I am.
My skin is hypersensitive. My nerves lit.
You’re stronger than this, Camille.
Ignore him.
Block him.
Bury my phone in a drawer and pretend I’m still in control.
But instead, my fingers move on their own.
Go fuck yourself.
I hit send.
My hands shake.
My heart races.
And I know, I know, this is exactly what he wanted.
And I hate that it’s exactly what I needed.
Kane
I chuckle as I read her reply, the ice in my glass clinking softly as I swirl my drink.
She answered.
That’s all I needed.
I lean against the railing of the penthouse balcony, tapping my fingers against my phone before sending another message.
I could, but I’d rather fuck you instead.
Camille
I could, but I’d rather fuck you instead.
Heat rushes through me so fast it’s dizzying. My knees threaten to give out, my core tightening in betrayal, a traitorous pulse thrumming between my thighs.
I hate him.
I hate him for knowing.
For saying exactly what he shouldn’t.
For making me want it anyway.
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply. My skin is still too hot, too sensitive, the ghost of his hands still on me, his mouth still pressed against my throat, his fingers still buried inside me.
I should stop responding. Stop engaging.
But the words are already forming, my thumbs moving over the screen before I can stop them.
You disgust me.
