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Giveaway for Eden Bradley

 

eden bradley

A lot of people seemed to enjoy the excerpt + giveaway we did for Beth Kery a couple of weeks ago. Berkley contacted me and suggested that readers who enjoyed the Beth Kery and Sylvia Day books may also like the Eden Bradley books.

They are re-releasing of Eden Bradley’s three titles: PLEASURE’S EDGE (978-0-425-26758-5), DESIRE’S EDGE (978-0-425-26759-2) and TEMPTATION’S EDGE (978-0-425-26760-8)! (Complete with 50Shades covers, as are all books these days)

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

The following is the first chapter of Pleasure’s Edge.

 Chapter One

Dylan  Ivory  knew  the  moment she saw the  hulking figure  pull into  the  parking lot in front of the Asian Art  Museum on a clas­ sic Ducati, the  motorcycle in  flawless black and  chrome, that  it was him. Alec Walker, the  man she was there  to interview. A man famous for his talents and knowledge as a sexual dominant in the Seattle BDSM scene.

It wasn’t  the  black leather jacket that  gave him away. It wasn’t his massive size. It was an  attitude of fearlessness and utter con­ fidence as he brought the  bike to a stop,  revving the engine once before shutting it off. The way he swung his leg over the gleam­ ing  tank  and  pulled  his helmet off like  a cowboy  dismounting a stallion. It was an  aura  of pure  power  she could  feel  even from several yards  away, like a soft  blow to her body.

Alec Walker without his helmet was even better. Dark hair­ nearly  black-that  curled just a little  and  brushed the collar  of his jacket. A strong  profile  that  could  have been  carved from marble.

Dylan  stood  next to her car, door  still open,  keys forgotten in her  hand.  Why  was her  heart  racing?  But she couldn’t  tear her gaze away from the graceful movements  of his large hands as he pulled his leather  gloves off and buckled his helmet  to the motorcycle’s seat.

She was still watching when he lifted his gaze and found hers. Piercing,  brilliant blue eyes that knew her. And knew she’d been watching him. For the first time in her adult life, Dylan felt com- pletely flustered.

If only her pulse would calm down, damn it!

This is a professional meeting.

Yes, but that didn’t seem to inhibit  her response to this man one bit. She would have to pull herself together  before she talked to him. She was here to learn from him. To do research.  Jenni- fer, the submissive woman she’d connected  with via the Internet who she’d met with the week before, had told her she should talk with Alec Walker;  but  she hadn’t  warned  her  how overwhelm- ingly gorgeous he was.

Alec Walker was a man who should come with a warning.

He smiled, a stunning flash of brilliant white teeth, his mouth a lush slash in an otherwise completely masculine face, sur- rounded  by a trim black goatee that made him look a little evil. She liked it, that  evil look. Heat  spread out from her belly like liquid fire.

He was moving toward her now. Her knees shook.

Closer and closer, until he was standing  on the other  side of her white Audi sedan.

“I have a feeling you’re the woman I’m here to meet.” Deep voice, rich and surprisingly soft. Sexy.

She could only nod her head.

His lips quirked at the continued  silence. “Dylan Ivory? Erotica author?”

“Yes . . . ”

What  was wrong with her? Why  couldn’t she put a sensible sentence together?

“I’m Alec. Shall we go inside?” “What? Yes, of course.”

She shut her car door,  clicked the lock button.  And tried  to ignore the heat creeping all over her skin. Suddenly her wool coat felt too heavy, even in the usual Seattle autumn damp. She was far too aware of the man walking beside her as they approached  the imposing Art Deco entrance  of the museum, flanked by its pair of stone camels. She’d always loved this building,  as well as the exhibits. When  Alec had suggested they meet at the café inside, she was pleasantly surprised.  She had a fondness for art, and for Asian art in particular,  and she’d been to this museum a number of times.

They mounted  the  wide stone  stairs and Alec put a gentle- manly hand at the small of her back. A shiver went through her. She glanced at him, found him smiling at her. But they were both quiet as they moved through the entrance,  their footsteps echo- ing on the marble floors, then up the small flight of stairs leading to Taste Café, which was in the center courtyard of the museum.

