“Yesssss,” Willow hissed. “We’re fucking in.”

Derek sighed. “She messaged?”

“Sure has, buddy. Hope you’re excited to ask Mara for another G-Wagon.”

The ‘Typing’ button was still flashing and Willow held his breath. Whatever Eden’s fantasy was, he was going to do it. If she wanted to get fucked in zero gravity, he’d make that happen.

So, there was this theory that Victorian doctors cured women by giving them orgasms. I think it’s been debunked, but it’s my fantasy. I want to be cured by you. I want to be a clueless little virgin and you’re my pervert doctor…

“Fuck me dead.”

“What?”

He ignored Derek and kept reading.

… no pressure. If that’s too weird for you, we can just be friends. let me know xx

Like fuck they were going to be friends. He didn’t need to think about it for another second.

You’re on, Miss Cartwright. Keep Friday clear. I’ll send you the details asap.

He looked up to see Derek scowling at him. "Yes?”

“What just happened?”

“Oh, you know. Everything working out for me—as per fucking usual.” He pushed back his chair. “Know where I can find one of those white doctor coats?”

Psycho frowned. “Why would you—”

Derek threw an arm across him. “Don’t ask.”

“It’s a sex thing. I’m gonna dress up like a doctor and fuck Eden until she screams like Mariah Carey singing that Christmas song.”

Derek put his palms over his ears. “Je-sus.”

Willow backed away, giving his friends the finger. “See you, pricks later.”

“Take your plate!” Derek yelled.

“You do it. Consider it a down payment on the G-Wagon.”

Derek bared his teeth. “I hope you’re apeshit in the sack. It would suck for women if you’re crazy everywhere but the bedroom.”

Willow laughed. Everything worked out if you let it. And he was apeshit in the sack. Something Eden was about to learn.

8

It took Eden several tries to find the address Willow had given her. She wandered Collins Street, collecting strange looks from passersby. Her bonnet, lace-up boots, and long white dress weren’t period accurate, but it was plenty weird enough for one of Melbourne’s main streets. When she finally found number 167, she leant against the wooden door, swiping away the sweat gathering on her forehead and upper lip. Between her nerves, excitement, and the heat, she was saturated.

This is so silly. We’re going to see each other and crack up laughing.