Page 10 of Carnival Shadows

I shouldn’t want to see her again. Shouldn’t crave the way her eyes darkened when I pushed her buttons… But I do.

6

EDEN

Iwant more. Need more. Remy’s mouth on my neck, his fingers tracing my hips, my thighs—an electric rush with every gentle caress. I tilt my head back, baring my throat, groaning when the pad of his thumb finds my pulse point.

He murmurs my name, the sound thick and raw.

His skin is warm against mine, his breath hot on my skin. Every fiber of my being is attuned to him. My nails dig into his shoulders. He hisses in response, grasping my hips, his mouth covering mine in a searing kiss.

Hunger coils tight and low in my belly, a delicious ache that threatens to undo me. I want to brand him as mine, to imprint myself on his skin and know he’s feeling this, too.

Heat coiling within me, a slow burn, intense and wild, threatening to consume everything in its path. I move against him, wrapping my legs around his waist, feeling the tension in his body.

“Eden,” he groans.

His eyes burn with a fierce need before he crushes his mouth to mine. His hands slip lower, his fingertips trailing a path of fire as they dip beneath the fabric of my shirt. I pant againsthis lips, feeling his tongue against mine, eliciting a sensation shooting sparks straight to my pussy. His hands—so strong and skilled—know exactly where to touch and how to unravel me.

His teeth scrape my shoulder and jaw as his lips trail kisses along my neck. I’m putty in his hands—molded, shaped by his expert touch. The pleasure and hunger are overwhelming, driving away every thought but this. Want. Need. Desire.

It’s a storm inside me, and still, it’s not enough.

I wake with a start.

My heart is pounding, and my body feels heavy and warm in a way that makes me ache. My cheeks flush as I realize what—or rather, who—I’ve been dreaming about.

It was so real. I glance at the empty space beside me, half-expecting to see him there.

Remy.

I haven’t been able to get him out of my head. Not since I saw him fixing the fencing at the carnival, his powerful physique moving with effortless grace. A shiver runs through me as I recall the fantasies about him I’ve been spinning in my mind and in my journal. Now, it’s spilled over into my dreams.

Alone in my motel room, I curl my hands into fists. The fantasy is so vivid and so intense that it almost scares me. My fingers slide under the sheets, and my skin is hypersensitive and aching for release.

Remy’s face is burned into my memory, his name a mantra on my lips.

I force myself out of bed, my skin tingling from the dream. The clock reads four a.m.—too early for any sane person to be up, but I’ve never claimed to be sane.

I pull on a black jersey dress. The outfit will help me blend into shadows, perfect for what I’m about to do.

The drive to the carnival takes forever, each minute stretching like taffy. I park far enough away that the sound won’t be heard, killing the engine and sitting in darkness. Dawn hasn’t broken yet—the carnival is dead quiet, rides looming like sleeping giants against the star-speckled sky.

I know his schedule now. Remy starts work early, before anyone else. He checks the perimeter, tests the fence posts, and makes repairs where needed. My heart races as I slip from shadow to shadow, finding my hidden spot behind an old storage container.

The metal is cold against my back as I wait, camera ready in my eager hands. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t professional. This isn’t research, but I can’t stay away—the pull is magnetic.

The crunch of gravel signals his arrival. My breath catches as Remy’s figure emerges from the pre-dawn shadows. My camera quietly clicks, capturing his powerful frame as he tests each fence post.

Even from this distance, I can see the flex of his muscles beneath his shirt and the graceful way he moves despite his size. Another photo catches the sharp angle of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes as he examines a loose section.

I shift position, seeking a better angle. The metal container digs into my back, but I barely notice. All my focus narrows to him. Click. The morning light catches his profile. Click. His hands grip the metal post. Click. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck.

My collection grows with each passing second. These will join the others—hundreds of shots capturing every aspect of him. At the motel, they cover my walls in a twisted shrine of obsession. I know the exact shade of his skin in different lights, how his shoulders tense before he lifts something heavy, and how his dark eyes scan his surroundings with predatory awareness.

He pauses at the next section, and I hold my breath. His head tilts slightly, nostrils flaring like he can sense something—someone—me. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he must hear it, but he continues his inspection, and I exhale slowly, carefully.

The need to watch him, to capture these private moments, overwhelms my rational mind. Each photo feels like possessing a piece of him. I snap another as he bends to secure a loose wire.

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