CHAPTER 5

Camille's POV

 

Mr. Ashford offered me a drink on his own, which I immediately refused. I didn’t want to touch anything in his house, and I had already told myself that I would stay only until the storm ended. I had no intention of spending the night here, and that was that.

 

I had been standing close to the window for a long while now, bending my head intermittently whenever the storm banged violently against the windows outside the house. Thunder rolled, rattling something deep in my chest each time it struck.

 

“Are you just going to keep standing there?” Mr. Ashford’ voice came after some time.

 

I stayed silent, not answering.

He asked again later and again.

 

Each time, I pretended not to hear him.

When my legs eventually grew tired, I moved away from the window and walked toward the cellar where the wine he had offered earlier was kept. I picked a bottle myself after confirming that he wasn’t watching and took a drink.

 

“ You’re really a weird one,” he said as he walked in, noticing immediately that it wasn’t the wine he had offered me.

 

I had taken it by mistake, but now that he was standing there, watching me, I had no choice but to pretend that I’d done it intentionally.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

 

His gaze lingered. His glasses were still on, his shirt tight and clinging in a way that didn’t hide his build. The sight unsettled me more than I was willing to admit. Not because of what I felt, but because of what I shouldn’t be noticing at all.

 

He looked wrong here.

Like a sin in muscles that had learned how to walk.

 

I couldn’t tear my eyes away fast enough.

 

“What are you staring at?” he asked suddenly.

 

Heat rushed to my face. I felt my cheeks flush, panic clawing its way up my throat. He couldn’t see me like this. I couldn’t let him think I was like the other girls earlier, giggling and screaming as if they’d lost their minds.

 

I remembered the wine I had just drunk and assumed it must have been alcoholic. The idea came quickly, in my desperate attempt to hide my shyness.

 

I swayed, almost falling from where I stood, intentionally unsteady. My foot slipped just enough for Mr. Ashford to catch me.

 

Still pretending, I continued walking in uneven, incoherent steps, trying to put distance between us, between myself and the cellar. I wanted out of the room and of his presence.

 

But before I could, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back, pressing me against the wall.

 

I forced myself to breathe.

His cologne filled the space between us, threatening to cloud my senses. This wasn’t right. None of it was. How could I even be reacting at all and how could my body betray me like this?

 

And for him, of all people.

I searched frantically for a way out, for words and anything.

 

But I froze when he spoke before I could.

 

"You're not tipsy, are you, Bella?" His voice cut through the room, dominant, in that same tone that always made something coil tight inside me. I could feel my pussy wet and an awareness of him that went far beyond reason. Even without touching me, he could get under my skin in a way no one else ever had.

 

I couldn’t let my cover be blown, so I leaned slightly toward him, pretending to inhale the scent of his cologne. Surely he would believe I was drunk as there was no way I would act this way if I were in full control of myself.

 

But the cologne did more than mask my intent. It unmoored me in ways I hadn’t expected. My thoughts wavered dangerously, a tempting question forming in my mind. What would happen if I tried something?

 

Just a kiss, I whispered to myself, leaning closer onto his shoulders. I would pretend to be tipsy, just to see and feel. If he rejected me, I’d stop immediately. That was the rule I set for myself. No crossing the line unless it was truly mutual.

 

Bracing myself, I tilted my head upward, closing the distance. My lips grazed along his jaw, hesitant at first, tracing up until they hovered just centimeters from his own. My heart thudded violently in my chest, a warning and an invitation all at once.

 

I kissed him.

I expected him to pull away, to push me off and even demand answers, to scold me for testing boundaries.

 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he kissed me back. His lips met mine with a measured pressure that shattered the last threads of restraint I had mustered. Surprise shot through me, mixed with a thrilling rush of something dangerous, like surrender.