Page 6

6

EDEN

I want more. Need more. Remy’s mouth on my neck, his fingers tracing my hips, my thighs—an electric rush with every gentle caress. I tilt my head back, baring my throat, groaning when the pad of his thumb finds my pulse point.

He murmurs my name, the sound thick and raw.

His skin is warm against mine, his breath hot on my skin. Every fiber of my being is attuned to him. My nails dig into his shoulders. He hisses in response, grasping my hips, his mouth covering mine in a searing kiss.

Hunger coils tight and low in my belly, a delicious ache that threatens to undo me. I want to brand him as mine, to imprint myself on his skin and know he’s feeling this, too.

Heat coiling within me, a slow burn, intense and wild, threatening to consume everything in its path. I move against him, wrapping my legs around his waist, feeling the tension in his body.

“Eden,” he groans.

His eyes burn with a fierce need before he crushes his mouth to mine. His hands slip lower, his fingertips trailing a path of fire as they dip beneath the fabric of my shirt. I pant against his lips, feeling his tongue against mine, eliciting a sensation shooting sparks straight to my pussy. His hands—so strong and skilled—know exactly where to touch and how to unravel me.

His teeth scrape my shoulder and jaw as his lips trail kisses along my neck. I’m putty in his hands—molded, shaped by his expert touch. The pleasure and hunger are overwhelming, driving away every thought but this. Want. Need. Desire.

It’s a storm inside me, and still, it’s not enough.

I wake with a start.

My heart is pounding, and my body feels heavy and warm in a way that makes me ache. My cheeks flush as I realize what—or rather, who—I’ve been dreaming about.

It was so real. I glance at the empty space beside me, half-expecting to see him there.

Remy.

I haven’t been able to get him out of my head. Not since I saw him fixing the fencing at the carnival, his powerful physique moving with effortless grace. A shiver runs through me as I recall the fantasies about him I’ve been spinning in my mind and in my journal. Now, it’s spilled over into my dreams.

Alone in my motel room, I curl my hands into fists. The fantasy is so vivid and so intense that it almost scares me. My fingers slide under the sheets, and my skin is hypersensitive and aching for release.

Remy’s face is burned into my memory, his name a mantra on my lips.

I force myself out of bed, my skin tingling from the dream. The clock reads four a.m.—too early for any sane person to be up, but I’ve never claimed to be sane.

I pull on a black jersey dress. The outfit will help me blend into shadows, perfect for what I’m about to do.

The drive to the carnival takes forever, each minute stretching like taffy. I park far enough away that the sound won’t be heard, killing the engine and sitting in darkness. Dawn hasn’t broken yet—the carnival is dead quiet, rides looming like sleeping giants against the star-speckled sky.

I know his schedule now. Remy starts work early, before anyone else. He checks the perimeter, tests the fence posts, and makes repairs where needed. My heart races as I slip from shadow to shadow, finding my hidden spot behind an old storage container.

The metal is cold against my back as I wait, camera ready in my eager hands. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t professional. This isn’t research, but I can’t stay away—the pull is magnetic.

The crunch of gravel signals his arrival. My breath catches as Remy’s figure emerges from the pre-dawn shadows. My camera quietly clicks, capturing his powerful frame as he tests each fence post.

Even from this distance, I can see the flex of his muscles beneath his shirt and the graceful way he moves despite his size. Another photo catches the sharp angle of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes as he examines a loose section.

I shift position, seeking a better angle. The metal container digs into my back, but I barely notice. All my focus narrows to him. Click. The morning light catches his profile. Click. His hands grip the metal post. Click. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck.

My collection grows with each passing second. These will join the others—hundreds of shots capturing every aspect of him. At the motel, they cover my walls in a twisted shrine of obsession. I know the exact shade of his skin in different lights, how his shoulders tense before he lifts something heavy, and how his dark eyes scan his surroundings with predatory awareness.

He pauses at the next section, and I hold my breath. His head tilts slightly, nostrils flaring like he can sense something—someone—me. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he must hear it, but he continues his inspection, and I exhale slowly, carefully.

The need to watch him, to capture these private moments, overwhelms my rational mind. Each photo feels like possessing a piece of him. I snap another as he bends to secure a loose wire.

These moments are mine. My secret. My obsession. Every detail feeds the growing hunger inside me—a hunger that’s far from professional curiosity. I want to know everything about him. Every habit, every expression, every dark thought behind those intense brown eyes.

I wait until I’m certain Remy is busy with the fence inspection before slipping toward his trailer. Adrenaline floods my veins as I pick the lock—a skill learned from years of “research” for my podcast. The door creaks open and I slide inside, heart thundering.

His scent hits me first—a mix of cedar and a musk unique to him, making my knees weak. The trailer is sparsely furnished but meticulously organized. Everything has its place. I run my fingers along his dresser, imagining his hands touching these surfaces.

My gaze falls on his laundry hamper in the corner. Pulse racing, I lift the lid—on top lies a pair of dark boxer briefs. I lift them with trembling fingers, bringing them to my face. His scent is stronger, more potent. A soft moan escapes my lips as I imagine him peeling them off his powerful body.

