Chapter 2 Zac
Chapter two
Zac
Past
I’m already counting the seconds until I can exhale. My back’s tight, shoulders aching from hours spent hunched over patients. And even here—in the hidden world of Eden—I can still hear the echo of sirens in my skull. It rattles behind my ears, woven into my pulse. Always ready. Always listening.
“Another drink, sir?”
A goddess kneels before me, posture perfect, tray steady. Her eyes stay low, but I can feel her attention. I lift the empty glass and set it gently on her tray.
“I’m good, thank you.”
She rises with practiced grace and disappears toward the bar.
I want another drink—desperately—but rules are rules.
Even at Eden, I’m always on call. My phone’s locked in a drawer outside, but I can’t switch off the part of me that listens for the beep.
The doctor who can’t afford to be caught off guard.
Madame Anna has strict instructions. If my phone rings, she must find me.
I close my eyes and breathe. Let it all fall away.
That’s why I keep coming back. Because Eden gives me the one thing the ER never can: silence without consequences.
No crashing monitors or begging hands. No families breaking in two while I try to glue together the pieces.
Here, everything is measured and controlled.
Power offered or taken, and always by choice.
I need this. The control. The quiet beneath it.
Because without somewhere like this—a safe space where I set the rules, where no one dies and nothing precious slips through my hands—I’d come apart.
Rip at the seams until there’s nothing. Eden holds me together.
It’s the only place I can let go without breaking something sacred.
And at least here, I’m not going home to an empty house, dragging shadows behind me like chains. Not tonight.
When I open my eyes, the goddesses are kneeling on the stage. Ten women, each with their head bowed, energy coiled tight. I roll the token in my palm. Number Three. The metal disc is smooth against my skin, warmed by my grip.
The crowd quietens as a woman with long platinum-blonde hair announces from the corner, “Gentlemen, it’s time to make your selection.”
It doesn’t matter who I pick. They all offer the same thing—relief. A place to disappear. A warm body to crawl inside and forget the noise. To bleed out the ache in silence and to fuck the ghosts for a little while. To quiet them. The goddesses give me the illusion of peace. Of forgetting her.
I stand and move toward the stage, eyes sweeping the line. And then I stop. Honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves around her face, the ends grazing the top of her breasts. Her chin is tucked, her posture straight, but her energy… it’s different.
“Come with me,” I instruct, extending my hand.
Her fingers are warm, delicate in my grip. She keeps her head dipped as I lead her from the stage and down the hallway to Room Three.
The door shuts with a soft click behind us, and the silence is instant. Only the sound of my own breath and the soft scuffle of movement fills the air.
When I turn around, she’s already stretched out on the bed.
She settles in, completely owning the space, one leg bent, head propped on her hand, and those dark, curious eyes watching me.
She’s built for sin. Long limbs, supple curves, cream-like skin glowing in the low light.
Every inch of her is that impossible combination of softness and strength.
I stay standing. Watching. Letting the want tighten in my chest until it stings. She studies me just as intently. We’re circling each other in silence.
Every curve of her body is built to tempt. But it’s her tits that undo me—high, perfect, begging to be touched. I want them in chains. In clamps. In diamonds. I want to bite them, bruise them, watch them swell under my mouth. Leave her marked, every inch of her skin telling a story only we know.
Fuck.
“You gonna stand and stare all night?” she drawls, lips curved. “Or am I getting that drink?”
The question startles me. My brows lift. “What?”
“Water,” she replies, sitting up with a shrug. “Please.”
I cross to the minibar and hand her a bottle. She drinks, the line of her throat flexing with each swallow. Dragging in a breath through my nose, I remain still.
She sets the bottle down on the bedside table, eyes fixed on me. “So. What are you looking for tonight?”
I say nothing.
She tries again, head tilting. “Something rough? Or slow? Any kinks you want to try?”
Still, nothing.
She shifts onto her knees, expression unreadable. “Okay… not into talking?”
A pause.
“Correct.”
“You need quiet?” she asks gently. “I can do quiet.”
I nod once.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then sits back on her heels and waits. The quiet stretches between us. I don’t fill it. And neither does she.
Crossing the room, I lower myself into the chair facing the bed. My body sinks into the leather, my chest easing slightly for the first time today. This is what I needed. Someone willing. Someone here, while everything else fades away.
