Chapter 20: Camille (1)

Camille reached a trembling hand up to the back of her head, her fingers seeking out the source of the throbbing pain. She winced as she touched the tender, already forming lump, a low moan escaping her lips. "Aahh, ça fait mal," she whimpered, her voice a strained, pained rasp. A single tear rolled down her flushed cheek, cutting a glistening trail through her carefully applied makeup.

Julien's heart clenched with guilt and concern as he took in Camille's discomfort, his dark eyes filled with remorse. "Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle Auclair," he murmured, his deep voice heavy with apology. "Je ne voulais pas que cela arrive." With that, Julien carefully extracted himself from their tangled limbs, his muscular frame unfolding with an ease that spoke of long-practiced grace.

Julien rose to his feet, brushing down his rumpled shirt and trousers, his chiseled jaw set in a grim line as he turned to attend to Amélie. He stepped towards the bed, his long strides eating up the distance between them in a few quick, purposeful steps.

Amélie's body hung limply over the edge of the mattress, her chestnut hair brushing the floor, her dress riding up to expose the creamy globes of her ass and the lacy patch on her panties. Julien's breath hitched in his throat as he took in the lewd display, a sudden surge of protective instinct and a fierce, almost primal urge to claim and possess warring within him.

"Tout est de ma faute," Julien murmured, a note of guilt coloring his deep voice as he reached out to grasp Amélie's slender waist. With a careful, almost tender strength, he lifted her back onto the bed, her body molding to the plush, velvet duvet as if it were made of liquid silk. He arranged her limbs with a gentle, almost reverent care, smoothing her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear in a way that spoke of a deep intimacy and a profound, almost instinctive understanding of her desires and needs. Julien's gaze lingered on Amélie's face for a long moment. With a sigh, he pulled the duvet up and over her shoulders, tucking her in with a gentle, almost loving care, as if shielding her from the cold, cruel world outside her bedroom door. "Dors bien, mon amour," Julien whispered, his voice a low, tender rasp. "Je serai là quand tu te réveilleras." He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips brushing against her skin like a promise, a vow, a silent pledge of his devotion and his unwavering commitment to her happiness and well-being, no matter the cost.

Julien's heart ached with guilt and concern as he heard Camille's pained moans and sniffles behind him. He turned to find her still lying on the floor, one hand cradling the back of her head, her body curled slightly in discomfort. Her hazel eyes, though glistening with unshed tears, sparkled with a hint of mischief and playful accusation as they met his gaze.

"Monsieur Deneuve, what a gentleman you are," Camille teased, her voice a strained but playful rasp. "Leaving a poor, helpless lady lying on the cold, hard floor while you tend to your... other lover." She sniffled, a sound that was equal parts pain and amusement. "I thought you were supposed to be a man of the world, a man of culture and refinement. And yet, here I am, the poor, neglected third wheel."

Julien's brow furrowed in a mix of embarrassment and concern as he quickly closed the distance between them. He reached down, his muscular arms slipping beneath Camille's slender frame, lifting her with an ease that spoke of his strength and agility. He cradled her against his broad chest, his hand coming up to gently cup the back of her head, his fingers brushing over the swollen lump with a tender, almost reverent touch.

"Pardonne-moi, Mademoiselle Auclair," Julien murmured, a note of genuine apology and a hint of self-deprecating humor in his deep voice. "You are right, I was remiss in my duties as a gentleman. Please forgive me for leaving you in such a state." His fingers gently massaged the tender spot, his thumb brushing over it in a soothing, circular motion. "I assure you, it won't happen again. I am at your service, now and always."

Camille let out a shaky, pained laugh, a sound that was cut off by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as Julien's fingers hit a particularly tender spot on her skull. "Mmm, well, at least you know how to make it up to me," she teased, a note of grudging approval coloring her strained but playful tone, "even if your idea of making amends involves groping my head like a overzealous masseur," Camille quipped, a wry smirk tugging at her lips despite the pain radiating from her throbbing lump. She leaned into Julien's touch, her slender body molding to the hard planes of his chest as she gazed up at him with a look of playful accusation. "I must say, Monsieur Deneuve, your technique leaves much to be desired. But I suppose I can forgive you, this time, considering the... extenuating circumstances."

