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  Pleasure Point

  Invitation to Eden Series

  Eden Bradley

  Pleasure Point

  Copyright 2014 Eden Bradley

  Cover Design by Croco Designs

  Editing by D.S. Editing

  Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgments

  To my amazing team of beta readers, Kitty Kelly and Casey Lu-thank you for the incredibly quick turn-around in response to my chronic last-minuteness (and yes, that’s a word!). To Erin Simone for her very helpful and thoughtful critique, and to R.G. Alexander for helping me bring her character Joely to life. And I must also thank my line editor, DS Editing, for saying this was one of her favorites of my books. We writers are an insecure bunch! I adore you all!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

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  About Eden Bradley

  We are very pleased to issue your Invitation to Eden, an exciting series coming to you in 2014 from 27 of the biggest names in romance. Join us as we take you on an exciting adventure to Eden, where anything… and everything goes!

  “Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.”

  ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

  Chapter One

  Miranda checked her reflection in the small compact mirror she pulled from her black clutch and peered at her reflection. Her familiar blue eyes stared back at her. Yep, she still looked like the same woman she’d been before the mysterious piece of pale, papery linen and vellum had slid beneath her apartment door two days ago.

  This is your invitation to Eden…

  Crazy, how a simple piece of embossed paper could come across as so utterly commanding. What she still couldn’t figure out was why she of all people had received an invitation from her employer at the exclusive Island of Eden Resort.

  She tucked the mirror back into her small clutch purse and took in a breath as she stared at the imposing brushed steel double doors before her.

  Had an employee ever been issued an invitation before? She hadn’t heard any rumors about it in the resort’s pastry kitchen, which she managed, or around the staff apartments or at the staff pool.

  Why me?

  And why, of all places, had she been instructed to go to Club Sin? How could anyone have possibly known? But there she was, her heart fluttering, her pulse hot in her veins as she pulled open one heavy door and stepped through into the red, black and chrome interior of the elegant dungeon, which was apparently an ante-chamber. Just inside the door sat a large, sleek black lacquer desk with chrome-framed black-and-white photographs of deliciously wicked images on the walls: a naked woman lay over the lap of a man in a business suit, his hand coming down to smack her round bottom; in another a woman wearing nothing but kitten ears and a rhinestone-studded collar knelt on a bare wood floor; in another a man and woman were chained back-to-back on either side of an enormous X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross. Miranda’s lips parted and her breath caught in her throat as desire rippled over her skin, her gaze moving from one image to the next. Oh, she loved the kitten image—something she’d never considered before, but…

  She shook her head.

  This is crazy.

  She hadn’t done any of those things since Daryn. Hadn’t even thought about it. Okay, maybe she’d thought about it. And it was said the island always knew what you needed. The island, or her employer the enigmatic Theodosius Vardalos—‘the Master’ as he was known to his employees. But was kink what she needed?

  It had been five years. Five years of grieving. Not a time to play. But…she’d missed it. Missed the thrill of kink. The sensations. The giving over control—something she never did in her day-to-day life. It was still her number one fantasy—being bound and touched, teased, tortured with pain and pleasure.

  Her nipples went hard just thinking about it. She almost wanted to stroke the tips, allowing her body a shiver of desire before flexing her hands on her small bag and trying to remember that the damn invitation had made her wary. Rightfully so.

  Right?

  So why did she feel as if something important was about to happen? Something important and possibly thrilling.

  When she walked into the main room of the dungeon she had to stifle a gasp.

  Oh, I am in big, bad trouble.

  He was tall, which she always loved, being five-foot-eight herself. And he was elegant—there was something in the way he held himself that told her so. It was a relaxed confidence, but something more…and so damn handsome she could barely believe he was real. Dark hair. Chiseled features that would have belonged on a model if he weren’t so thoroughly masculine, with that little bit of scruff shadowing his angular jaw making him seem all the more male. And even from several yards away the man radiated pure power.

  Her knees shook, weakened by his presence. Stunningly male. Stunningly dominant. He wore authority like a second skin.

  He held a hand out. “Hallo.”

  He had an English accent. Sexy as hell.

  Oh, yes.

  “I’m…” She paused, then demanded, “Wait. Who are you?”

  He stepped forward and took her hand in his. It was large and warm. “My apologies for not introducing myself right off. You’re very…distracting. My name is Roan Abrams.”

  “Miranda Royce,” she said, the odd compliment making her pulse race.

