Chapter 9
POV: Camille ?
I rode home alone in his sleek black car.
I should have felt satisfied, after all I made sure I satisfied him and quite quickly at that.
But after he got up, zipped up his pants and walked away from me without even a single word.
I felt like a part of me was…hollow.
I wasn’t used to transactional relationships of this type….sucking a dick then just leaving? I mean, a man at least tried to get me off, tried being the prime word there.
But Michael, he basically waved goodbye, told me that his town car would take me home then that was it. That was it.
Why did it bother me?
Why did I care?
I shouldn’t.
This was a contract. This was a transaction. I knew my role.
My role was to please him, not have him please me, but something inside me made me….confused. Because instead of feeling indifferent, I felt conflicted?
That night as I lay in bed, staring up at my ceiling, in my small apartment, counting the money I would soon have, and the dissolving of debt that would soon have, I thought of him. His kiss. His eyes. His…behavior.
Go to sleep, Camille. Play your role. Stop hoping for more. He isn’t capable of that.
***
The next day…
I tugged at the hem of my emerald mid-length dress as the satin cooled against my thighs, and reminded myself that I was here as a lawyer—a professional.
And not Michael Vanderbilt’s date.
Except, of course in reality, I was both.
It had been 24 hours since our date at Marcelli’s and since his penthouse and also since I’d fallen to my knees and literally gave a blow job to Michael and actually enjoyed doing it.
The memory was still burning into my mind—the sound of his moan echoing in my ears—the taste of him and the way he’d looked at me afterward like I was both his temptation and salvation at the same time—the way he walked away from me with barely a word.
And now here I was—standing beside him at Vanderbilt Technologies annual charity Gala, expected to smile and nod at politicians and CEOs as though last night hadn’t happened.
Michael, of course, looked perfectly composed. He stood tall in a tailored black tuxedo that fit him like it had been sculpted onto his lean, muscular frame. His dark hair gleamed, his eyes were sharp and he was overall—impossible to read.
If he was thinking about last night then he didn’t show it.
And I hated him a little for that.
Because I couldn’t stop thinking about it and about him.
“Smile,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth as another guest approached.
I forced my lips into a polite curve, shaking hands with a senator whose name I forgot the instant he said it.
I repeated a line about “corporate responsibility” and “legal frameworks” that I barely registered, because the heat of Michael’s hand rested at the small of my back and it was hidden from everyone but me.
The contact was nothing, it was merely a gesture and a point of control. But it set my skin ablaze.
For hours, I played my part.
Camille Martens, junior associate and professional and employee.
I laughed at jokes, I quoted case law when asked and I clinked glasses of champagne with people and pretended.
But underneath it all, I was hyperaware of Michael. Of the way his eyes lingered on me when I wasn’t looking, of the subtle brush of his fingers when he handed me a new champagne glass, of the warmth of his breath when he leaned in to speak to me.
It was unbearable.
And then it became too much and too quickly.
I excused myself from a conversation from a group of vips because well, frankly, I needed fucking air. I needed to be somewhere that wasn’t near him.
The hallway outside the ballroom was dimly lit and lined with framed portraits of past Vanderbilt CEO’s. I leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to my chest as though I could calm it, when in reality I knew it was a feeble attempt.
Professional. I had to stay professional. I reminded myself.
But last night had changed something and right now I didn’t know how to go back.
“Running away already?” His deep voice sounded out from behind me.
I turned toward him instantly.
Michael stood at the end of the hall, hands in his tailored pockets, he looked casual, when I was anything but.
“I needed air,” I managed out in a rush.
He walked toward me slowly, deliberately, like a man who knew he had all the time in the world. “Air,” he repeated, his lips curving faintly into a smirk. “From little old me?”
“Yes,” I whispered before I could stop myself from not saying it.
The smirk that touched his mouth was devastating. “Honest, I like that quality in a woman.”
He stopped just a foot away from me, it was just close enough that the scent of his cologne almost made me pass out.
“Michael…” I warned him, though my voice strained.
“This isn’t part of the contract,” he eyes slid over my body, taking it in.
I cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “Then what is it?”
But he didn’t respond.
His gaze darkened as his hand lifted to trace a strand of blonde hair that had slipped from my bun and then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t careful.
His lips claimed mine and stole my breath. The kiss shattered every barrier I thought I’d built between us.
His hand slid to the back of my neck, anchoring me, while his other arm wrapped around my waist and he pulled me flush against him. I gasped against his mouth as his tongue slid against mine.
The world vanished away for a moment. There was only him and I.
And this kiss was nothing like last night. Last night had been calculated. But this was chaos—pure chaos—unfiltered. A rawness that neither of us could contain.
I melted into him as every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue made it feel like I might combust. And the sounds he made—his barely restrained groans ignited me further.
When he finally tore his mouth from mine, we were both breathless.
“Michael…” I whispered.
His grip tightened along my waist side. “Tell me you didn’t feel that.”
My brow furrowed.
“I felt it last night when I kissed you.”
“When? When you walked away from me after I finished swallowing your cum?” I asked, confused, shaking my head.
He didn’t respond.
But I couldn’t lie, especially not when my entire body was still humming from the force of it. “I did.”
“Good,” he rasped, as his thumb brushed over my lower lip.
I felt like he was messing with me.
We must’ve stood there for what felt like forever as my mind raced and my emotions tangled in knots I couldn’t untangle.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The contract was clear. 6 months. Companionship—intimacy—nothing more. This was supposed to be finite and have an expiration date, but it felt like something else was building.
The kiss wasn’t controlled.
This was something that felt dangerously close to real.
My chest tightened, fear and exhilaration mixing together.
What was I doing? What were we doing?
Michael pulled back finally, as his eyes were searching mine for emotion.
Because for the first time since I’d met him, his control slipped completely. And in that glimpse, I saw it.
This wasn’t just about power or money or a contract.
This was about him wanting me.
And God help me, I wanted him too.
But the sound of footsteps down the hall jolted me back to reality. I stepped away quickly from him, eyes wide in shock from my own feelings.
Michael straightened his jacket in response as his composure snapped back into place. But his eyes—his dark eyes remained on me. “Go back in first,” he said softly. “I’ll follow in a bit.”
I nodded, though my legs felt unsteady as I walked back into the ballroom, forcing my face into emotionless.
No one noticed.
But I felt it anyways—the weight of his kiss still on my lips.
This terrified and confused me more than anything.
That night as I lay awake in my apartment, I replayed the night over and over.
The way he’d looked at me before he kissed me—the way his lips had devoured mine—the way he told me he felt it, too—-the way my body had answered without hesitation.
The way Michael Vanderbilt was more complicated than he appeared.