I’m such a fool.
I’ve arranged my own torture: watching Camillia in the arms of another man. She dances the steps perfectly, her movements lithe and primal, a secret extra swivel to her hips and smile curling her lips.
She’s the perfect black swan. Half the men in this room are panting just watching her, and I tuck my fists behind my back to hide the whitened knuckles.
The way she dances… it’s more erotic than a strip tease. More tantalizing than any burlesque. She dips into a backbend, and a groan rumbles through my chest.
Camillia. f**k. I’d give anything to touch her.
“What do you think, Monsieur?” Madame Ophelia drifts up to my elbow. “Have you found your star pair?” Her eyebrow twitches, like it’s a nonsense question. Like it’s already clear who I’ll choose.
I don’t care.
“Yes.