  He gave her hand a small squeeze and hung onto it, drawing it toward his chest almost possessively. Momentarily stunned, unable to respond, she looked up into green eyes framed in dark lashes. His gaze narrowed and even as she felt him examining her face very carefully—watching her as much as looking at her—she noticed how the irises were ringed in gold. So intense she wanted to look away but found she couldn’t.

  “Have a seat and talk with me, Miranda,” he suggested, his big hand still holding hers in that possessive manner. And his words were more demand than suggestion.

  She liked it, even though she didn’t want to. How had he managed that? “Yes. Sure.”

  He led her to a small sofa upholstered in diam
ond-tucked red leather and waited for her to sit before seating himself next to her.

  “So, here we are,” he said, reaching for a tumbler of water on the table in front of them and pouring her a glass, handing it to her. “Summoned by the Master of the island.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  He touched his fingers to the glass, gave it a small nudge. “Drink, Miranda. And tell me what you think of this place.”

  She found herself sipping from the glass, following his instructions.

  This is crazy.

  She set the glass down on the table and took a moment to look around, noticing the gorgeous and luxurious equipment. There were red leather spanking benches, gleaming chrome chains dangling from the ceiling, some ending in red and black padded leather cuffs. At regular intervals along the slick red and black walls in between the seating areas were shining chrome racks holding floggers, paddles and whips. And the entire room was reflected in enormous, chrome-framed mirrors mounted on the walls. Beautiful and wicked-looking.

  “It’s spectacular. Nothing but the best for the Eden resort, so it doesn’t surprise me. But I think I expected there to be other people here,” she said, glancing around, her nerves beginning to prickle at the back of her neck simply from being in the same room—this deliciously wicked room—with Roan Abrams.

  “Did you? You knew where you were going, then?”

  “Of course. The invitation said to go to Club Sin.”

  His eyes were dark, searching her face. “You knew this wasn’t a bar? A dance club?”

  “I work here. On the island.”

  “Ah. So do I. Well, I come in as a consultant. Tell me what you do here, Miranda.”

  “I’m the head pastry chef. But according to the invitation I have the next week off.”

  He reached out and stroked her cheek with one warm fingertip, like a tiny shock of need against her skin. There was a small but cocky grin on his generous mouth. “You bake sweets, do you?”

  He was too damn handsome. Too commanding. Too… everything. She pulled back. “Which I’m sure you’ve eaten, if you’ve been on the island.”

  “I’m certain I have. Working with sugar suits you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  God, why was she being so rude to this man? Maybe because his stunning good looks and natural dominance were making her think about things she shouldn’t even be considering.

  Like his hand coming down on her bare ass. Pulling her hair hard while he kissed her breathless.

  God…

  He leaned closer, lowering his voice, and she caught his scent—something spicy and earthy. Provocative. “No? I believe I know at least two things about you. One, you were invited here to meet me apparently, since, as you pointed out, we are the only ones here. And two,” he paused, his voice a quiet murmur, “the pulse in your lovely throat is racing.”

  “Oh.” She put her hand to her neck for a moment, saw him watching and dropped it down to her side. She had to get herself under control. She cleared her throat. “Why do you think we were invited here? I don’t know what the Master could have been thinking.”

  “Am I so repulsive to you, then?”

  “What? No, of course not.” Then she saw the teasing twinkle in his eye, the slight curve of his lips, and her cheeks flamed. “I mean, no. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You weren’t.”

  Her gaze narrowed on his. “And you’re having an awful lot of fun playing with me.”

  “Ah, I hope to.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve got the wrong girl, Mr. Abrams.”

  Doesn’t he?

  “Roan,” he said. “And I’m fairly certain—quite certain—I don’t. I have a particular knack for these things. You are definitely the right girl, in the right place. With the right Dominant. And even if I were fallible in this regard, Mr. Vardalos is rarely wrong about these things—sending out the invitations. From what I’ve heard.”

  “I’ve heard plenty myself, but I don’t know how much of it to believe and how much is simply clever marketing for Eden.”

  “I doubt the resort needs much in the way of marketing since it’s by invitation only. Our benefactor has plenty of money—he didn’t build this place because he needs to turn a profit.”

  “He’s my employer, not my benefactor. I work hard for my paychecks.”

  “Of course. I never meant to imply anything else.”

  She really had to calm down and stop being so damn defensive. This man wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle.

  Oh, you are such a liar. Half the conversation has been calculated mind-fuck.

  It was working, damn it. She crossed her legs against the warm ache between them.

