12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
C amille
My eyes flutter open, dazed, disoriented, and suddenly…fully aware.
The ache hits first…deep, delicious, raw. The kind of soreness that means I was fucked roughly, completely. The sheets are tangled beneath me, silken, slightly damp from sweat and sex. My skin is bare, flushed, and I shift slightly, trying to stretch…
But I can’t.
I tug harder. My wrists are bound tight, stretched above my head, pinned securely to the bed frame. My ankles are spread wide, tied to either side, exposing me obscenely. My muscles protest the sudden awareness of being so thoroughly restrained, the burn in my thighs sharp and undeniable.
It’s not rope or scarves or something innocent.
It’s leather.
Foreign. Thick. Unyielding.
Kane’s belts.
My heart hammers violently, panic spiking through my bloodstream, mixing cruelly with the unmistakable heat already pooling low in my belly. My breath catches, shallow and trembling.
A noise from across the room, the soft scrape of wood on polished marble, and my head snaps toward the sound.
Kane sits in an armchair beside the bed, relaxed, watching me like my owner.
Like he was just waiting for me to wake up so he could resume playing with his favorite toy.
He’s shirtless, those powerful muscles on shameless display, his loose gray sweats hanging low enough that the dark ink along his hip bones is visible, teasing the path downward.
He’s holding a cup of coffee, sipping it leisurely as his dark eyes travel down my body, slow, appraising, utterly possessive. My nipples pebble into hard points under the intensity of his gaze, my skin flushing even hotter, shameful arousal making my thighs quiver.
“Good morning, Camille,” he says, voice rough, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. “You sleep well?”
I tug again at my restraints, frustration flaring. “What the hell is this, Kane?”
He sets the cup down on a small side table, rising easily from his chair, movements slow and predatory.
He climbs onto the bed, kneeling between my widely spread thighs, staring down at me like I’m his breakfast. His palms slide slowly up my bare thighs, fingertips teasing, barely touching, sending sparks of electricity through my trembling muscles.
“This,” he murmurs calmly, dragging his thumb along my inner thigh, deliberately close to my swollen, aching pussy, He tilts his head slightly, eyes glittering with a dark, amused hunger as he leans over me, his thumb tracing lazy circles dangerously close to where I’m already slick and aching. “This is my entertainment.
“And yours, of course,” he adds smoothly, voice dripping with cruel charm, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “I’m generous like that.” My breath hitches sharply. My heart pounds violently in my chest, heat blooming through every nerve ending, every vein, every hidden, shameful part of me.
“Kane, let me go…”
“No,” he says simply, leaning over me, bracing himself on one powerful arm. His scent, dark spice, clean soap, lingering sex, floods my senses, making me dizzy. “I don’t think I will.”
He reaches over, grabbing his phone from the bedside table, thumb swiping slowly across the screen.
My heart slams into my ribs as he opens the camera app, casually angling it downward, letting me see exactly what he sees: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, bare skin slick and glistening, thighs spread wide and trembling helplessly.
“Kane, don’t…”
“You’re not in charge, Munequita.” He hits record, the red light blinking mockingly as my humiliation burns hotter, mingling darkly with aching need. “Look at yourself,” he murmurs cruelly, tipping the phone so I can’t avoid it…my soaked pussy on full, obscene display.
“You’re soaked, Camille,” he taunts quietly, thumb pressing deliberately onto my swollen clit, making me buck helplessly against the restraints “Bound to my bed, spread open, dripping like the absolute fucking nympho you are. Tell me why.” His free hand dips lower, dragging slowly, torturously, through my slick folds, deliberately circling every sensitive nerve as he captures each trembling breath, each broken gasp.
“…Kane…” It’s not a sound I was aware I could make.
“Tell me why,” he insists again, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Say it loud and clear for the camera.”
My breath shudders out in a ragged gasp, every nerve ending raw and on fire, shame scorching its way through my veins.
But there’s no hiding, no escape, not from the camera’s relentless eye, not from Kane’s ruthless touch.
He presses harder on my clit, forcing another broken cry from my lips, his voice sharp and unforgiving.
“Tell. Me. Why.”
My voice cracks, shame and desire ripping the truth from my throat. “Because of you. Because no one else can make me this wet…no one else can make me come...orgams…”
His gaze darkens dangerously, eyes glittering with savage approval as my confession hangs raw and obscene in the air. He drags his fingers slowly, deliberately, through my dripping heat, coating himself in the evidence of my surrender.
