12. Chapter Twelve #4
She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s standing in front of my chessboard, my sanctuary, draped in my black robe like she was born in it.
The heavy fabric hangs off one bare shoulder, sliding down just enough to make my fingers twitch.
Her hair is still wet from the shower, long curls dripping lazily against the dark material, strands clinging to her collarbone, her neck.
That fucking neck I’ve had my mouth on. Bruised. Claimed.
She’s holding one of my tumblers in her hand. My whiskey glows in the crystal like fire caught in glass. She lifts it to her lips, slow and sensual, sipping with the kind of quiet reverence that makes me feel like I’m watching something sacred. My drink in her mouth. My robe on her skin.
My game under her eyes.
She studies the board with precision, her eyes sharp and calculating, fingertips ghosting over the pieces like she already knows my strategy, like she’s in my head, unraveling every move I made.
My pulse spikes, because everything about her right now is mine. Everything she touches. Everything she wears. Every breath she takes in this space.
I move toward her without a sound, not out of caution but because I want to savor this. Her tells. The way her back straightens the second she feels me behind her. The sharp little inhale she doesn’t even realize she makes. She doesn’t turn around. But she knows.
She fucking knows.
The air between us shifts. Loaded.
She brings the glass to her lips again, another sip, and my jaw flexes so hard I taste blood. That glass on her mouth is suddenly the most intimate thing I’ve ever seen. Not the sex. Not the bruises I left on her thighs. That. Right now.
That’s the thing that makes me lose focus.
“I’ve never seen anyone play like this,” she says quietly, not looking at me, “Leaving a game suspended. Unresolved.”
I step beside her, close enough that the back of her arm brushes mine. I watch the way her breath stumbles just a fraction.
“Sometimes I make one move a day,” I answer, voice low, tight, not entirely in control. “Sometimes I reset the board and start again.”
She nods, slow and thoughtful, like she gets it. Like she fucking understands me. Not just the surface… me . That I don’t like loose ends. That I don’t like chaos I didn’t create. That sometimes burning it all down is cleaner than letting it rot.
Then she turns her head, brown eyes catching mine, wide and soft and dark like secrets, and she smiles, barely, but enough. Her lips quirk, just the corner. And it wrecks me.
She takes another sip of the whiskey and licks a drop from her bottom lip, slow and thoughtless.
My hands itch.
And then, she tilts her head slightly, playful, but her voice is low, serious. Loaded.
“Play with me?”
I freeze. The words land between us, sharp and provocative. They’re not innocent. She doesn’t say it like she means chess, not at first.
She knows what it sounds like. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And then she backs away from the board, eyes still locked on mine, like she’s testing how far she can push.
I reach for her without thinking, palm sliding around her waist, grip firm, possessive.
She smirks. “I meant chess.”
I lean in, my voice a growl at her ear. “Liar.”
“Sit,” I command softly, voice low and dripping challenge. “Show me what you’ve got.”
She lifts one delicate eyebrow, setting the whiskey tumbler aside.
A smile curls at the corner of her mouth, sly and knowing, as she lowers herself into the chair opposite me.
The robe slips slightly from her shoulder again, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone, skin still marked faintly from my mouth.
I grit my teeth, forcing my attention to the board.
I sink into the chair across from her, leaning back slowly, eyes locked on hers. I gesture casually at the marble chess pieces.
“White moves first, Camille.”
She meets my gaze boldly, picking up a polished white pawn and slids it forward two spaces, controlled, confident.
“Queen’s gambit,” I note quietly, a slight edge of amusement in my voice. “Classic. Predictable.”
She tilts her head slightly, eyes sparkling dangerously. “Or maybe I just want to see if you’ll take the bait.”
I smirk, selecting my pawn and advancing it slowly, deliberately, declining her offered gambit. “I’m patient. I prefer building tension.”
Her lashes lower just a fraction, dark eyes assessing me, fingers grazing the delicate marble queen thoughtfully. “And I prefer breaking it.” She shifts her knight decisively, aggressive and forward. Bold. Reckless. Perfectly Camille.
I narrow my eyes, impressed, countering her move smoothly, positioning my bishop with deliberate precision. “Careful. Aggression without strategy gets you trapped.”
She leans forward slowly, her robe parting slightly as she reaches across the board, moving another pawn, opening a diagonal line of attack. “And caution without risk is boring. Your move.”
