5. Chapter Five #2
Two long weeks since she fled my bed like she could erase the filthy way I marked her. Now she’s seated across the boardroom table from me, composed, trying desperately to look untouched. White blouse buttoned high, hair pinned back in a pristine bun. Lips pressed in a thin, perfect line.
But I see the cracks. I placed them there myself.
She didn’t expect this. Didn’t anticipate my intrusion into her safe, sterile little world. Hasn’t even fully realized why I’m sitting in her family’s boardroom.
I sit back slowly, legs relaxed, hands casual, posture deceptively calm. I don’t need to posture like the suits around this table. They’re background noise. They’re irrelevant. I already have everything I came for.
And Camille is unraveling quietly, beautifully, right in front of me.
Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I see it because I know exactly what to look for.
Her pulse fluttering fast at the base of her throat.
The slight tremor in her fingertips beneath the table, clenched tight as if gripping a lifeline.
The small, rapid movements of her eyes, calculating escape routes, assessing the damage.
She was never built for my brand of warfare.
I let my gaze drift slowly across the table, through the suits discussing numbers and strategies that mean nothing to me, until my eyes find hers.
And hold.
I don’t smile. Don’t blink. Just watch.
I want that night to replay vividly behind her careful facade. I want her to remember how I claimed her mouth, how I traced every trembling inch of her skin with my tongue. How she writhed and moaned beneath me, back arched, hips grinding, begging shamelessly for more.
My filthy little nympho, on her knees, choking beautifully, surrendering her dignity, her control, her entire fucking being.
She remembers. I can see it, how her breath catches, how her lips part subtly before she forces them closed again. How the faint flush rises up her elegant neck, betraying her.
The suits around us drone on about investments and growth strategies, but all I hear is the echo of her sobs, the slap of skin, the desperate, broken way she begged me not to stop.
She thought she could lock me away like a dirty secret, erase me from memory. She thought her name would protect her, keep me at a safe distance.
Yet here I am…infiltrating Sinclair Media, sitting across from her father, becoming the “powerful new force” in their empire’s future.
When her father says my name, proclaims me a partner, Camille flinches.
Just once.
Small, delicate, almost imperceptible.
But I catch it.
And it’s delicious.
She’s trying not to break. Fighting so hard, knuckles white beneath the table, composure strained to the point of pain. But I’m patient. I’ll savor every moment. I’ll let her stew in this tension, watch her squirm as the reality sinks in.
She’ll sit across from me every day, wearing that perfectly poised mask. Pretending. Desperate. Beautifully trapped.
I hear the meeting drone on around us, meaningless corporate jargon about “realignments” and “synergies” just sanitized words for the control slipping from her grasp.
Then someone mentions the Foundation, and her posture shifts. She straightens just a fraction, breath deepening, finally forcing herself to speak.
Her voice is smooth, carefully measured, but I can hear the tension beneath layers of practiced diplomacy.
“If I may,” she says, fixing her eyes on her father with controlled intensity, pointedly ignoring me, “the proposed cuts to the Foundation’s third-quarter allocations are deeply disproportionate.
We’re the only branch seeing a reduction this severe, despite exceeding both outreach and retention goals in Q2. ”
I watch her mouth move, precise and graceful, and think of how beautifully it stretched around my cock. How elegantly those lips begged for mercy. How sweetly they trembled around broken pleas she never thought she’d whisper.
She’s fighting for control, for dignity.
But the real battle ended two weeks ago in my bed.
And no matter how carefully she tries to hide behind her polished words and perfect manners…she’ll always be mine.
Camille
The moment the words leave my lips, I know I’m walking straight into a trap.
I spent days, no, weeks, poring over numbers, preparing reports, securing bulletproof metrics. I made sure my voice wouldn’t shake, that my hands would stay steady, that every fucking word out of my mouth was immaculate and undeniable.
“The current proposal is reckless,” I say, meeting each gaze around the table carefully, deliberately. “If implemented, critical programs will lose funding mid-cycle. Communities that need us most will be left vulnerable, and for what? Optics?”
For a second, one precious, fleeting second, I believe I have ground beneath my feet.
Then he moves.
Barely.Just a slight shift forward in his chair, leaning into the polished wood table, slow and quiet and completely devastating.
I feel it everywhere. The weight of his attention. The brutal, invisible grip tightening around my throat.
“Miss Sinclair.”
