Page 8 of Carnival Shadows

“Subjects?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought I was just a carnival worker you’re interviewing about lifestyle choices, or am I something else in that fascinating mind of yours?”

She shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, telling me everything her words won’t.

“I simply mean my interviewees. For the podcast.”

“Right.” I draw the word out, enjoying how it makes her squirm. “Well, to satisfy your professional curiosity—I find relationships happen naturally when you meet the right person. Someone who understands the darker pleasures of life.”

Her breath catches at that, pupils dilating. Such obvious tells. She really needs to work on her poker face if she wants to play these games with me.

There’s a spark in her eyes—something I’ve seen in countless others, but the way it shines in hers, brighter and hotter, sends a flash of heat through me.

I let the silence stretch between us, a test to see if she’ll break. Her breath quickens, and the pulse at her throat flutters like a wild bird. Her eyes flick down to my mouth and back up.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Do you want to know how often I get my dick wet, Eden? Bet you wonder what kind of women I fuck. If I like to take control or let them lead.”

Her gaze flickers to my mouth again. “I—that’s not what I meant. I was referring to the impact of your lifestyle. The constant travel.”

Her eyes betray her. They can’t stop roaming my body, her breath coming faster and shallower. I know that look, that need, but it’s not me who’s drawn it out this time.

“No?” A smile tugs at my lips. “Tell me then, what do you think about while you’re touching yourself at night, thinking of the mysterious carnival worker? Do you think I’m gentle? Holding you soft while I kiss you, tasting every inch of your skin?”

She swallows. “No. I... I mean, maybe you’re into that, but that’s not?—”

“Not what you picture?” I interrupt. “Maybe I like it rough. Pinning you down, hearing you beg while I fuck you so hard the whole trailer shakes.”

“Oh, God.” The whisper escapes her before she can stop it, and I see the instant she wishes she could take it back.

I wait for her to break, to run from the tent, but she surprises me. Narrowing her eyes, she leans forward, chin raised defiantly.

“I know what you’re doing,” she says. “Trying to push my boundaries and see how far is too far for me.”

I cock my head, intrigued by the shift. “And how far is that, Eden? Just how twisted does that pretty little mind of yours get when no one’s watching?”

She goes very still, fingers tightening around her pen. Then, in a rush, she breaks eye contact, looking down at the half-filled page of notes. My eyes narrow. Did I misjudge this one?

“Eden?” My voice is gentle.

For a long moment, she doesn’t respond. Then, “I’m not here for that story, Remy.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I can’t let myself go there.”

With anyone else, I’d push. See if her control is as tight as she claims, but something about her steely tone tells me this isn’t a test. There’s a line I shouldn’t cross.

“All right.” I sit back, studying her. “Tell me then, Eden, what do you want to know about carnival life?”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, confusion and relief warring in their green depths. “The community within,” she says. “How do you form bonds when everyone is always moving?”

Her shift in demeanor is so slight that most wouldn’t notice, but I see the relaxation of her shoulders and the subtle flare of her nostrils as she inhales. She expects me to push the boundaries and see how far she’ll go.

Instead, I answer her questions about our family dynamic, feeding her bullshit she’ll easily verify with a few more interviews. She wants to understand the sense of community we foster, the deep bonds that keep us together despite the constant travel. Every so often, she sneaks a glance at my hands and my body as if studying me for future fantasies.

Eden keeps herself perfectly composed as we talk. Still, I see her eyes dropping regularly to my lips as I speak, and I notice the subtle clench of her thighs. My fingers flex instinctively, wanting to test how wet she is. Maybe later. I focus on our conversation, watching how she fidgets in her seat, her mouth twisting as she tries to maintain her professional facade. However, the heat between us is undeniable.

“Do you find it difficult to leave a place when you’ve made connections?” Her voice dips on the last word, probably without her realizing it.

“I always look forward, not back.” I keep my tone casual, but my gaze flicks to her mouth. “Besides, the road is in my blood now. The constant movement.”

She bites her lip at that, hard enough to turn the skin white. When she releases it, her tongue darts out to wet the mark my eyes are fixed on.

“Must get lonely sometimes,” she says softly.

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