My pulse quickens at her defiance, at the subtle heat behind her words. I shift my rook, allowing the formation of a solid defensive line, giving nothing away yet. “You’re good. But you play emotionally. You’ll slip.”
She smiles faintly, dark eyes sharp, analytical. She lifts her queen, sliding it smoothly, ruthlessly forward, directly threatening my bishop. “Funny. You talk like emotion is weakness. Maybe it’s just another weapon you don’t know how to use.”
Fuck. She’s more than good. She’s exceptional.
My gaze sharpens, blood pounding harder. I push forward a pawn, forcing her to react, a careful jab to draw her closer into a trap. “Or maybe you’re relying too much on instinct and not enough on patience.”
Her fingers hover briefly above a bishop, studying the board intently, the tension between us thickening. Finally, she smirks, making a surprising, daring move, a sacrifice, offering her knight recklessly to pull me out of position.
“You can’t resist taking, can you?” she murmurs softly, eyes lifting slowly to mine, a wicked promise glittering there.
I lean forward, taking her knight, meeting her challenge head-on. “Never could. But sacrifices leave you vulnerable, Camille. You know that.”
She’s quiet a moment, eyes dark, lashes low, something unreadable flashing behind that carefully composed expression. Then she moves her queen decisively, suddenly claiming control of the board’s center, her strategy becoming clear. Clever. Ruthless.
“You’re exposed,” she breathes softly, voice threaded with quiet triumph.
Fuck me. She’s right. For one split second, I see it, her victory edging closer. I almost laugh at the brilliance of it.
Almost.
But I’m not done yet.
I adjust my rook, fortifying my position, tension coiling tightly between us. “Only if I let you in,” I murmur, voice dropping lower. “And I only let you in when I want you there.”
Her cheeks flush slightly at the double meaning, her lips parting softly as her eyes flicker briefly to my mouth, then back to the board. She makes another quick move, keeping the pressure relentless.
I counter her smoothly, silently impressed, my pulse racing as we exchange move after move, tension tightening like wire.
She pushes me back, then I push harder. Our pieces dance across the board—strikes and counterstrikes, strategy and instinct, patience and aggression tangled into something exhilarating, something deeper and sharper than the game itself.
Another battlefield. Another playing field.
Another way we fuck, raw and cerebral.
Finally, Camille pauses, biting softly on her lower lip, eyes narrowed, searching the board for an opening. She’s brilliant, challenging me at every turn, taking risks no ordinary player would dare.
“You’re exceptional,” I admit, voice roughened with genuine admiration, chest tight with the truth of it.
She glances up sharply, surprised by the praise. Her voice drops to a whisper, vulnerable yet provocative. “Still think emotion is a weakness?”
My gaze holds hers, unwavering, possessive. “With you? It might just be my downfall.”
She inhales sharply, breath hitching, pulse visible at her throat. Slowly, carefully, she reaches across the board, making a final, decisive move, placing her queen exactly where I least expected dangerously close to checkmate.
She lifts her eyes to mine, daring me to surrender, daring me to resist.
“Your move,” she breathes softly.
My heartbeat kicks viciously in my chest as I stare down at the board, the marble queen positioned like a knife to my throat. Dangerous. Calculated. Ruthless. Exactly like the woman sitting across from me, eyes glittering with satisfaction, a knowing smirk playing at the edges of her mouth.
She’s stunning like this. Brilliant. Savage. Completely fucking unafraid.
The tension in the room stretches, pulses, sharp enough to slice skin. Neither of us speaks. I glance up slowly, my gaze meets hers, heated and unapologetic.
“You think you’ve got me?” I ask softly, voice dropping low, a dangerous taunt threaded through the quiet.
She leans forward just slightly, her robe shifting again, that smooth skin peeking out beneath the thick fabric, distracting as hell. Her lips part slightly, a wicked smile curving slow and dangerous. “I know I do.”
My jaw clenches hard, a thrill shivering down my spine at her blatant provocation.
I scan the board, searching for weakness, for opportunity, for anything she might’ve missed.
I finally move my bishop, sliding it carefully into position, neutralizing her immediate threat, buying myself space, time, leverage.
Her eyebrows lift slightly, impressed but unfazed. She shifts forward again, scent teasing me softly, something feminine and warm mixing with the sharp, smoky whiskey still on her lips. I’m on edge, muscles tight, every nerve humming with the tension radiating between us.
She lifts a pawn, casually placing it closer, another bold threat building, every move she makes forcing me closer to the edge.
She smiles, cocky and unrepentant. “You’re going to lose.”