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Finally, she nods. “Stay.”
And I know instantly why she phrased it that way. Not “you can stay” or “you should stay.” But she said it as an order. Because she knows there’s not an order from her I won’t obey.
I march through the club, already loosening my tie as I bang my fist on the door of Eden’s room. My palms are itching with need. It’s been a very long four days since I’ve been here.
She opens her door, and her expression falls as soon as she sees my face. Or rather, my state.
My hair is disheveled, not in its usual slicked-back style. My eyes are swollen from crying, and there are heavy bags hanging beneath them.
“Clay,” she says, reaching for me.
“Can we skip the formalities today?” I ask as I storm into the room and tear off my jacket and tie.
“Is everything okay?” She’s hovering near me, but instead of kissing me and tearing off her clothes like she should be, she’s touching my shoulder and trying to make eye contact with me.
“It’s fine. I just missed you,” I say frantically as I wrap an arm around her waist and haul her body to mine, kissing her lips like it’s the first gulp of fresh air I’ve breathed in days.
When I reach for the clasp of her bra, she pulls away. “Slow down. Let’s talk.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I snap. “I want to fuck.”
“What happened on your trip? Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks. Her brows are folded inward, and her mouth is set in a frown. She’s concerned for me.
I should love that. The attention and consideration I receive from Eden should right all the wrongs I’m currently feeling, but they don’t. They just feel wrong.
I don’t get attention. No one cares about me. I’m not worth any of it.
My hands are shaking, and I feel as if I’m watching myself from the outside of my own body. I see how out of control I’m behaving. I see what’s wrong with this scenario, but I can’t seem to fix it. I can’t seem to feel any differently than I do now.
“Nothing fucking happened on my trip, okay? Nothing. We spent four days on my parents’ fucking yacht, and nothing happened. I’m sorry I’m in a bad mood, but I missed you, and you’re not acting happy to see me.”
Her expression falls, and she steps backward.
“Don’t do that,” she mutters.
“Do what?”
“Don’t blame me for your fucking issues when I asked you to open up and tell me what’s wrong. If you want to be like that, then you can leave.”
I take two angry steps toward the door. I place my fingers on the handle and pause just long enough to see what will happen if I leave. I’ll get in my car and drive home, where I’ll sulk, complain, and feel sorry for myself. Then I’ll wake up tomorrow and move on with my life; nothing will change.
Instead of opening the door, I place my head against the surface and take a deep, shuddering breath.
After a moment, I feel her hands sliding down my spine until her warm hand applies gentle pressure to my lower back.
“Please stay. Talk to me.”
“Tell me to, and I will,” I say.
“I don’t want to tell you to, Clay. Not this time. You have to want it.”
“What right do I have to complain about anything? A rich boy like me. I’ve never wanted for anything in my entire life, so what the fuck am I so sad for?”
“That’s not true,” she replies softly. “I know you must want something.”
I pull my head away from the wall and turn to face her. “Four days, Eden. For four days, she wouldn’t even look at me. My father barely spoke to me. I’m their son. And they spent the entire weekend keeping me around their rich friends without treating me like a real person.”
She’s gently stroking my back, staring into my eyes, and I feel like I’m devouring her eye contact like I need it to live.
