Page 22 of Unleashed By Eden

“Great show,” Xander says, nudging me.

I nod. “Felt good to be back.” Together, we head toward the backstage VIP room, Dave trailing us like a shadow. I pretend he’s not there, like I’ve been told to do.

Theo kicks the door open and bellows, “Let’s fucking go.” He rips his sweat-soaked shirt right down the middle in a low-rent Hulk Hogan impression.

The answering screams and catcalls from the half-naked women make me chuckle. Security brought in the groupies five minutes before we came off the stage, same as always. They’re already loosened up, giggling, sliding off heels and dresses as we spill in.

Dave hangs back with his camera, and I swing the door shut in his face.

Theo drops onto a couch, hauls a topless girl onto his lap, and buries his face in her tits, sucking on a nipple. She squeals and arches.

He’s an absolute animal when he comes offstage. We all are. The adrenaline flowing through our veins needs an outlet, and pussy is the best way to relieve the itch under the skin. Sinking balls deep into a warm, wet cunt or mouth after walking offstage is nirvana.

Next to Theo, Kai grabs a bottle of scotch, tips his head back, and guzzles. He pats the space on the couch between his spread knees, and a girl drops to the floor immediately. His zipper is down before the bottle lowers from his mouth.

Xander slings a naked girl over his shoulder, dumps her face-down on the low table, and lines up a bump along the curve of her ass. He snorts it off her with a low groan, then cuts another line and offers me the tightly rolled hundred.

I palm her ass, lean down, and take it. The burn in my nostril hits first, then the numbness crawling over my teeth.

Grabbing a bottle of bourbon, I flop onto a couch of my own, and almost immediately, there are two girls plastered to my sides, their hands roaming over sweat, ink, and muscle. I absolutely reek, but these chicks don’t give a fuck. To them, this night is the story they’ll tell for the rest of their lives: the night they fucked Carter Ashford from Pulse.

They serve a purpose, get the job done. They take the sharpness off that prickle under my skin, use up the leftover charge. But I’ve seen this movie too many times, and I’m bored shitless of it.

It’s fucked that the only place I ever really let go is Eden. I’ve got money, fame, whatever power is supposed to buy you, and I still can’t live or fuck the way I actually want to without wondering who’s got their phone out and which tabloid is going to pay the most for their shitty footage.

I take a long pull from the bottle, swallow the burn.

“Open up, baby,” I murmur, tipping some bourbon into the mouth of the girl on my right. It drips down her chin. I chase a line of it with my tongue, down her throat to the swell of her breasts. She giggles, high and squeaky. And it’s all wrong. Because all I want to hear is Vi’s thready chuckle again.

“Good start to the tour,” Liam says from somewhere above me.

“Excellent start, felt amazing to be back onstage,” I reply, muffled by the girl’s chest, then slant my head to look at him.

My vision blurs for half a second, and I blink it away.

“Did you see Violet after the show?” I ask.

“No. Why?” He narrows his eyes.

I slap the girl on my left lightly on the ass. “Come on, get up and on my dick, baby.”

She hikes her skirt up, unbuckles my jeans, and helps shove them down to my ankles. After ripping open a condom with her teeth, she rolls it on and sinks onto me with a moan.

Ahh, that’s it.

She starts to move, slow at first, then bouncing, finding a rhythm. The second girl latches onto my neck, mouthing along my pulse. A third suddenly appears, sliding to her knees between my legs, her fingers curling under my squashed balls while her tongue flicks against the sensitive skin.

Liam stands there, watching with detachment. He’s seen it all before.

“Did you know about Vi?” I ask, biting back a groan as the girl on my lap picks up pace.

“I only found out when we landed in Sydney,” he says, crossing his arms. “Stay away from Violet. And while you’re at it, no fucking the crew either, Carter. I’m serious.” He jerks his chin in the vague direction of backstage. “Not even Miss Producer. I saw the way she was eye-fucking you.”

I ignore the lecture and take another swig from the bottle instead, letting the bourbon chase the coke through my system. A quick, mean stab of pain pierces my gut, and I breathe through it until it eases.

“Wheels up at seven,” Liam reminds me, backing toward the door. “Don’t be late.”

I throw him a lazy salute with one hand, my other digging into the girl’s hips as she rides me harder.