His voice cuts through me. Quiet. Lethal. Icy calm, slicing straight into my chest. My name on his tongue feels dangerous. Unbearably intimate.
I stop mid-sentence. My gaze snaps to his before I can stop myself, fuck, I regret it instantly. I wish I could turn away, wish I could erase him from this moment, from every moment.
But he doesn’t even look at me.
He speaks to the board, voice clinical, detached, like he’s never had my body trembling beneath him.
“I’ve reviewed the Foundation’s financials extensively over the past few weeks.” He pauses and I feel that subtle pause rip straight through my carefully practiced facade. “The situation isn’t quite as Miss Sinclair portrays.”
What the…?
Kane
I let the silence settle after my words. Around the table, heads shift subtly in my direction, intrigued by the blood already pooling between us.
Camille’s breath catches softly. I don’t look at her. Not yet. I don’t need to. I can feel her. Feel her staring, her pulse thrumming like a desperate heartbeat in my veins. She’s fighting to stay composed, to hold onto that perfect, polished mask of hers.
I’m going to rip it the fuck off.
I flip open the folder slowly, deliberately. I don’t rush. Let them wait. Let her wait.
I tap the document lightly, draw attention without raising my voice. “Operating costs are inflated, administrative overhead is redundant, and the allocations?” I pause, lifting my eyes slowly until they land directly on hers. “Well, they could certainly be more strategic.”
She flinches.
Barely. Just enough for me to savor it.
I don’t smile. I don’t gloat. I hold her gaze steadily, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel every second I’ve spent dissecting her precious foundation piece by piece.
“The Foundation isn’t bleeding,” I continue, soft and brutal, “but it is wasting resources. And it’s doing so inefficiently enough to raise questions about the competency of its leadership.”
Her eyes flare, heat flashing beneath carefully veiled fury. Good. I want her angry. Furious.
Because when she’s angry, she slips. She becomes reckless, impulsive, she reveals herself.
And that’s exactly what I want.
“Going forward,” I say, turning back to the board, dismissing her presence like she’s nothing more than a distraction, “Rivera Holdings will have direct oversight of budgetary approvals. We’ll streamline spending. Maximize returns. And restore proper governance.”
The suits nod quietly, murmurs of approval around the table.
And Camille…Camille just sits there, frozen, eyes wide and wounded, face pale beneath her careful makeup.
She knows exactly what just happened.
I’ve stripped away her authority, piece by painful piece.
And I’ve done it in front of an audience.
Check.
She’s mine now.
Mate.
Camille
My pulse spikes. White noise roars in my ears, my vision narrowing to pinpoints. He didn’t just dismantle my proposal, he’s dismantling me. Piece by careful piece. Right here, in front of everyone who matters.
He finally looks at me again. And this time, his eyes aren’t cold. They’re blazing. Intent. Ruthless.
I recognize the look, the hunger, the obsession simmering just below the surface. It’s the same look he wore when he pinned me down, when he slid his mouth along my neck and promised he’d ruin me.
He kept his word.
“You’re suggesting the Foundation lacks leadership?” My voice comes out sharper than intended, edged with panic I can’t completely hide.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.
“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Sinclair.” His voice drops, low enough for only me to feel the threat underneath. “I’m stating a fact.”
The table ripples quietly with restrained whispers. Eyes shift between us, curious, sensing weakness.
My weakness.
“You’re overstepping.” The words are brittle, thin ice cracking beneath my feet.
His gaze locks with mine again, pinning me, holding me hostage.
“No.” His lips barely move, voice dangerously gentle. “I’m intervening. There’s a difference.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, humiliation and fury twisting tight in my chest. I want to stand up, scream at him, demand he stop. I want to run. I want to claw at the carefully composed face he wears like armor and force him to bleed just as openly as I am.
My vision blurs at the edges. My chest tightens, each breath a carefully masked battle.
He’s looking straight through me. Like I’m already erased. Reduced to nothing but another bullet point on his boardroom agenda.
And damn it…it hurts.
“Mr. Rivera.” My voice trembles slightly, and I hate myself for it. I gather my composure, straighten my spine, meet his gaze head-on. “The Foundation’s strategy has always been transparent. Every dollar is accounted for, and each program directly benefits the community…”
“I’m not disputing transparency,” he interrupts, voice calm, dismissive. Infuriatingly composed. “I’m disputing effectiveness.”