Page 32 of Break the Rule
Eden laughs, the sound derisive and slightly unhinged.
“Don’t ever grab me,” Eden hisses, inching backwards. The grass is overgrown, long blades curling around Eden’s bare ankles and leaving droplets of water in their wake as he tries to calm down. He rubs his wrists, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the bile rising in the back of his throat.
“I’m sorry.” Charlie sounds so genuine, like he really means it, and that just makes things worse. Fuck this fucking nice asshole.
“It’s fine. You just changed your mind.” Changed his mind about Eden. “I’ll leave.”
Eden turns, moving fast. Charlie’s faster. Before he expects it, Charlie has run to move into Eden’s escape path. This time with his hands held up in submission, like he’s afraid Eden might strike again or run.
Taking a deep breath, Eden takes a moment to assess the situation—a tip he read online once about trauma. Doing so, he recognizes that he is not actually trapped. The yard is huge, his exit wide open if he wants to move around Charlie. He’s still safe, still the one in charge. Still the unease lingers, clinging to Eden and making his defenses rise.
“I didn’t change my mind,” Charlie says.
“You said?—”
“We can’t do this,” Charlie finishes, repeating his earlier words. The sting is less sharp, but it still burns. “I didn’t change my mind though, and while you can leave at any time, it would mean a lot if you’d let me explain.”
“Fine,” Eden grits out.
“You wanted to fuck in my studio,” Charlie starts, “which for the record I am one hundred percent on board with. No one has ever fucked me in there, or me them, in the vein of transparency. Which is actually kind of surprising given how often I have sex.”
“Was there a point in there somewhere?” Eden snaps, feeling like someone is rubbing sandpaper over his heart. Why Charlie is pointing out that he will have sex with almost anyone yet not Eden is beyond him.
“Yes, I thought the point was me sharing how much I want to be fucked in my studio.”
“Then I'll leave so you can find someone,” Eden grumbles, stepping around Charlie. He’s relieved when no one grabs him, but this relief is short-lived when he trips over something small and fuzzy that hisses as he goes crashing to the ground.
“Biscuit, you fucker,” Charlie curses. The fuzzy fucker in question—a rotund cat apparently—takes off running across the yard.
Ignoring his grass-stained knees and his embarrassment, Eden rises from the ground. Charlie offers him a hand which Eden smacks away, refusing to accept his help, even if it would’ve made things easier. He brushes the grass from his skirt, kind of wishing he’d worn pants since his legs are getting cold. Charlie had looked like he wanted to eat Eden alive at the gallery last weekend when he noticed Eden’s skirt, so he’d gotten it into his stupid head that it would be safe to wear it for their little rendezvous tonight; that it might make Charlie want him more. How fucking delusional was he to think that giving himself permission to be more himself might attract someone.
“I feel like there’s some miscommunication happening here.”
“I feel like I’m going to leave,” Eden counters.
“You can, if you want. You can change your mind about me or this at any time. But for the record, I didn’t change my mind.” Charlie takes a step forward, and when Eden doesn’t run, he takes another one. He keeps his hands midair where Eden can see them. Not touching, not grabbing, waiting. “I do want to fuck in my studio. Specifically the scenario you laid out, with me bent over that work table getting railed.”
Even as the possibility that Eden is wrong presents itself, he can’t concede. Give someone an inch and they’ll take a mile.
“Good for you.” Eden wants him so bad it fucking hurts. He wants to touch him, wants to choke on his dick and bury himself in Charlie’s body, wants to pull on his hair and bend him over, wants to see someone strong, perfect, and pretty let Eden have his way with him.
“Good for both of us, I hope.”
Eden scoffs. He knows he’s being a dick, but he can’t stop it. There’s something wrong with his brain where he knows betterbut doesn’t do better. Charlie’s clearly trying, so Eden should too. Instead, he feels cornered and angry and still turned on. It pisses him off and confuses him, and he hates it.
“Fuck you.”
This is the point where any normal, well-adjusted person would show Eden the door. This is when people realize Eden’s more trouble than he’s worth, that his pretty face and delicate features are a facade. Someone compared Eden to a doll once. So pretty, they whispered, taking what they wanted—what they paid for. Eden isn’t a fucking doll. He’s not pretty or delicate, and he won’t let anyone hurt him. He won’t.
“I was still hoping you would,” Charlie says.
It’s dark in the yard, nothing but the starlit sky and the full moon above to light their way. It basks Charlie in a hazy glow, his tan skin and dark features illuminated in the moonlight. He’s fucking gorgeous, and it makes Eden want to scream.
“I bet it’s not a hardship for you to find people to fuck,” Eden grits out. He’s doing that thing he does where he ruins things. The awareness doesn’t make him stop though, somehow it makes him push harder. He’s a disaster, and Charlie is blinded by looks.
“It’s not,” Charlie agrees. He takes another step towards Eden. He’s so close Eden can almost feel the warmth of his skin.
“Fucking congratulations.”
