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Coups de cœur Cultura
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Camila had always been aware of her power.
Not the kind measured in titles or paychecks—though she had plenty of both—but in the silent pause that happened when she entered a room. In the way necks turned. In how buttons stayed one too low on her blouses, how the heat of eyes traced her every curve.
She was forty-five, confident, divorced, and intentionally unapologetic. Her body had thickened with experience, not age—soft in the places that made men stammer, and she knew exactly what kind of hunger she stirred.
But she'd never met a man like Theo.
Ten years younger, Black, carved like control itself, and not at all intimidated by her presence. If anything, he seemed to be waiting for her to misstep, just so he could grip her back into place.
Theirs didn't begin like a romance.
It began like a dare.
And now, Camila found herself swallowing more than just her pride—she was preparing to offer every curve, every soft edge, to the man who looked at her like he was dying of thirst.
And she was done pretending she didn't want to be drunk dry.