  She cleared her throat again. “So, what do you do for Mr. Vardalos?” she asked.

  “I designed this place, for a start. About four years ago. And the Victorian spanking suite, and the other BDSM suites. He has me back here periodically to make changes, to check equipment, come up with new ideas.”

  “You designed this place? The club?”

  “Yes, and much of the equipment.”

  “Oh…” It came out on a soft breath. Her fingers tightened on her small clutch purse. This man—this Dominant—was definitely going to be more than she was ready for. He was the real thing, high caliber in the kink realm, obviously. No weekend player. Oh, yes, far too real for her, no matter how insanely attracted to him she was. “I think…I think this was a mistake.”

  “Again, Miranda, I’m certain it wasn’t.”

  She stood. “No. It was definitely a mistake. Look, Roan…I don’t mean to be rude. Really. But I’m not…this is not for me. None of this. You. This place. I have to go.”

  “Miranda—”

  She shook her head, took a step back, then turned and hurried from the room.

  Once outside she found the golf cart she’d arrived in—the staff’s main form of transportation—and drove as fast as the cart would go back to the apartment building. Her head was spinning so hard and fast she was only vaguely aware of the lush, tropical surroundings that whirred by as the breeze cooled her face.

  She could not do this, no matter what Mr. Vardalos thought. God, especially with him thinking these things—knowing about her! He was her boss, even if she’d never met the man. A person’s sexual desires were not something one’s boss should know about them. About her.

  Her head was starting to ache—and her head wasn’t the only thing.

  Roan Abrams was absolutely too much one of her fantasy men. Instantly. Irrevocably. And it felt dangerous. Particularly given their apparent mutual penchant for kink. Kink opened people up—or it did if it was done right. And that was something she could not afford to do. If she did… then what? What was she afraid of, exactly? It had become habit so much in the last five years that she couldn’t even pinpoint what she was running from anymore.

  Except Roan. Roan and his purely devilish good looks and stunning air of command. That elegant, sexy English accent. And the need she felt to get on her knees for him as easily as she’d sipped her water at his direction. To do whatever he asked of her.

  She groaned softly, desire making her thighs tense. Making her wet. She needed to get upstairs and take her frustration out on her collection of vibrators and her nipple clamps before she exploded. She knew she would do it thinking of him. His powerful hands, his mouth, which she couldn’t stop imagining on hers, on her body. She’d been thinking of almost nothing else since the moment she first saw him.

  She groaned.

  God, his beautiful mouth.

  She parked in the small lot in front of the building—a contemporary three-story complex faced with white stucco, a tiled roof and wrought iron balconies that had always made her think of New Orleans—set the brake, and got into the elevator. She was too impatient to walk up the two flights of stairs. The elevator hummed and delivered her to the second floor. She fumbled with her keys, finally unlocking her door, and slipped
through.

  Inside she didn’t bother to turn on lights. She’d left one lamp on low in the living room and there was enough light between that and the moon shining through the sheer curtains as she tossed her clutch onto her white sectional sofa, simultaneously unzipping her black lace dress as she moved down the hall toward her bedroom, her high heels clicking on the soft bamboo floors. Her body was thrumming with an aching need as she thought of her nightstand full of sex toys waiting for her in the other room.

  Oh, yes…

  She unzipped her dress, tore it over her head as she made her way to her bedroom. She could not wait one more minute. She tore off her bra and panties, leaving a trail on the floor. It was totally unlike her, a woman who preferred to live a life of perfect order, but she had to do something now. Something to quench the insane lust that was burning through her like a fire—one that could do too much damage if she let it.

  She threw herself down on the white cotton coverlet, yanked open the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her most powerful toy—a purple rabbit with enough girth to satisfy even this raging need.

  She turned onto her back, spread her legs, flipped the power button and closed her eyes as she lowered it between her thighs. She sighed as she pushed it in, an inch at a time, then one hard thrust that had her gasping in pleasure.

  Oh yes, exactly what she needed to put out this fire.

  She held the rabbit vibe as it pumped into her, swirling it’s beaded shaft and the rabbit extension buzzed against her clit. Pleasure curled through her system, sinuous and dark, like smoke from the fire. And the moment she pictured Roan’s face, his hands, she came in a torrent that soaked the bed, stifling her cries in a pillow.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured. She started to pull the big vibrator out of her still-clenching pussy, but that only started things again. She clamped her thighs closed, using them to grip the big vibrator, pleasure suffusing her as it plunged, ground and hummed.