I let my gaze drift over her, from her parted lips to her thighs. She’s letting me take her in, and I’m greedy enough to do it at my own pace.
She doesn’t fidget or blink. She waits.
Goddamn. This woman understands energy. Tension. She’s not just performing—she’s listening. Reading the room. Reading me.
Casey’s voice echoes in my head. Laughter, quick and bright. Then, pain. Endless nights of it.
I clench my jaw.
This girl in front of me isn’t anything like Casey. And that’s the whole fucking point.
But now she’s watching me with something close to softness. There’s no pity or concern in her eyes. Only… patience.
It almost makes me flinch.
I rub the tension from my chest and try to bury the ache. This is about control. About holding it, not losing it.
She speaks again, her voice low. “Can I offer you something else?”
I blink out of it. “What did you have in mind?”
“The fantasy,” she explains. “The one you came here for.”
My pulse kicks.
She shifts again, slow and fluid, hips moving with the grace of a snow leopard. She crawls to the edge of the bed, close enough now that I can smell her—faint perfume with a tang of honey.
She’s younger than I expected. But there’s nothing immature about her. She owns the air in the room.
“You sure you don’t want to talk?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” I rasp.
She dips her chin. “Then let me speak your language.”
Reclining slowly, she allows her knees to fall open.
“Wider,” I say.
Her thighs part, slow and sure, revealing her glossy lips.
“Now, show me that pretty pussy,” I order, voice rough.
She smiles faintly. “Yes, Daddy.”
That title shouldn’t land the way it does. But it hits—hot and deep—because it’s not a joke. She says it like a truth.
Like she’s already mine.
She obeys, still watching me, her face open, mouth slightly parted. She’s offering something real—herself, without any pretense. Her vulnerability is as naked as her body. And fuck, it’s more powerful than anything else she could’ve done.
She bares herself—pale thighs, flushed folds, swollen and shiny. She’s drenched. And she hasn’t even touched herself yet.
Slipping one hand down her belly, her stomach flexes, the anticipation tightening her muscles. She strokes down her slit, the soft drag of her fingers creating a frictionless tease. Her hips lift slightly into her hand—automatic and greedy.
Beautiful.
Her breath becomes ragged.
I watch, locked in place. Every subtle twitch of her hips is choreographed by instinct and pure sensation.
A groan catches in my throat.
“Touch your clit,” I order.
Her fingers obey, like they’ve been waiting for permission. She presses lightly at first, gasping at the contact, followed by slow and tight circles. Her lips fall open. Her eyes flutter shut.
“Eyes on me, little one.”
They snap open again. Obedient.
When she rubs harder, the sound is slick and obscene in the silence. I shift in the chair, cock straining against my pants, but I don’t touch myself.
She starts to pant—short, rhythmic gasps that match the movement of her fingers. Her back arches, and her thighs tense. She’s not faking it. She’s building.
“Not yet,” I say.
Whimpering, her hand stills. Her whole body twitches, straining against herself.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” I tell her. “You know that?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I drag in a breath. That word again. Soft and reverent. Her version of worship.
I’ve never leaned into the whole daddy kink—not really.
But from her, it feels right. Familiar in a way it has no business being.
Almost like she’s been calling me that for years.
It slides beneath my skin and burrows deep, settling into the part of my soul that’s been hungry for more and never knew what it was missing.
My cock throbs at the thought of her saying it again—moaning it—while she rides me into the early hours of the morning.
“Two fingers,” I order. “Inside.”
She presses them in slowly, jaw dropping open at the stretch. I can see the resistance in her muscles, how her cunt grips tight and pulls them deeper. Her face crumples in pleasure.
“Good girl,” I whisper. “Now fuck yourself. Slow. Give me a show.”
She moves her fingers, working herself open with careful precision. The air between us grows hotter, heavier, saturated with need. My whole body is wired. My skin buzzes.
“More,” I instruct.
She thrusts deeper until her knuckles disappear and her palm hits her folds. Her breath chokes.
I move forward in the chair, bracing my elbows on my thighs, and fight the urge to grab her hand and suck her fingers clean.
“You want me to touch you?” I tease.
“Yes,” she mewls.
“You want me to taste you?”
“God—yes,” she gasps.
I lean in slightly. “Too bad.”
She lets out a strangled, frustrated sound. A laugh breaks through it, breathless and wrecked. She loves this—loves the not-quite-there.
