Eden
Just to get him alone again… just to sink back into pleasure…
Our sex goes over and over in my mind as I search the party for Nat. I keep thinking about how he pushed me forward, about how he made me beg, and about how much I loved it when he made me beg. I think about the conversations we’ve shared and the way he’s changed me—and yet still allowed me to retain who I am. I think about wolfish eyes and the way he handles me when he’s horny: like he owns me. And you like you be owned, don’t you? That’s part of the fun.
My boyfriends before Maddox – and I guess he is kind of my boyfriend – were quick, stunted affairs. One was a painter, another a weight lifter, another an accountant. But no matter what their job was, the same problem always came up: boredom. Perhaps it’s a strange thing for a feminist to say, but they were always too nice, too timid, and too polite. They would never have pushed me into a gazebo and pulled my underwear down. Most of them asked my permission before leaning in for a kiss.
Still, I’ve never gone for the bad boy before Maddox. Even though all my boyfriends have been wet blankets. But I’ve never had a chance with a bad boy like Maddox.
I stop at the edge of the room as the billionaire gives his speech, sipping my champagne, reflecting, remembering, and scanning the room for Nat. The room is overflowing and finding a single person is difficult. I can’t even see Maddox.
And he is a bad boy. There’s no denying that, is there? He is definitely a bad boy!
I still find myself shocked that I’m with him. That I’ve slept with him. That we fuck and talk. It’s still strange to me, in the way that any unusual turn of events becomes both normal and strange over time. When I’m with him, it feels like the most natural thing I could do. When we’re apart, I’m shocked all over again. Eden Chase with a bad boy, Eden Chase with an outlaw, Eden Chase with a cocky, arrogant biker!
Mason talks for a few minutes, and then he limps down the stairs. The party reignites. The guests laugh, shout, dance, and drink. The band plays. Waiters and waitresses circulate. I look across the room one more time for Nat, but I still can’t see her. Probably run off with Markus, I think, because I can’t see the big guy, either.
So I shift through the party, sliding between groups of guests, and then head for the staircase, for the computer room, the flash drive pressing into my cleavage.
***
No room in this mansion is small, but if there were a contender for a small room, it would be this. It’s about the size of my apartment living room, a cubbyhole compared to the epic scale of the rest of the place. On the far end is a desk, with a computer screen, a mouse, and a keyboard. The tower rests underneath the desk. The walls display abstract art, for which the billionaire clearly has a taste. Otherwise, it is bare. The computer hums. The tower is on, but the screen is off, blank.
I lean down, take the flash drive from my bra, and slide it into the PC tower. Then I lean back up and press the button on the monitor—
What the fuck!
The screensaver is on display, and the screensaver makes my head ache. I close my eyes, bring my hands to my temples and rub, and then open my eyes again. No change. I tap my fingernails against the desk, grind my teeth, and stare at the screensaver. It’s not on a slideshow: just that one photograph. Surely he knew what the screensaver was? I think, anger growing. Surely he knew, otherwise, why send me specifically up here? He was determined to get me into this specific room, wasn’t he?
Bile rises in my throat. Don’t be silly. You’re not going to vomit.
But it rises and rises, and I panic. Heart pounding, head aching, I spring from the chair and sprint from the room, stumble down the hallway and fall into the bathroom. I stumble to the toilet and kneel down; vomiting violently into the bowl, telling myself all the while that it’s the champagne. I’m not this dramatic. I’m not this reliant on a man. I don’t care that much, do I? But he wanted me to see it, I think, and fresh sickness makes my body contort.
Get a hold of yourself, Eden! I snap in my head. Get a goddamn hold on yourself! You’re not some weak-willed woman, are you? Come on!
I take a deep breath and stand up, take some toilet tissue and wipe my lips. Then I lean down in the sink and turn on the tap, sipping the water.
I keep telling myself that I’m not the sort who overreacts to something like this, but perhaps it’s all the worse because of that. I have never before opened myself to somebody, never before let in a man more than an inch. And when I do, he—
He what? Plays some kind of sick trick on me! This computer terminal, specifically!
I return to the room and walk to the desk, grinding my teeth, but otherwise under control. Come on, stop it!
But when I look at the picture again, I go cold.
It’s a photograph taken on the beach in daylight. Maddox is on his back, and the woman sits on top of him. They are kissing passionately, Maddox’s hand on the woman’s ass, grabbing the flesh. The woman’s hair is a different color, but her build is the same, and I recognize her instantly.
She’s the billionaire’s girlfriend, the hourglass woman.