Chapter 8
POV: Camille ?
The restaurant looked like something out of a dream. Marcelli’s wasn’t just expensive, it was legendary.
It was the kind of place that you booked months in advance and the kind of place where the host barely glanced at your ID before whisking you inside because your date was The Michael Vanderbilt.
I caught my reflection in the glass doors before stepping in, my navy dress had a classy scooped neckline, a fitted waist, and a hem that skimmed just above my knees.
Suddenly I felt inadequate in a sea of silk expensive gowns and tailored tuxedos. I smoothed the fabric down of my dress, adjusted the strap of my heels tighter and told myself not to trip.
Then I saw him.
Michael Vanderbilt was already standing near the bar area, his height impossible to miss and his presence impossible to ignore.
Tonight, he wore black—a perfectly cut suit, no tie, and the crisp white shirt beneath his suit coat unbuttoned just enough to catch a glimpse of his toned and tanned skin.
His sculpted jaw was freshly shaven, and those storm-gray eyes.
God, those eyes. Well, they found me in an instant.
The air shifted. It literally shifted.
His lips curved faintly into a smile.
And suddenly, I didn’t care if my dress came from a clearance rack or if my heels were knockoffs, especially not when he looked at me like that.
“Camille,” he said.
“Michael,” I countered.
He offered his arm and when I slid my hand into the crook of his elbow, the heat of him seeped into my skin, both grounding and claiming me.
The host led us to a secluded red leather upholstered booth in the far corner, tucked behind a wooden screen that shielded us. It was exactly what Michael Vanderbilt wanted, of course.
As we sat, I became hyperaware of everything. The way his knee brushed mine under the table. The way his gaze lingered a fraction too long on my neckline. The way I felt an unexplainable tension in his presence.
“This place is…” I searched for a word that wouldn’t make me sound like a tourist gawking at Times Square. “Impressive.”
“It’s adequate,” he replied casually, as though Marcelli’s was just a regular old diner to him.
“Adequate? The chandeliers alone probably cost more than my rent for the year.”
His mouth curved into a soft smirk. “I don’t measure worth in chandeliers.”
“No?”
His gaze locked onto mine, steady and unreadable. “No.”
The server arrived before I could ask what he did measure worth in.
Michael barely glanced at his menu before ordering for both of us—filet mignon, seared scallops, and a bottle of red wine that I couldn’t pronounce properly.
I should have scoffed, but the way he spoke—so confident, well it made my pulse race instead of my temper.
“You didn’t even ask if I like scallops,” I said.
“You do.” His tone left no room for doubt.
“And if I didn’t?”
He leaned in slightly. “Then I would’ve ordered something else. I don’t make mistakes, Camille.”
Heat pooled low in my stomach.
The way he said my name—deliberate, possessive—it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t professional. And yet, I leaned closer anyway.
The wine arrived and Michael lifted his glass, as his eyes held mine, “to clarity.”
I raised mine with shaky fingers. “Clarity?”
“You’ll see.”
I’m sure I would.
I just nodded.
Dinner passed in a blur.
He asked about law school, about my favorite cases, and about what drove me in life and in business.
And all the while, the tension built between us silently.
Every time his hand brushed mine when passing a dish, every time his eyes dipped to my lips as I spoke, and every time silence stretched between us, it was just long enough to feel a flutter inside my stomach.
Michael leaned back, studying me with the same focus he always had. “You’re nervous.”
I swallowed and denied it, the best lawyers always did. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“And you like that.”
He smirked. “Yes.”
“So, why do you do really do this?” I blurted out, cursing myself as I did.
But Michael was smirking.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s a fair question,” he smirked. “It’s a way to protect me. To set up an arrangement to protect me and my assets. Women..” he began, looking me over. “Most women look at you with a singular thought: profit. What they will gain from you.”
“I see,” I said.
“But you strike me as different.”
I scoffed, laughing. “Why? I signed the contract after all.”
“True,” he studied me. “But you didn’t offer yourself to me or throw yourself at me the first moment you saw me.”
“And the others did?”
“Yes,” he said unemotionally. “They know what I’m worth. They know what I can offer them. That’s why the contract is essential.”
“And you think that protects you from emotions?” I laughed, shaking my head.
“Emotions aren’t the problem,” he said flatly. “My money and status is.”
I nodded, remaining tight lipped.
“And you don’t agree with that?” he asked, perplexed.
“A life without…feeling seems…sad,” I shrugged. “Even through the bad times, the worst times, the times I screamed and cried and slept for hours, I still wanted to feel. I just think feelings are a part of..life.”
Michael stared at me as if I just found the cure to world peace.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat then said, “This isn’t just dinner, is it?”
“No.” His gaze locked onto mine, unflinching. “This is the line and tonight, we cross it.”
The room felt too small, too warm and too charged.
I thought about arguing.
But what’s the use? I already knew what I signed up for.
“Okay.”
The ride to his penthouse was an abrupt haze.
Black car—tinted windows—the city lights blurring as we passed them.
His hand rested lightly on my thigh the entire way, just enough to remind me he was there and just enough to make my breath catch with every shift of his fingers. And by the time the elevator doors slid open to his penthouse, I could barely breathe.
The space was everything I should have expected from Michael Vanderbilt. Floor to ceiling windows showcasing the skyline, sleek black leather furniture, along with art that looked like it belonged in a museum.
But all I could focus on was him.
Michael took off his suit jacket then turned to meet my gaze. “Come here.”
It wasn’t an offer.
It was a demand.
And I did.
God help me, I did.
His thumb brushed over my lower lip as he drew me closer into him. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking about since the moment I saw you tonight?”
My voice was a small squeak in a huge room. “What?”
“Tasting your lips.”
My knees nearly buckled.
And then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was nothing like I’d imagined. His lips moved against mine with a hunger that stole my breath from me in an instant as his tongue went into my mouth and I moaned into him.
Something inside me awoke when he kissed me.
Damn law school, for making me forget what it was like to be kissed.
But no…it was something more than simply not being kissed in a while. This felt like…a spark?
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine and his gaze poured into mine.
We drowned in each other for a moment before his lips met mine again, and I couldn’t breathe.
When we broke away, we were both gasping for air.
For a moment, we stared at each other, Michael’s blue eyes searched mine, as if he felt it too, but as if the mask was slipping back into place, his eyes flashed dark and his tone deepened. “On your knees,” he murmured, his voice controlled, steady.
My breath hitched but I obeyed, sinking onto the black plush carpet as my hands braced on his thighs.
He looked down at me, like it was the only thing he wanted to see. “Do you know how beautiful you are like this?”
I’d never felt more exposed and more vulnerable.
But I’d never felt more desired, either.
I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants then drew his boxers to his knees and freed him.
And oh my god.
He was hard already and big—very big. Veiny. Thick girth. Substantial length. Everything a woman would want in a man.
His hand tangled in my blonde hair, guiding me, but never forcing my mouth, just controlling the moment.
“Camille,” he gasped as I took him inside my mouth.
I hollowed my cheeks, taking him deeper inside my mouth, my tongue swirling his cock as his moan echoed through the space.
The sound made me ache, it made me want more, it made me dizzy with the realization that I was the one unraveling Michael Vanderbilt—the untouchable billionaire.
And here he was, moaning because of me.
I’d never felt like this. I never had a man make me feel powerful and small at once.
His hand tightened in my hair. “God, Camille…”
The sound that tore from his throat then was like nothing of the composed man I knew. He came inside my mouth and I swallowed every drop of his cum.
When he finally pulled me back with his eyes wild and dark, I realized something terrifying. This wasn’t just about money or contracts or boundaries.
This was about him.
And me.