Chapter 15
POV: Camille?
^...The next day…^
Michael and I hadn’t spoken about our conversation yesterday. I hadn’t built up the courage just yet to get back into the ingrained trauma that shaped him into the man he was today. Especially not when this case still loomed over us.
My eyes burned from exhaustion, my temples throbbed from hours of review.
But even that dull ache couldn’t drown out the low, electric hum of tension between us, it had only built since our shared intimacy yesterday.
And it wasn’t the traditional kind, not the contracted kind that we had agreed on.
But the mental slips that neither of us had planned.
People were already suspicious of our relationship, even though that’s all they had. Suspicions.
Michael had crafted the perfect response, that…I, Camille Martens, was the only Harvard Grad and lawyer here at his business, plus my bachelor degree was in Applied Mathematics so I was the best person to assist him in going over the statistics and the case. I was in a two in one.
Michael sat back in his chair with his sleeves rolled up and revealing his forearms, lean muscle shifting under warm skin, the veins visible and I almost found myself drooling.
Stop thinking about that, Camille. I scolded myself.
But I couldn’t help it.
The thought refused to vanish from my mind.
And yet here we were again.
I should have been studying the numbers in the file in front of me.
But my gaze kept dragging back to him—his hair falling in deep brown waves across his forehead, the faint glint of sweat at his temples, the slight shift of his shoulders as he wrote a note in the margin of a contract.
“You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes now.” His voice cut through the silence.
I stuttered. “I… I was thinking about the numbers.”
A soft chuckle slipped from his lips. “Camille,” he began, pausing for his usual dramatic effect.
He stood slowly, deliberately, the movement of a man who knew exactly what effect he had on me.
With each step around the desk, the air grew thinner and heavier.
“Michael…” I started, but the word died on my tongue.
His hand found my waist, firm and warm, and it was like being caught between gravity and fire. His other hand rose, cupping my face, his thumb brushing my cheek in a stroke so intimate I thought my heart might split right open.
“You’re not thinking about numbers,” he murmured, as if he knew the truth. “Admit it.”
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
Desire and fear were tangled threads in my chest.
“I can’t,” I whispered finally.
His eyes darkened and for a heartbeat, I thought he’d step back.
Instead, he leaned in, as his lips hovered over mine.
He didn’t rush, he didn’t take, instead he waited. Literally waited.
I let out a shaky breath, and that was all the permission he needed.
His mouth caught mine and then my hands found his chest.
“Camille,” he murmured against my lips. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“No…” My voice was barely a whisper.
He smirked against my lips. “Then how do you suppose I should solve that?”
“Show me.”
Something flickered in his expression, his careful control unraveling as hunger took its place.
And he kissed me harder this time, hungrier. I could feel him through his pants, hard and ready, and it sent a shock of heat through me so intense I almost forgot to breathe.
“But, Michael…” I began my protest.
His dark eyes watched me. “No arguments, Camille.”
“But the office—”
“Sh,” he added in between a kiss. “Forget about the contract.”
The words struck me.
But before I could respond, he lifted me effortlessly and wrapped my legs around his waist before setting me down on his desk.
His hands were everywhere suddenly—on my hips, my thighs, my back anchoring me and claiming me at the same time.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispered as he looked deep into my eyes. “Tell me, Camille.”
“I want you,” I breathed out in a ragged uncontrolled breath. “God, I want you.”
That was all it took.
His hand slipped beneath my skirt, fingers tracing the edge of my panties. Each stroke of his fingertip made me arch into him, demanding his touch.
“Michael…” I begged. “Please…”
He groaned and slid his fingers inside me. My head fell back as I reveled in his touch. He watched me like he was memorizing every reaction and every gasp.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, “Only mine, Camille.”
I didn’t know if I believed his words.
“Say it again,” I begged.
“You’re mine.”
“Yours,” I breathed, eyes locked on him. “I’m yours.”
And then he was inside me, filling me inch by inch until I cried out. He rocked against me again as his lips found mine again.
“Oh, God..” My voice shook as he thrusted deeper into me. “Michael…”
“You made things so—” he breathed out, thrusting into me again, this time harder. “Complicated. They shouldn’t be that way.”
Tears blurred my vision, but I was not sad.
This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t a transaction. And I knew it as well as he did.
“I can’t stop,” he whispered as he thrusted into me again and groaned loudly. “I should be able to stop. For the contract.”
A cry left my mouth. “Don’t stop.”
He thrusted slower, each movement deliberate, and I clung to him like he was the only thing holding me to the earth.
The desk creaked underneath us as papers crumpled, like contracts forgotten. And I hoped that one of them was ours.
“Michael,” I cried out in a moan.
When release came, it tore through me like a ripple of heat.
I clutched him, gasping, his name breaking from my lips and he followed seconds later. We collapsed together.
For a long moment, there was no office, no contracts, no world…jusst us.
“You’re mine, Camille,” he whispered.
“I’m yours,” I breathed, and this time it wasn’t an arrangement. It was a confession.
Though I had no idea what that meant, or if I’d be his for longer than 6 months.
And I felt like I was drowning myself in an ocean—and an ocean of regret if things went south.
Because the truth was, I was scared. Scared of asking him if he meant it -or what he meant by it—I wanted to live in this illusion as long as I could.
The sound of the clock ticking brought me full circle. I knew there might be an expiration date on this—on us.