently to pretend I’m not hungry for every inch of what he’s showing me.
My gaze falls lower, greedily taking in the sharp lines of his hips, the deep V that disappears beneath the towel, guiding my eyes exactly where he wants them. His body is dangerous, ruthless perfection, every line a taunt, every muscle a cruel invitation.
That fucking towel clings to his hips, riding dangerously low, barely holding on by threads of arrogance and calculated cruelty.
The thin gray cotton molds shamelessly to his body, every thick, hard inch of him pressed vividly against the damp fabric.
His length is unmistakably outlined, long, heavy, impossibly thick.
My lips part, my pulse roaring viciously in my ears as I imagine exactly how he’d fill my mouth, how he’d stretch my lips wide around him, testing the very limits of what I could take.
My knees weaken as the image takes root, blooming hot and shameless in my mind…him gripping the back of my head, fingers tangled tightly in my hair as he slides down my throat, deeper, harder, mercilessly testing my control. Testing my limits.
My breath shudders violently, and I force my gaze upward again, away from temptation, only to collide with his eyes, dark, knowing, dangerous.
A slow smirk curls the edge of his mouth, arrogant, filthy promises dancing unspoken between us. “I’ll let you suck it if you beg.”
Heat floods my face, humiliation and reckless, molten desire tangling inside me. The way his voice drops, dark, filthy, mocking, makes my knees feel weak, shaky beneath my weight. “I’ll beg you to put some fucking clothes on.”
I hate how easily he can reduce me to this, a trembling, needy mess just from a look, a smirk, a stupid towel hanging off his hips.
But my body doesn’t give a shit about dignity. It doesn’t care about humiliation.
It wants him. Hard. Rough. Violently unapologetic.
And my body is already betraying every lie I’ve spent weeks telling myself.
He pushes off the doorway, slow and deliberate, muscles rippling beneath glistening skin with every predatory step. “
“You sure that’s what you want, Camille?” His voice is velvet-rough and scorching against my senses. My pulse spikes, chest heaving as he comes closer, every step purposeful, cruel, taunting me with a barely restrained promise of ruin.
Before I can respond, before I can even breathe, his hand moves to the towel, fingers curling slowly around the fabric. My heart stops, stutters, hammering erratically, “Stop…”
He pauses… barely, just enough for my plea to hang suspended between us, a fragile, empty threat. His fingers curl tighter, tugging the fabric lower, exposing another devastating inch of taut, bronzed skin.
“Stop?” he repeats slowly, voice dripping sin and smugness, his smirk edging toward cruel amusement. “You sure that’s what you want, Munequita?”
“Yes,” I whisper, voice cracking beneath the weight of my own lie.
“I’m not here for…” my words choke off as my gaze drops, again, shamelessly, betraying me without hesitation, lingering hungrily on the obscene outline pressing thick and heavy against that barely-there towel, every inch of him arrogantly, gloriously aroused, taunting me, tempting me, daring me to surrender. “That...”
“That?” he mocks, as he slowly starts to stalk forward again. His bare feet pad quietly over polished marble, each controlled stride slicing into my composure.
I swallow and take a step back. “Yes, that , fucking…I didn’t come here for that.”
Liar.
He ignores my warning, stepping closer still. His gaze narrows, dark and merciless, stripping away every pathetic excuse I could offer.
“Then enlighten me Camille,” he says coldly, dangerously soft, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through my bones. “Why the fuck are you here?”
But he doesn’t wait for my answer. He just keeps coming, steady and relentless, and I keep stepping backwards.
“I’m here,” I bite out, chin high, voice trembling with fury, humiliation, and a desperation I hate myself for feeling, “to tell you, you crossed a line.”
Kane watches me silently for a long, dangerous moment, head tilting slowly to the side, eyes narrowed with a darkness that creeps beneath my skin and wraps around my throat.
His gaze deliberately drags down my face, lingering on my mouth, slow, methodical, like he’s imagining exactly how it will look wrapped around his cock when I finally surrender again.
He raises one hand, dragging his fingers slowly, carelessly through his damp, dark hair.
Every muscle in his arm flexes with the movement, inked designs rippling over his skin, temptation spelled out in ink and heat.
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
That shouldn’t be sexy. It shouldn’t set my blood on fire, but it does. God, it does.
“Funny,” he murmurs, “because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re here hoping I’ll cross it again.”
My breath stutters, cheeks hot with fury and something else, something shameful, intoxicating. I jerk backward instinctively, my voice snapping back like a whip, “I’m also here to tell you you’re an asshole.”
A slow, cruel smile curves his lips, confidence dripping off him like venom. He steps closer, and I step back, matching his advance with retreat.
"Keep flattering me like that, Camille, and I’ll think you’re starting to like me." he says, mocking gently.
I keep retreating. “You froze my fucking foundation funds, Kane!”
Another step forward, calm and unhurried, forcing me backward, making me smaller beneath his merciless stare. “Correction,” he murmurs, each syllable dripping arrogance, “I redirected them. Consider it charity, Camille. You clearly needed the help.”
Fury ignites deep inside me, a raw, violent fire I can’t control. My fists clench at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood.
“You don’t get to touch what’s mine,” I hiss, voice cracking like glass.
His smile widens, darkens, a sinister glint of possession in his eyes. “Don’t I?”
“No, you fucking don’t!” I shout, voice raw and shaking, chest heaving. “You don’t have the right to control my Foundation,” I spit out, each word echoing harshly off the cold marble walls. “You don’t get to block my money, freeze my projects, and act like you’re doing me some twisted favor!”
He just watches me, that quiet darkness intensifying, deepening until it fills the space between us, until the air grows heavy, choking me with silence.
“I built that Foundation,” I continue, words pouring out faster, uncontrollable now.
“My sweat, my tears, my passion. I poured everything into it, and you…” My voice cracks again, humiliation and fury burning at the back of my throat.
“You walk in like you own it, like it’s nothing more than a game, another twisted power move to bring me to my knees. ”
Still, silence. No clever retort, no filthy innuendo. Just his relentless advance, one step at a time, pushing me backward inch by devastating inch.
“You don’t get to walk into my life and rearrange it however you want,” I whisper, desperately. “I’m not your puppet. You don’t get to pull strings and watch me dance, not anymore!”