Page 30 of Unleashed By Eden

One woman drops to her knees between his legs. The other climbs higher, mouth mauling his neck. His head tips back slightly, that lazy, half-pleased expression on his face. He’s done this a million times and will probably do it a million more.

He catches me staring and raises his brows in question. I lift mine back in answer. It’s ridiculous how one single movement can mean so many different things.

I turn away when the girl between his legs reaches for his zipper. That’s my cue to stop watching. I’m no prude, not working at Eden. There’s almost nothing I haven’t seen, done, or photographed in some capacity.

But I don’t want to see his cock disappearing down some random groupie’s throat.

The only thing that takes the edge off the bitter taste in my mouth is knowing exactly what this is. This is scratching an itch, burning off leftover adrenaline, plugging himself into something that doesn’t cost him anything real. This isn’t what he craves, not the way he talked about control and devotion when we were on the plane.

I move to the makeshift bar and pour myself a rum and cola, heavy on the rum, brown almost to the top, with a token splash of cola to pretend we’re mixing. I take a long swallow. It burns, then settles, spreading a slow heat.

Megan appears at my elbow. “Can I have one of those?”

“Sure.” I pour her one exactly the same, because I’m helpful like that.

She takes a sip and immediately coughs, eyes watering. “Holy shit.”

I get a small flicker of satisfaction from it. Megan is fine. I don’t hate her, but I don’t like her, either. She’s technically my boss for the duration of the tour—she gets my respect, but it’s hard to warm to someone who’s had Carter in her sights since day one.

She turns and props her elbows on the bar, leaning back to watch the room. I stay facing the shelves of liquor.

“What was he like growing up?” she asks eventually.

I don’t have to ask who she means.

“Much the same,” I say, “but different at the same time.”

“Wow,” she responds dryly. “That’s insightful.”

I ain’t telling her shit. I’m not spilling the beans on what Carter was like as a teenager. We both crawled out of the kind of places that people turn into cautionary tales. We bled for our exits. And I’m not about to rehash it with a woman I barely know.

“I am going to fuck him, you know,” she says.

There it is. Her cards on the table.

I roll my eyes. “Go for it. He’s not mine.” The words taste wrong, but I keep going. “You might have to wait in line, though. Looks like he goes through a lot of women every night.”

“I’m a patient woman.” She smiles, slow.

Against my better judgment, I glance over my shoulder. Carter’s eyes are already locked on me, waiting.

From the border of my vision, I take in the full picture in ugly little pieces. The girl on her knees is still moving, hands on his thighs for balance, head bobbing in a rhythm that would make a porn director proud. The other girl is still plastered to his neck, sucking at his skin and rubbing her hands over his chest. But his jaw is clenched, and a tight muscle jumps near his ear.

He’s not enjoying this . . . at all.

His eyes give him away. There’s no smugness, none of the usual I’m the king of this room bullshit. Instead, there’s a quiet misery to his expression. He looks like a man sitting in the middle of everything he’s supposed to want and not feeling a fucking thing.

The sight knocks the air clean out of my lungs.

Pain and apology and want all tangled up, years of unsaid shit packed into one held stare. It would be easier if he just smirked with a wink and played into the show.

My fingers tense around the glass. I know what jealousy feels like. This is different. This is an old wound yawning open, the ache of rejection, the sting of the fact that he’s still right there and completely out of reach.

For a few seconds, it’s just us.

The women, the music, the laughter, the moans—all of it distorts at the edges. The girls between his legs and on his neck might as well be invisible. His eyes hold mine, and the conversation we’re not having is louder than any shouted argument.

Why did you push me away?