Chapter Seven

One hour later, Eden was packed and prepped to go. I didn’t take her to the elevator; instead, I snuck out while she was in the shower and locked myself in my office.

I couldn’t watch her go. My heart ached at the thought, and to have to witness those sad but beautiful green eyes charging with tears…no, it was better this way.

Better to remember her naked, wrapped in my arms, sweat dotting her forehead, cheeks flushed from the effort of her climax. Her cries of pleasure still echoed in my ears, making me shiver.

I’d have to seal that bedroom door shut to stop myself from going in and rolling in the sheets to imprint her scent on my skin.

Gigi would clean everything up and wipe any trace of Eden—which I knew was for the best.

And yet…I sighed, chin resting on my palms as I stared into space, waiting for Eden to be gone. I’d have preferred to take her to her studio, to make sure she was settled; but it’d be a huge risk.

If we were seen together, outside, after that article…I’d be even more deeply fucked, and I couldn’t afford that.

I did my damndest to concentrate on work, ignoring my phone as it buzzed with more notifications from more websites reporting on me.

All sorts of fake news had spread across the internet. Supposedly I’d done this before, many times, and I tended towards petite blondes and buff brunette men, and I enjoyed grooming them to my pleasure.

The tabloids exploded with random rumors that made no sense. My name and company were trending on most of social media; some headlines were awful, and some not as demeaning as I’d have expected.

I needed to focus, to work on my new clothing lines and get them out in the world fast, before I was broke. The amount of money needed to start hushing all these news outlets would put me out on the street, no doubt.

I hoped Mickey was handling it all, as promised. And I hoped Eve would give me more guidelines on an apology speech. I’d started typing it up, but it reminded me of Eden, and thinking of Eden was currently too painful…

I decided to postpone the speech until a later time, when I was in a better headspace for it.

An hour or so after Eden left, my phone vibrated again, but with a text message, this time.

Pete: Package delivered.

Eden was home. In her real home, not in my massive penthouse where she fell victim to my supposed predatory nature. Not here where I could admire her, desire her, entice her into giving me her body.

Had I enticed her, though? She’d been willing, from the start. The one-night-stand, the employment; she could have walked away when she saw me. Taken off after that famed morning when she arrived here, the portrait of innocence and professionalism.

She could have said no and turned her back, and I’d have never seen her again.

She was within her right to deny the contract, to find a new gig. She had hesitated slightly but seemed up to the task of pretending like we’d never slept together.

Had I corrupted her? Was I the predator everyone claimed I was?

Was I a monster?

I couldn’t sit in my office any longer, glancing at a blank screen that only taunted me to do something stupid.

Something like text Eden or hop into a car and go to her or throw my computer out the window in a rage because I couldn’t do any of those things.

It was too much.

I escaped my office to find a quiet home. If any of my staff-members were here, they’d made themselves scarce. The hallway was dark, and the living room dipped in faint light from the setting sun. Peaceful, silent.

Lonely.

My throat was scratchy, aching for liquid. I meandered to the kitchen, but instead of grabbing a bottle of water or juice—something healthy to quench my thirst—I went straight for the half-finished bottle of rosé sitting in the fridge door shelf.

I didn’t remember where it came from, but it had Eden’s name all over it. I didn’t drink rosé, and Gigi never kept booze in the kitchen; she had her own stash in her room.

Uncorking the bottle, I sniffed at it—no overly alcoholic scent emanated from it, which meant it must have been decent enough, still.

I had plenty of other liqueurs to choose from to drink my sorrows away, but this rosé…it oddly tethered me to Eden. It made me think of her pouring a glass, sipping delicately, smacking her lips in approval.

Those lips—I craved more of them. Had they been on the rim of this bottle? Would she have drunk directly from it?

“Fuck it,” I said, opting to forgo a cup and tip the bottle to my mouth, emptying a large gulp within. “No need to sully any dishes.”

I dragged myself to the sofa, plopping onto it in a way to witness the sun’s disappearance behind the building across from my window. Light began to fade, leaving me in darkness as I lounged and stared, drank, stared, drank, stared.

I associated this view with Eden, too. Like when she’d stood before the window looking out as the city grew darker, shut off by the power-outage. The outline of her body from behind, the gentle curves of her hips and ass; my mouth had watered at the sight.

How badly I’d wanted to sneak up behind her, nestle her in my arms and never let her go. I hadn’t figured it out at the time, but I needed her, likely more than she needed me.

From this vantage point, I might envision her turning around, leaning her back to the window, peering over at me with that look—the I’m pretending so hard not to be horny look she’d given me so many times.

Maybe she had enticed me. She was the predator, but I was in no way a victim. I’d fallen to the floor and shown her my underbelly without so much as a word against her.

I’d do anything for her.

“Fuck.” I took a long swig of the cool, summery wine, the taste lingering on my tongue. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I shifted my gaze to the couch, trying to remove that image of her propped up against the window. The sight of the cushions didn’t help much, because I envisioned her there, instead.

Legs crossed, a glass in one hand, her other shrugging through her beautiful curls, moving them off her face as she babbled on about bucket-lists and dream vacation spots.

We’d talked so much that night. We’d loosened up, let go of everything, revealed parts of ourselves we never should have.

It was that night that my feelings started, I assumed. When I forgot about the restraint I was supposed to harbor, forgot about the dangers that getting close to her brought to my life. Our lives.

She was too hard to resist. Too perfect, a plump, ripe fruit for the taking, her juices pure and delicious and sweetly sticky.

“Shit,” I said, knowing how damp my panties were without even touching myself to check.

If I touched myself now, here, in the dark, alone, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

Of course, more thoughts of Eden poured in. Dreamy thoughts, situations that never happened but that I imagined anyway, getting caught up in fantasies and desires I’d never be able to satisfy.

