Page 107 of Unleashed By Eden

The pleasure detonates through my body. My back arches as the orgasm tears through me, my whole body locking up as a cry rips free. Carter slips his fingers from my mouth and wraps a hand loosely around my throat, grounding me. Holding me.

He moves the wand away and I drag in a ragged breath.

“Count for me,” he murmurs.

“One,” I gasp.

He shifts his legs wider, spreading me open even more.

The wand returns.

My body reacts instantly—tightening, shaking—and I’m thrown straight back over the edge before I can even brace for it. The second orgasm crashes through me, hotter and sharper than the first.

“Two,” I wheeze, barely managing the word.

There’s no pause this time.

The buzzing returns again.

I’m so sensitive even the faintest touch would be too much—but the wand hits and the pleasure explodes through me in a blinding rush.

My body jerks violently. I soak the wand, and the sheets beneath me.

“Atta girl,” he whispers proudly against my ear.

“Three,” I slur weakly, eyelids fluttering.

“You did good, Storm.” His hand slides soothingly over my stomach. “Rest. Although we’re going to have to work on that stamina,” he adds. “Next time I want six.”

My eyes close.

The last thing I hear is the quiet hum of the wand shutting off before sleep drags me under.

Chapter thirty

Violet

LA is a relentless bitch.

We step off the plane and she’s already got her claws into Carter. He’s engulfed by security, handlers, and a studio rep with a clipboard. In under three seconds, he’s being hustled into a private tunnel, before I can even get a chance to say goodbye or good luck.

That’s pretty much the next three days.

A blur of schedules and cameras, with Carter drifting in and out of my orbit. He slips into bed sometime between two and four every morning, exhausted, smelling like sweat and cologne. I barely stir before sneaking out at dawn, letting him sleep because I know he desperately needs it.

The only time I see him—really see him—is through my lens.

Through my viewfinder, I steal tiny fragments: the glaze of exhaustion over his eyes between flashes, his mouth kicking up at something Kai says, the momentary blankness when he forgets he’s “on.” Little private Carters, flattened into pixels. Heaven and torture rolled into one.

But I don’t have time to dwell on it.

LA is an engine, and Chris runs it with efficiency. Every minute is blocked out, color-coded, and cross-checked. Photoshoots. Radio. TV. Label meetings. If there’s a corner of this city they haven’t dragged these boys into, I haven’t seen it.

I finally understand why they hate this part. The stage is their high. This is . . . the invoice.

The press conference is a whole other circus.

The ballroom is packed with row upon row of journalists. Lights blaze from above, hot enough to melt skin. The guys sit shoulder to shoulder on a narrow platform, a Pulse-branded media wall behind them, and a line of microphones in front.