Page 11 of Tempted By Eden

Despite the thrill, a part of me is hesitant. I’ve agreed to become a goddess, signing up for the next Le Jardin. Honestly, I’ve got nothing to lose. We’re in desperate need of a cash injection, and this is the fastest solution. But doubt lingers at the edges of my mind. What if I can’t handle it? What if I’m chosen by someone who makes my skin crawl? What if…?

No. I shake my head, pushing those thoughts aside. I’ve made up my mind. What’s the worst that could happen? If I don’t like it, I’ll just stick to serving drinks. No big deal—problem solved.

It’s not all that different to hooking up with someone from a dating app for a one-night fling, except this time, I’m getting paid.

I slip out of my clothes, change into a comfortable pair of pajamas and climb into bed. Exhaustion catches up with me, but even as I drift off to sleep, one thought remains in the back of my mind.

I’ve got this. Easy.

Chapter seven

Cora

Iain’t got shit.

Pressure builds beneath my ribs, each breath coming out in short, sharp bursts as panic threatens to consume my mind. Desperation threatens to drown me. I force myself to take a slow, deep breath… count to three… then exhale, trying to release the pressure coiled tight around my lungs. The grounding technique my grief counselor taught me after Mom’s death comes to the rescue again. If ever there was a moment I needed it, it’s now: naked, on my knees, on a stage in front of a room full of powerful men.

My head is bowed, spine straight, knees parted, hands resting on my thighs with palms facing up. A position of complete submission. The cool air of the room brushes over my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. At least the floor beneath my knees is forgiving—warm, soft carpet that cushions my skin.

As my breathing steadies, the stiffness in my shoulders melts away, and my muscles loosen enough to allow me to settle into this position. With my chin lowered to my chest, I take in my surroundings as best I can.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse men seated around the club on lounges. Some are engaged in quiet conversation with the goddesses at their feet, while others sip their drinks in silence, waiting for selection to begin. The lightest trace of cologne hangs in the air, blending into the background of low, steady conversation.

As I become more aware of the eyes on me—watching, assessing, wanting—I lose myself in the moment. The feeling of being wanted is a heady aphrodisiac.

One gentleman stands out from the rest. He sits directly in front of me, as still as a statue, yet exuding a commanding presence even in his relaxed pose. His legs are spread wide, and with a flick of his wrist, he checks his Rolex. Not out of boredom, but with a calculated air, as though every second not spent on something worthwhile is a personal affront. A hint of impatience creases his brow, as if he has far more important things to do with this time. From what I can see, he looks to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with dark, tousled hair that falls effortlessly across his forehead. His navy suit and crisp white shirt only add to his charm.

Gorgeous.

There’s an aura surrounding him, an understated authority that draws every eye in the room without him having to say a word. It’s more than just his looks; it’s the way he seems to own the space around him, as though even the air bends to accommodate his presence.

His eyes flick up, locking onto mine with an unwavering focus. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he catches me staring. Those dark eyes, so familiar yet so different—harder, colder—catapult my mind back five years.

I gasp, the sound slipping out before I can stop it, and quickly lower my gaze back to the floor, where it’s supposed to be. But my thoughts spiral into chaos.

No! It can’t be!

I can’t believe it’s him! What’s he doing here?

Does he recognize me?

Oh no! What if he recognizes me… here, of all places?!

After my initial search for Jonathon turned up nothing, I’d given up hope of ever finding him. Now, the possibility that it could be him makes my skin prickle, sending a tremor through my limbs. I’m not certain it’s him—I need another look—but I don’t dare raise my head to check. His gaze, however, is unmistakable. I can feel it raking over every inch of me on display, burning into my skin like a brand. My body reacts instinctively, as if it remembers that night in Malta all those years ago. Heat spreads in a slow wave, pooling deep and leaving my body taut, braced for what’s to come. My skin feels tight, too sensitive under his watch, as if I might come undone at any moment. I start to pant—not from panic this time, but from a deeper primal instinct.

Lost in my own thoughts, the sound of Hailee’s commencement announcement fades into the background. The selection process begins. One by one, my fellow goddesses are chosen by a gentleman, moving with a proficient grace that makes the entire process seem natural. Jess and Sarah are among the first to be selected, and if Sarah’s small smile is any indication, her man has chosen her again. Everything unfolds so quickly that it almost feels choreographed.

The quiet murmurs of conversation seem to still the moment Jonathon stands up. Even the other gentlemen glance his way, as though silently acknowledging his place among them. He doesn’t seem to notice—or care. His focus is entirely on me, as though the rest of the world has ceased to exist.

Jonathon doesn’t rush; each step is deliberate, almost predatory, as he approaches me. There’s a refinement in the way he moves, every motion calculated, like he’s used to making others wait. Even as he crouches in front of me, there’s no wasted energy, just pure, controlled power.

My heart pounds loudly in my ears.

Please pick me…

Please don’t pick me…

“Look at me,” he demands in that smooth American accent. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through me and settles deep in my bones. His fingers are warm against my skin, firm yet gentle as they lift my chin.

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