Some might call those subjects nobodies, but those so-called nobodies were so much more open than a PR-represented, agented celebrity. Or if they weren’t open, they usually had more time in front of the lens to peel back the layers.
Eden hadn’t fit into either of those categories when I’d first met her.
She’d been a successful model, not world-renowned like after the photographs had hit, but those photos had also catapulted me onto a whole other tier along with her. Still, while she’d been in the industry and knew how shoots worked and what was expected, she’d also been . . . open.
Her pain, her vulnerability, her insecurities had shown through her eyes, had bled right over into the photographs.
And it had transformed that silver bikini and honey photo—as we’d been ordered to undertake by the male magazine, neither of us having the clout or funds to turn down such a big job—from just sexy and superficial into something more.
More because it wasn’t just teenage boys who’d love it (though they definitely had). More because it was also appreciated by housewives and feminists.
Because it wasn’t just sex.
It was more.
Just like she was.
Sighing, I set the bag on Eden’s kitchen table and began unpacking the contents. She might not think she was worth more than just sex, but I knew differently. She deserved to be seen for all those things that were present in the photo—vulnerable, but strong; insecure, but pushing through; sexy, but because she was finding it for herself.
Eden was all of those things.
So, I wasn’t giving up on her.
Nope. She’d opened the door. Perhaps it was just barely ajar, but I was going to shove my foot into that gap, and I was going to keep nudging it open, until that sliver was pushed wide.
I was in.
I wasn’t going anywhere.
Soft footsteps down the hall told me that she was approaching, but I pretended not to hear, just continued unpacking the food, opening the containers, setting the silverware on napkins next to them.
Only then did I turn and smile at her. “Hey, sweetheart.”
Green eyes went wide, lush pink lips parted. “I— You . . . sh-should—”
I plunked my ass into the seat and started eating the omelet I’d ordered.
Silence.
“Come and eat,” I said around a mouthful of eggs, bacon, and cheese. “Before it gets cold.”
My gaze flicked up, saw she hadn’t moved.
Stubborn.
I forced my lips not to curve up then reached for her food. “Oh? Not hungry? I’ll just have to eat this French toast—”
She crossed the room quickly, tugging the takeout box from my hands and glaring at me. “Mine,” she muttered and lifted it up, inhaling deeply and releasing a soft moan that had my cock twitching.
I’d heard that moan plenty the night before.
Her eyes shot to mine. “Damon—”
“Sit,” I ordered. “Eat.”
It was almost comical, watching the debate on her face, her desire to put distance between us, to shove me away, warring with her need for sugar-covered carbs.
Thankfully, after knowing her for so long, I understood her weaknesses.
And sugar was one.
Breakfast foods were the other—in particular order, French toast, waffles with strawberries and cream, and blueberry pancakes. The rest were good, but carbs were where it was at—and I was quoting her directly here.
Eventually, she sat . . . in the chair the absolute furthest away from me.
No matter.
I stood, grabbed my food, and brought it to the one next to hers, half-surprised when she didn’t stand and move in turn, spurring us into a leapfrog of chairs and takeout containers.
I was game.
She was more mature.
She just sighed softly, picked up her fork, and started eating.
Another moan, another cock twitch. And really, my cock shouldn’t be capable of twitching. It should be completely out of commission after the previous eighteen hours. I’d come four times, trying to make the most of my time, trying to orgasm the fear and distance out of Eden.
Based on our little dance right now, I hadn’t succeeded.
Though, I did take a little comfort in the fact that she was uncomfortable. Probably made me a dick, but discomfort was at least an emotion.
It wasn’t cutting me off or shutting me out completely.
That little sliver was still open.
I could still keep pressing forward.
“Here,” I murmured, picking up a container of syrup and opening it for her when she seemed to be looking around for one.
Eden froze then reached out and took it from me, careful to keep our fingers from brushing.
No matter. That was something, too.
Not distant. Not unaffected.
I waited until she had a bite of her breakfast an inch from her lips before asking, “So, was I that bad of a fuck?”
She inhaled rapidly, sucking in a puff of powdered sugar then immediately began coughing. Fuck. Reaching over, I patted her back. The wrong thing to do in this situation—the patting, and in fairness, probably the words, too. I’d been trying to shock her. On the other hand, I wasn’t trying to kill her.
“Arms up,” I said, taking the fork from her hand and setting it in the container, helping her lift them overhead. My sister, Cindy, who was an EMT, had taught me that trick, and it worked by allowing a bit more air into the lungs, though it wouldn’t do anything if Eden was actually choking.
Thankfully, in this case, it was just a short burst of coughing.
Then she was able to suck in a deep breath and reach for her napkin.
She wiped her lips, slowed her breathing. I popped up, searched her cabinets until I’d found a glass and filled it with water, then brought it back to her.
“Thanks,” she croaked, taking it and guzzling down a long sip.
I smiled and it was chagrined. “Sorry for nearly killing you.”
Green eyes flicked to mine, narrowed.
“Not sorry for last night though.”
Alarm swept across her face. “Dam—”
“Carbs,” I interrupted. “Eat them.”
She glanced from the food to me. “I—”
“Sugar and syrup and carby deliciousness,” I coaxed.
A sigh, but she picked up her fork and started shoveling food into her mouth. I abandoned my omelet and started in on the potatoes before getting up and pouring myself a glass of water. Then I sat down next to Eden and watched her polish off an almost obscenely large amount of French toast without skipping a beat.
She kept her eyes down and pounded that food like a soldier hurrying through chow time. Efficient, quick, impressive.
But then again, Eden did love her carbs.
And probably also loved avoiding just this kind of interaction that I’d engineered. Tough. She was going to have to deal with me. I could match her in stubbornness and she liked me, I knew it—
You’re delusional, bro.
Why was it that every time I had an inner thought that wasn’t positive, it came in the sound of my sister’s voice?
Probably because Colleen was . . . persistent.
Well, fine. I didn’t have much choice if Eden really did kick me out, but I did have an opportunity in front of me, one that could prove to her we were good together. People weren’t friends for six years without building trust and a rapport, and people certainly didn’t have as much chemistry between the sheets as we’d had without exploring it more than once.