“You’re going to come like this,” I demand. “Touch your clit while you fuck yourself.”
Obeying, both her hands working in sync—one driving deep, the other circling fast and wild. Her thighs tremble, her skin flushed up to her chest. Her eyes don’t leave mine. She wants me to see every bit of it.
Her moans turn frantic.
“Wait.”
She stops. Shaking. Sweat beads across her hairline.
“Smack it,” I order, voice low. “On your pussy. One slap.”
She whimpers but does it anyway. Her hand strikes her folds with a wet snap. Her body jolts. Her cunt clenches around her fingers, her breath hits the ceiling.
“Again.”
She follows through with tears pricking her eyes.
“Attagirl,” I whisper. “Now finish.”
Not holding back, she rides her hand hard, the slick slap of her fingers moving faster and faster until her body pulls taut.
“That’s it,” I praise. “Come for me.”
A cry splits the air. High and cracked, ripping out of her.
Her legs go taut, her hips bucking off the mattress. Her body clenches and jerks as the orgasm hits in waves. It rolls through her, shattering whatever control she had left, leaving her gasping.
I reach down and unbuckle my belt with shaking hands. My cock is heavy, red, and soaked at the tip. Wrapping my hand around it, I stroke once, twice.
I could take her right here, right now. Bury myself in her, lose myself in that slick heat, and never come back up. But if I touch her, I won’t stop. I’ll lose whatever restraint I’m clinging on to. And I can’t. This must stay simple.
It’s the only rule I haven’t broken.
It’s just seconds before I let go. I groan, long and low, spilling across her swollen pussy. Without hesitation, she scoops it up, rubs it into herself like it’s a sacred gift.
And it is. Because this feels holy. And I’m already half destroyed by it.
Breathing slowly, her body is still, limp against the mattress, pussy smeared with me. Her skin glows, damp with sweat and sex, and her eyes flutter shut before she opens them again and meets my gaze.
She looks… unguarded. And that’s what undoes me. Because I wasn’t supposed to see her. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything. I was supposed to come, thank her, and leave.
Instead, my chest is tight. My throat closes. A feeling coils beneath my ribs—guilt or need dressed up like desire. I can’t tell. I don’t want to name it. But it’s there. Lodged between my sternum and spine like a blade that won’t come out. And I feel the ache every time I drag in a breath.
She sits up on her elbows, thighs still parted, my come slick against her pussy. Her expression is unreadable—quiet and present.
“Are you okay?” she asks gently.
The sincerity in her voice makes me flinch.
She sits up; her hand reaches toward me, fingers curled in hesitation.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
She freezes with her hand suspended between us. Then slowly, she draws it back, resting it beside her.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” she says softly. She’s not pushing or demanding. But offering something I’ve forgotten how to take.
I look at her—really look. Flushed and messy and absolutely fucking gorgeous, but none of that is what’s getting to me.
It’s her calm. Her stillness.
The way she isn’t reaching for more, even though I know she could. She could ask me anything. She could smile in that smug way girls do when they think they’ve cracked you. But she doesn’t. She allows me my silence.
That’s somehow worse.
My fingers shake as I tuck myself into my pants. I run a hand through my hair, sharp and hard enough to sting.
“I can’t stay,” I rasp.
There’s a pause. Then she says, “Okay.” With no judgement or disappointment.
Just… okay.
I can’t breathe. Can’t see straight.
Because I want to stay. I want to crawl onto that bed, bury my face between her thighs, and lose hours with her.
I want to talk to her. I want her to touch me and mean it.
And I can’t remember the last time I wanted any of that with someone.
But if I do that… I won’t come back as someone Casey would recognize.
Hell, I’m not even sure I’d recognize myself.
That thought unravels me from the inside. My wife’s voice crashes through me again, cruelly vivid.
I feel like I don’t know you anymore, Zac. I want to feel like I matter.
I back away.
It feels wrong. My own pulse is too loud.
She watches me go, not moving, with those eyes, steady and warm.
“See you next time?” she asks, softer than silk.
I don’t even need to think. “Next time.”
Because I know I’ll come back.
I leave her there, already etched into my memory.
After all these years of coming to Eden—after all the times I’ve kept the lines clean and my rules clear—why her? Why now?
For the first time in a long time, I know exactly what I want.
Exactly what I’ll come back for.
I know one thing with absolute certainty: I’m fucked.
And I haven’t even touched her.