In my mind, she was at her studio. I didn’t even know what her studio looked like, but here it was small, well-decorated, a vanilla fragrance masking the fried food odors from the apartment next-door.

She’d be on her couch, flipping through TV channels to keep distracted, to avert her thoughts from me. But she’d cave, eventually. Pull up a picture of me, slip her hand down her pants and start caressing herself as the flashing lights from the screen blinked over her face.

She’d squeeze her eyes shut, spread her legs further apart—

I should be there.

I should have been undressing her, lowering between her parted legs to grant her pussy all its feverish wishes, to lap her up like a fruit sorbet on a scalding day.

But I wasn’t there. I was here, picturing her as she probably pictured me: masturbating.

I tipped the bottle to my mouth again, and a few drops flew out, coating my upper lip and chin with booze. As I wiped myself with my fingers, I paused; a certain aroma lingered on my skin, one I hadn’t bothered to wash away, somehow.

Her. Eden’s flavor, her delectable juices from earlier, when she’d come all over my fingers. We’d touched and fucked so many times before finally quitting—after the scissoring, we weren’t yet satisfied—that I’d forgotten.

How could I have forgotten? She’d left her scent on me, leftovers for me to indulge in after she was gone.

I slipped one finger into my mouth, moaning at the remaining taste. Her. Almost as if she were there, as if I were immersing into her slit instead of absorbing the cum she’d lathered onto my fingertips.

I imagined her watching me as I did this. Rolling my finger around my tongue, pressing her flavor into every confine of my mouth, forever.

She’d be lounging opposite me, licking her lips, flicking at her clit as she waited for me to fuck her, for real. Taunting me with her beauty, that slick wetness between her thighs—

“Whoa,” I said, chuckling as I snuck my own hand past my waistband, slithering beyond my underwear and straight into my soaked folds.

Oh, this was bad. It was exactly what I’d wanted to avoid: pleasuring myself to the memory of her. If I made myself come now, it’d only worsen the pain I’d endure later.

She was gone. These fantasies would remain as such—unreal. Unfulfilled.

Realistically speaking, some of that fantasy of her alone at her studio was probable. She was on the sofa, flipping through channels, but not touching herself.

She was crying. Unpacking, glancing at every element in her suitcase as if I’d touched it, tainted it, ruined it for her. Every time she’d look at that one dress or that one pair of panties, she’d recall a moment with me.

I’d destroyed her. I was the predator.

I’d be crying, too, if only I knew how to conjure up a tear. It was so cliché, but true: I hadn’t cried in many, many years. With all the trials I’d been through—those I’d put myself through—I’d learned to protect myself.

I built a facade around my heart, caged in my emotions, and never let them out.

Not even now, when I understood at last that letting Eden go was the hardest and cruelest thing I’d ever done. To her and to myself.

She’d recover, though. Smart and sassy and sexy as she was, she’d find someone new. A new job, a new life, a new boss who wouldn’t masturbate in front of her and forbid her from pleasuring herself.

Who would she choose? I wondered. Now that she’d had a piece of female ass, would she stick to ladies, or go back to dating men? Maybe both? Maybe she’d experiment more, chase that high, get laid as often as possible to not think about—

“No.” I let the bottle drop to the floor as I stood up. The remaining rosé spilled all over, coating the hardwood surface, but I bypassed it, marching up to the window.

I glared outside, as if I could see the sidewalk from this high up. As if one person on that sidewalk was him. Or her.

Eden’s next lover. Eden’s next boyfriend or girlfriend or partner. Her best friend. Her fiancé. And then her—

“No,” I repeated, pounding a fist to the glass. It didn’t even shake at my touch, but I pictured the surface shattering around me, plunging shards into my body.

That was what it felt like to imagine her with someone else. Someone who’d be available to her, legal for her to date. Someone who wouldn’t tease her, dictate her desires. Someone who wouldn’t target her and suck up her innocence second after second, leaving her low and dry.

That was what I’d done to her. I’d corrupted her, tortured her, and then forced her out with a kick to the ass.

No, she wasn’t crying. She was screaming, throwing darts at a portrait of me, cursing my name.

I’d ruined her life, made her develop feelings for me. Then I’d ripped the rug from under her and her entire body was sore. Her brain throbbed, her heart was broken.

My heart was broken.

She deserved a happy ending. She deserved love and pleasure and the world delivered to her feet.

But I wanted to give her the happy ending, the world, the love, the pleasure. And any inkling that someone else might do so in my place…

My fists bunched again, and I knew this time I had to break something. That physical need of hurting something, watching it explode into pieces, was the only way I’d get satisfaction.

I wasn’t violent, not normally. But these thoughts put me on a path of destruction I had no means to prevent.

Eden was mine.

But I couldn’t have her.

I stomped away from the window, finding the first cabinet I could, to pull dishes and glasses out.

I threw them. Against the couch, against the barstools, against the fridge. I picked up the wine bottle, feet diving into the puddle of rosé on the floor; I hurled it at the coffee-table.

Glass flew everywhere, and I sensed a few pieces lodging into my skin, but I didn’t care.

I wouldn’t quit until every ounce of possessive anger had departed my bloodstream.

I smashed priceless vases I’d once asked my staff to never touch. Kicked at potted plants and reveled in the dirt gushing out, covering the floor like spilled blood. I hauled cushions across the room, smashing into paintings and sculptures that wobbled, fell, burst.

All these treasures I’d loved; evaporated, turned to dust as I released my rage, my sorrow at losing Eden.

Then I sat on the ground in the middle of the mess I’d created and cackled.

This was my life. Chaos, disorganization. Unhinged behaviors, alcoholism, and pain.

And it was my fault.

I never should have fallen for Eden.