“Again,” he growls. He presses the camera closer, capturing every twitch, every tremble, every shameful moment. “Louder.”
I arch helplessly into his hand, thighs quivering violently, the restraints biting into my wrists. Pride shatters, dissolving into pure desperation as the words pour from my lips, raw, filthy, undeniable.
“Because only you can make me wet,” I gasp out, tears stinging my eyes, voice cracking beneath the humiliation and need. “Only you make me come. You…you own all my orgasms….”
He groans softly, pressing his thumb harder against my swollen clit, sending electric sparks racing through my core.
“Good fucking girl. And now I have the proof,” he rasps, dark satisfaction thick in his voice as he captures it all, every desperate gasp, every filthy confession.
The phone stays steady, capturing the wreckage he’s made of me, the power he holds.
He finally tosses the phone aside, leaning over me, gaze fierce, lips brushing mine softly, cruelly gentle as his fingers finally press deeper inside my aching cunt, thrusting slow and possessive.
“No more lies, Camille,” he whispers against my mouth. “Every time you forget, every time you lie, every time you pretend, he matters. I’m going to hunt you, hold you down and play this for you. Make you watch the truth.”
He kisses me deep then, swallowing my broken moan, fingers driving into me relentlessly, forcing pleasure and submission from me until I’m coming again, trembling and sobbing his name against his lips.
My humiliation, my surrender, my truth, all recorded, all his.
Forever.
***
Eventually, he releases me.
Not immediately. Not gently. Just long enough after my body stops shaking and my voice stops working. He unties me one restraint at a time, watching every wince, every tremble, every goosebump like he’s memorizing it.
“Don’t run,” he murmurs against my shoulder as he undoes the last knot at my ankle.
“As if I could,” I rasp.
He smirks. Presses a soft kiss to the inside of my knee, so tender it almost breaks me more than the rest of it.
Then he lets me go.
And I don’t say anything as I slip off the bed, sore in ways I didn’t know I could be sore, my body marked with his fingerprints and his mouth and the very specific ache of being thoroughly claimed.
I walk toward the bathroom, legs shaky but stubborn.
“I’m taking a shower,” I call back, not asking.
“You’ll need it,” he says darkly from behind me. “But if you lock that door, Camille... I’m kicking it in.”
The water’s already running by the time I step inside, steam fogging the mirror. I brace my hands on the sink and stare at myself, flushed bronze skin, swollen lips, smudged mascara, and eyes that look wrecked in a way no shower can fix.
Still… I step under the hot spray, letting the scalding water sting every bruise, every bite mark, every tender inch he claimed. I close my eyes, standing motionless beneath the heat, feeling him still on my skin, still inside me, branding me deeper than any tattoo.
I reach for his soap, pressing it to my nose, inhaling the familiar scent, dark cedar, smoke, and something primal.
Something savage. Something painfully him.
I drag the bar slowly over my breasts, lingering over sensitive nipples still swollen from his mouth, sliding lower, lower, tracing my thighs, pressing firmly between my legs where he tasted me, claimed me, filled me.
Heat spirals, reigniting the ache that throbs deep inside, raw and unrelenting.
His shampoo next, clean, masculine, intoxicating. I breathe it in, filling my lungs until my head swims and the world fades away, replaced entirely by him. By memories of his mouth. His hands. His cock buried deep, making me scream his name.
By the time I finally shut off the water, I’m scrubbed raw, my skin flushed, stripped down to nothing but nerves and aching need.
I dry myself quickly with one of his towels, pausing when my eyes snag on his robe. I reach for it, slipping it on, the fabric soft and warm, carrying his scent and wrapping me completely in him as I step back into the bedroom.
He glances up, and—his gaze hits me like a physical blow, dark and heavy with intent. He looks seconds from lunging, from shoving me right back onto the mattress, from spreading me wide and starting all over again.
“Kane…” I warn, voice shaky, weak. “No.”
His mouth curves into a slow, arrogant smirk. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You have that look.”
His eyes flicker with something dangerous, something raw, as they trace the outline of my body beneath the robe. He leans back, resting his weight on his hands as he watches me. His gaze lingers where the fabric clings to my skin, the only thing separating me from him.
“Look?”