Camille's gaze flicked over to where Amélie lay, her chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths, a look of perfect peace and contentment on her beautiful face. A sudden pang of envy and a flicker of longing flashed through Camille's eyes before she quickly glanced away, burying her face in the crook of Julien's neck. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of his cologne, the musky, masculine aroma filling her lungs and clouding her thoughts with a sudden, fierce longing.

"Take me to the sofa, Monsieur," Camille murmured, her voice a low, breathy rasp in the candlelit room. "I need to lie down, but I don't think I can handle the bed... not with her in it." Her fingers curled into the fabric of Julien's shirt, her nails digging in slightly as she clung to him, a sudden, desperate need to be held, to be comforted, to be wanted, consuming her thoughts.

Camille's fingers tightened in the fabric of Julien's shirt as she nuzzled into the crook of his neck, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that brushed against his skin. She paused for a moment, considering his words, before a sudden, painful realization dawned on her. With a soft, rueful laugh, she pulled back slightly, her hazel eyes meeting Julien's dark gaze with a look of wry amusement and a hint of self-deprecating sorrow.

"Actually, Monsieur Deneuve," Camille murmured, her voice a low, strained rasp, "it would be kinder of you to simply take me home. To my own house, I mean." She glanced away, her gaze drifting over to where Amélie lay, her expression soft and peaceful in the candlelit room. A sudden, sharp pang of envy and a flicker of longing flashed through Camille's eyes before she quickly glanced away, blinking back the sudden, hot tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

Julien's brow furrowed in concern, his dark eyes searching Camille's face with a look of confusion and a hint of guilt. "Mais, Mademoiselle Auclair, I thought you were going to stay the night here, with Amelie," he murmured, his deep voice heavy with apology and a touch of bewilderment. "Won't she miss you if you leave now?"

Camille let out a shaky, pained laugh, a sound that was cut off by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as she shook her head, a look of wry amusement and a hint of bitter resignation in her hazel eyes as they met Julien's gaze. "She may miss me, but..." Camille paused, her voice dropping to a strained, almost bitter whisper, "she has you now. And right now, I don't think she wants me by her side." Her fingers tightened, curling into the fine fabric of Julien's shirt, her nails digging in with a sudden, desperate strength. "Besides," Camille continued, her voice a low, breathy rasp, "my head is pounding, and I don't think I can handle being the third wheel tonight, not after... not after everything that's happened."

Camille's gaze drifted back to Amélie, a look of longing and a hint of resentment flashing through her eyes as she took in the sight of the other woman's peaceful, contented face. "She wants you," Camille murmured, a note of bitter acceptance coloring her strained tone. "So please, Monsieur Deneuve," she breathed, a note of pleading desperation in her strained, hoarse voice, "take me home."

Julien nodded solemnly, a look of understanding and a hint of guilt flashing through his dark eyes as he took in Camille's words. "Très bien, Mademoiselle Auclair," he murmured, his deep voice heavy with apology and a touch of concern. "I will do as you ask, of course. I will take you home." He shifted her weight in his arms, his muscular frame adjusting to a more comfortable position as he held her close, his hand never leaving the back of her head, gently cradling the tender lump.

Camille's lips curved into a small, grateful smile, a look of appreciation and a touch of wry amusement in her hazel eyes as she gazed up at Julien. "Merci, Monsieur Deneuve," she murmured, her strained but sincere tone a contrast to the painful throbbing in her skull. "Also, while I do appreciate your gesture, truly. But..." She paused, a note of exasperation and a hint of self-deprecating humor coloring her words. "Well, as much as I enjoy your strong arms around me, my head is the only thing that got wrecked tonight, not my legs." Camille shifted in Julien's embrace, her slender frame wriggling slightly as she tried to extract herself from his hold.

Julien's brow furrowed in confusion, a look of concern and a touch of reluctance in his dark eyes as he realized Camille's intent. "Mademoiselle Auclair, are you certain?" he asked, a note of doubt and a hint of protectiveness in his deep, resonant voice. "I don't mind carrying you, truly. I want to ensure you are alright." Despite his words, Julien slowly lowered Camille's feet to the floor, his hands remaining on her waist to steady her, his fingers splaying over the curve of her hips in a gesture of support and a touch of unconscious possessiveness.

Camille took a tentative step forward, her heels clicking softly against the polished hardwood floor. She wobbled slightly, a look of concentration on her face as she tested her balance and her ability to stand unassisted. "Vois-tu?"