Those Chunky Eden Has Let Herself Go headlines didn’t feel good, no matter how long I’d been in the press.
Probably why I’d given into my attraction to Damon in the first place.
The lovely gossip sheets yesterday speculating how far along I was.
Sigh.
Sometimes I hated this industry.
And the rest of the time I smacked myself out of this funk because I was really lucky to be in my position, that I’d gone from an obscure girl on a street corner approached by a model scout to one of the top models in the industry. Then, thanks to Pierce and Artie, I’d had my big break with Carrot.
So, there it was. I was one of the select few to successfully make the crossover from model to actor.
Go me.
That didn’t change the fact that now I’d fucked the one person I’d made a promise to myself never to sleep with.
Damon Garcia was handsome and talented and funny and . . . he got me. All of which might be great things, except for the fact that getting me also meant that I had gotten attached and I couldn’t afford to be. We had to go back to being just friends. We had to—
“Shit,” I muttered, knowing my inner pleading was the great sex equivalent of Pandora’s box. That lid was open now, and I knew all about what was inside.
Or rather, I now knew all about those hard, yummy inches and how they felt inside me.
Mistake. It had been a mistake.
But could something that felt as good as my night in bed with Damon really be bad?
Yes.
Of course, it was.
I’d promised myself that I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to get attached.
Not ever again.
I reached for my toothbrush and glared at myself in the mirror. “This was a mistake, Eden. You have got to get your shit together. Shower. Get him out of here, and then go back to your life—”
“Was it really that bad?”
I froze, Damon’s voice drifting down my spine.
Fuck, I’d always loved his voice, especially when it was like that. Warm and soft, but almost predatory.
It had made my thighs clench when he’d discussed the shot list with me during our first photoshoot together all those years ago, and it still made them tense now, though the pleasure was tinged with panic.
I didn’t sleep with men I liked. I couldn’t afford to.
The toothbrush hit the counter with a clink, and I girded my loins as I spun to face him.
Not that it mattered. Despite the girding, heat still flooded my insides.
Only now it was worse.
Because I knew how good it could be.
Caramel skin, chocolate eyes, strong jaw, dark hair, and enough stubble on his cheeks to remind me with a shiver of how good that stubble had felt rubbing against my thighs.
“You need to go,” I blurted.
In answer, he leaned back against the doorframe and loosely crossed his arms. “Eden, honey.”
Honey down my spine.
Just like the first shoot we’d done together when he’d taken it from his assistant and poured it all over my body, dripping it this way and that until he’d gotten exactly the look he’d been going for.
The resulting photographs, me covered in the sticky stuff, glistening droplets down my skin, my body clad only in a silver bikini had, without a doubt, been the item I’d autographed the most over the years.
This will be many a teenage boy’s spank bank material, Damon had teased.
He was probably right.
But he’d also made me see myself differently with that shoot.
I’d never felt sexy, or as fodder for someone’s self-pleasure. I didn’t doubt I was okay-looking, though more cute than sexy for sure, but those photographs had . . . well, I’d seen how I could be transformed.
And it had given me the confidence to pursue acting.
If I could transform into a sex kitten with just a silver bikini and a few jars of honey, then maybe I could transform in other ways, too. But it wasn’t just being sexy, though that had definitely given me more confidence. It was that I could be seen as something more than just the superficial.
Which is why he’d also told me, And when the important ones—the ones who can look past the bikini and honey—see this . . . well, your calendar is going to explode, sweetheart.
He’d been right. My offers following that shoot had gotten bigger and bigger, until I’d been transformed from mid-list to one of the most well-known models in the world.
But transformations didn’t help me now.
Because Damon was there and awake and . . . still naked, unabashedly leaning back against the door. It should have been kind of icky. I mean, penises weren’t the most attractive body part to just be so casually on display.
But Damon’s penis?
Yeah, I could stare at it all day.
Which I was doing. Right at that moment, watching it lengthen and harden beneath my gaze, remembering how it had felt in my mouth, how it had tasted as I’d sucked him deep, how he’d pulsed between my lips, his fingers sliding into my hair and—
Damon cleared his throat and my eyes shot to his.
His lips curved. “Morning, baby.”
I whirled around, released a shaky breath. “Y-you should g-go.”
Silence.
Then, “I ordered breakfast,” he announced, ignoring my statement. “I hope you still like French toast.” His words had gotten louder as he’d closed the distance between us, and I felt the heat of his body hit my spine. But he didn’t touch me—though if I were being honest, I was almost desperate for the contact.
Fear locked my spine.
I couldn’t want him.
Correction: I couldn’t still want him.
That wasn’t what I did anymore. Second dates weren’t required. I didn’t form lasting relationships with my lovers. One night and I was done.
And I’d never had an issue with that.
But Damon?
There was a reason I’d never slept with him before.
Fuck.
I was going around in circles