I want to see all of him, taste him, and watch his face as pleasure overtakes him. The intensity of my craving for him should frighten me. Instead, it feeds the depravity I try so hard to hide.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel outside. I freeze, clutching his underwear, heart in my throat. They pass by. Still, I need to leave before I push my luck too far. I carefully put everything back exactly as I found it, erasing all traces of my presence.

My breath is shallow as I scan his space, my heart pounding like a snare drum. I’m dying for more, hungry to glimpse his private thoughts. Then I spot it; Remy’s laptop, open on the small table.

Hesitation wars with obsession. I bite my lip, glancing toward the door. Remy could return anytime, but I can’t waste this opportunity.

I approach the table slowly and run my fingers over the laptop, surprised when it springs to life. A rush of adrenaline courses through my veins as I realize it’s not password-protected. My own laptop is protected with a fingerprint ID and a complicated password. At the same time, this one contains heaven knows what for my eyes to devour.

My gaze scans the desktop, taking in the neat arrangement of files. My pulse races as I spot a folder simply labeled “Selfies.” My eyes widen, and my breath hitches.

Selfies?

He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to snap selfies.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t help but lean forward, my fingers poised over the touchpad. With one swipe, the folder opens, revealing a small collection of files.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. But then, it hits me like a jolt of electricity. I’m staring at a series of dick pics. Intimate, explicit photos of Remy naked. My mouth goes dry as my eyes widen, drinking in the sight. Click. My camera captures the images. Click, click.

I can’t stop myself from scrolling through them, my breath catching in my throat. His body is as powerful as I imagined and covered in tattoos, every muscle and angle perfectly defined. I imagine my own hands on him, my lips, my tongue. The fantasy overwhelms me, and without thinking, I reach down, desperate for release.

I close my eyes, my fingers moving of their own volition as I pull off my panties, placing them on the desk.

How would it feel to have him touch me? Kiss me? Pleasure me?

My arousal is instant and overwhelming. I bite my lip to stifle a moan as I picture his mouth on my neck, trailing lower, his skilled hands branding me as his own.

My imagination takes over, and my fantasies become more daring. It doesn’t take long for the tension to build; my breath turns labored as my fingers move faster, and my need becomes urgent.

I let out a low, throaty moan, unable to hold it back any longer. The sound surprises me because it’s shaky and has a raspy edge. The fantasy is too much, too good, and I quickly spiral into oblivion. My body shudders in release, but still, I don’t stop.

I open my eyes, needing to see him, needing more. My fingers linger on the screen, touching the image of his thick, engorged cock, imagining the weight of it against my tongue. I want to make him lose control, and I need to see him fall apart.

The fantasy takes on a life of its own, fueling my actions. The sensations intensify, coiling tighter and tighter until I break apart again, my breathless cry echoing through the quiet trailer. It takes a moment to realize I’ve shouted his name, and I immediately clamp my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide as my dress falls back over my lower half.

My heart is pounding, my body weak and satiated, but even as guilt threatens to wash over me, I can’t stop staring at the photos.

I can’t even remember how to breathe. I’m so transfixed by the photos that I barely register the soft chime from his laptop, indicating a new message has arrived.

My eyes jerk to the chat box as it happens. Three little words appear in the inbox. “Hey, big boy.”

Big boy.

My stomach twists, a bitter taste filling my mouth. My eyes scan the chat log, a back-and-forth conversation between Remy and whoever the hell “Baby Girl” is. I don’t catch every detail, my vision narrowing to tunnel vision as the jealousy takes hold.

She talks about meeting up, wanting to be filled and fucked by him. My Remy. He responds with the exact tone of dirty talk, sending me into a tailspin.

Why would he share these photos with her?

I feel the burn of betrayal. How could he be doing this? And why haven’t I heard about this “Baby Girl” in my research? I’m missing something—someone. I scroll frantically through the rest of the chat, desperate for more information.

But Remy’s laptop suddenly shuts off. The screen goes black, and the chat log disappears from view. I grip the sides of the table, panic setting in.

Has he turned it off remotely?

My mind races, trying to figure out how that’s possible when I hear movement outside.

I don’t bother with subtlety now. I rush to the door. My only goal is to get out unseen.

I slip out of Remy’s trailer unnoticed, adrenaline flooding my veins as I move through the carnival grounds. The early morning light is just starting to break, casting shadows across the empty paths. I stick to the darkest areas, blending into the background as I move swiftly towards the exit.

It’s not until I’m safely in my car, driving away from the carnival, that what just happened hits me. I left my panties in Remy’s trailer. In my rush to escape, I completely forgot about them. They’re sitting there on his desk, a damning piece of evidence that I was snooping through his private space.

Panic rises in my throat as I imagine Remy finding them.

What will he think? Will he know it was me?

Of course, he will. Who else would be brazen enough to break into his trailer and leave behind such an intimate item?

My mind races with possibilities. Remy may be flattered and intrigued by my bold move, or he might be angry and feel violated.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to steady my breathing. I need to focus on the road, on getting as far away from the carnival as possible, but I can’t stop thinking about those panties.

They’re a physical manifestation of my obsession—one I’ve been trying hard to keep hidden. Now they’re out there, waiting for Remy to find them.

I don’t know what I’ll say when that happens. How do you explain breaking into someone’s home and leaving behind such an intimate item? How do you justify that level of obsession?