Page 72 of Scoring Eden

I leap from the sofa like the cream cushions have burned me and declare that I need a shower. Eden’s confused stare is hot on my back as I sprint through my bedroom to the bathroom. I don’t even grab clothes on my way. Just drop my pants, turn on the water, and jerk my dick until I’ve painted the shower glass white.

And still, I feel little satisfaction.

Never, in all my almost thirty years of life have I wanted to fuck a woman so badly. It doesn’t make any sense. You might assume, given my prolific sexual history, that my past hook-ups transpired due to an overactive sex drive and an excess of testosterone.

Truthfully, Dr. Sharma wasn’t entirely off base in her theory that I pursued casual sex as a means of distracting myself from my inherent, bone-deep loneliness.

It was never because I was so horny that I needed a release.

What I needed was relief.

Relief from the pain of my past and the darkness of my own self-imposed isolation.

But this…this unrelenting, incessant desire I have for Eden is something entirely different. It’s like I need to know what it’s like to touch her body, to hold her, to kiss her in a way that isn’t designed for the eyes of other people. I want to feel her melt into me, not because we’re being watched, but because she simply can’t help herself.

I want it messy.

I want it to be real.

And it’s scaring the ever-loving fuck out of me.

When I finally materialize from the shower, dressed in a Henley and a pair of track pants, I can hear Aspen’s voice booming down the hallway.

“You know what I find unfair?” she’s saying as I step back into the living area. “Your namesake is a biblical paradise. I’m named after a ski resort.”

Macon looks up at her from the rug, where he’s building a Lego Ninjago I bought for him a few days ago. “At least your name doesn’t rhyme with bacon.”

“Hey.” Eden gapes at him, affronted. “Macon is a cool name. You should be glad you didn’t end up with what your dad wanted to call you.”

“What was that?”

“Bartholomew.”

Macon pulls a face of utter disgust. “Macon is fine, then, I guess.”

I snort a laugh at the topic of conversation, and three sets of eyes snap to mine. My gaze, however, only zeroes in on one.

Eden must have changed in the time I was in the shower. Dressed now in a pair of light-wash jeans with tiny, embroidered love hearts and a pastel-pink cardigan, she looks adorable but no less hot than she did before.

Her sister may love to poke fun at her cardigans, but they’ve always looked great on her. Everything does. Even when her clothes were worn and tired, Eden has always been stunning.

I’m glad she only updated her style when she went shopping with Aspen, not changed it completely. Everything she wears now is still her. It’s a fact that makes me happy, because I never once believed she needed to change herself to be with me.

I’m staring again.

Darting my gaze away to Aspen, I find her wearing a checkerboard skirt that she’s matched with a technicolor sweater and bright-pink cowboy boots. Her hair is in space buns on either side of her head, and her lipstick is an obtrusive shade of violet.

Both women may have been born from the same parents, but they couldn’t be more different.

“Nice place you’ve got yourself, Alex,” Aspen says with a wry smile, sipping from a long-stemmed glass of red wine that l imagine she’s pilfered from my collection. “Did you pick the color scheme to match your soul?”

I shake my head, flicking on the lamp. The sun has started to wane, the sky glowing lilac through the windows. “No, actually, I picked it to match yours.”

She howls a laugh. The woman sounds like a damn coyote. “Oh, please. You’re just jealous of my zest and whimsy.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?”She gestures down at herself. “I have so much zest I’m practically a lemon.”

“You’re a threat to society.”