Page 105 of Unleashed By Eden

I walk away, letting Cindy’s stare slide right off me. I ignore everything and everyone except the taste of him still on my tongue and the ridiculous fact that I can’t wait to walk back into this chaos just to be near him again.

***

Two hours later, my ass is numb from sitting cross-legged on Megan’s hotel carpet.

She’s got venue blueprints spread across the bed, call sheets printed and highlighted within an inch of their lives, and a laptop open with three time zones on display. Dave’s perched on a chair backward, chewing on a pen cap while he talks about narrative arcs. Mika leans against the wall, camera on the floor by his foot, adding notes about what still needs to be captured.

We walk through schedules, security plans, media windows, and shot lists. By the end of it, LA and New York are a military operation, starring four sleep-deprived rock stars. But we finally have a plan of attack for the last two cities on the band’s home soil.

LA and New York are going to be insane. Full-blown media frenzies, back-to-back interviews, red carpets, radio stations, TV spots, press junkets. PR handlers will be glued to our asses. Every second cordoned off into “content.” The boys will be in full show-pony mode. I’ll be catching whatever’s left in between.

I won’t see Carter properly. But it’s fine. Really. Because I’m staying in New York after the tour wraps up, seeing Indigo and Anne. Hogging my niece until Liam physically removes her from my arms. And I’ll be able to see Carter in his city for the first time, away from the tour machine.

We haven’t sat down and talked about “after.” But I don’t need a roadmap to know what I want. Wherever he goes, I go. That feels terrifying to admit, even in my own head, but it’s also the clearest truth I’ve ever known. Now that we’re here—that we’ve somehow made it out the other side of our ugly history—I’m not walking away. And I’m sure as fuck not letting logistics ruin whatever this is shaping into.

No long-distance relationship for me. I want my happy ending. The whole cliché—daily mess, shared coffee, fights over laundry, sex on actual weekday nights that aren’t borrowed from a tour schedule. For once in my life, I’m actually reaching for it instead of daring the world to try me.

When I make it back to the penthouse, the place is quiet. Everyone has disappeared. Even Chris is nowhere to be seen, and he’s always lurking about.

My laptop is where I left it on the table. I close the lid properly, scoop it up along with my camera, and head for the master bedroom.

Carter’s exactly where I expect him. Stretched across the ridiculous king-sized bed, back braced against the headboard, phone in one hand, one ankle hooked over the other. His hair’s still damp from the shower, dirty blond brushed off his forehead, and he’s wearing nothing but black boxers.

My self-control starts writing its will.

He looks up the second I step through the door, those blue eyes running the length of me.

“Where’d everyone go?” I ask, dropping my gear on the dresser and stripping off my clothes.

“Siesta,” he says, tossing his phone aside. “Last pocket of downtime before LA turns us into dancing monkeys.”

He crooks a finger.

I smirk and crawl onto the bed, aiming for his side, ready to curl in.

But he has other plans. His hand snaps around my wrist.

“I’m hungry,” he murmurs. “Come sit on my face.”

Heat rushes through me so fast, I swear I could steam the sheets.

I swing a leg over his waist and lean down until my hair falls around us. His hands slide up my thighs, calloused fingers rough against my skin.

My lips find his with a soft press.

He grips my hips and guides me up his body until I’m exactly where he wants me. I settle over his mouth, take a breath. His tongue slides inside me and the relief is instant. He’s exactly where he belongs. Home.

I rock against his mouth, gripping the headboard for leverage. The wood bangs against the wall with every movement, a loud rhythmic thud that I’m sure travels into the rest of the suite. Heat spreads through my belly, the coil winding tighter and tighter.

I’m so close. Just as I start to tip—

He pulls me off him.

“Not yet,” he orders.

His mouth, nose, and cheeks are slick, his usually bright blue eyes dark with satisfaction.

My breath catches between a groan and a protest.