They moved through the café, and Alec gestured  to one of the  small tables beneath  the  vaulted atrium  ceiling. Surrounding the court yard were statues: Buddha,  Vishnu,  Kali. Dylan swore  she could  smell the  ancient  stone  beneath  the  scents of coffee and tea in the still air. Diffused light filtered in through the frosted glass of the atrium windows, accented by amber wall sconces that gave off a subtle golden glow. It was a peaceful place, where Dylan had often come to have a quiet cup of tea, but today she was all nerves inside.

Why was she so worked up? He was just a man. Just another interview.

He helped her off with her coat, held her chair for her. Nice, old-world manners. All too rare in this cosmopolitan  city.

He took his leather jacket off and laid it across the back of his chair,  sat down,  his pose relaxed, assured.  He  wore a charcoal gray sweater that  outlined  his broad  shoulders.  The man really was massive, built  like a pro  football  player. His  features  were pure  male, from his square jaw to his chiseled chin and cheek- bones. Only his mouth was soft, and such a contrast to the rest of his face. Sexy as hell.

Dylan  shifted in her seat, grabbed  the menu  from the table and perused the tea selection.

“What  are you having?” Alec asked.

“I usually like the jasmine and green tea blend.”

Alec signaled the waiter, and before  she could say anything more, he ordered  for them both.

“I hope you like biscotti,” he said, smiling at her. “They’re almost as good here as they are in Rome. There’s this little café there,  right by the Spanish Steps. You wouldn’t expect anything spectacular in a tourist area. But that place makes the best biscotti in Italy.”

“I haven’t been to Rome in years. But I do remember the biscotti there.”

“I was there  last year, on my way home from a backpacking trip in Spain.”

“Do you travel often?”

“As often as I can. I don’t like to stay in one place for too long, although  my writing deadlines keep me home a lot these days. It makes me restless. There’s so much to do in the world.”

Dylan  leaned  in, her  fingertips  sliding over the  spoon  that rested on the paper napkin on the small table. “Like what?”

God, was she flirting with him?

“Everything.”  He grinned.  “Anything. I’ve been rock climb- ing in Brazil, shark diving off the coast of Fiji. Backpacking in Nepal.”

“So, you’re a thrill junkie.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. I don’t mean to be a braggart,  though. These are simply the things  I love. Challenging  the odds.” He shrugged, one corner of his mouth quirking into a small grin. “Going  fast. I love my motorcycles.  Love to ride fast, see how hard I can take a turn.”

She shivered.  “I could  never get on a motorcycle.  Not  in a million years.”

“You might like it.”

“No. I don’t think so.” She sipped her tea. “So . . . your travels are about finding thrills?”

“To some extent. But a lot of these trips have been spiritual journeys for me, as well.”

“And you write  horror  fiction,  Jennifer  told  me.  She  mentioned  the fact that you’re a writer as well as a . . . dominant  . . . might be helpful in the research I’m doing for my book.”

He nodded.  “Yes, I think so, too. You seem a bit uncomfort- able with the term ‘dominant.’ ”

“Do I? Perhaps  I am. I may be an erotica author,  but this is still not the sort of conversation  I’m used to having.”

“Fair enough.”

The waiter delivered their  tea, and Dylan took great care in pouring  from the small, beautifully glazed Japanese pot into her cup, avoiding his blue gaze. Jasmine-scented  steam immediately rose around her, accented by the earthier touch of green tea. The fragrance was familiar, grounding.

Alec pushed  one  of the  biscotti  into  her  hand.  “Here.  You must have one.”

It was a command,  not a suggestion. She surprised herself by taking it.

“I actually write psychological thrillers,” Alec went on. “Per- haps you’ve read some of my work?”

“No. I’m sorry.” “Perhaps you should.”

Dylan was getting annoyed. The line between confidence and cockiness was getting  blurred.  “Perhaps  you should read some- thing of mine.”

“I have. As soon as Jennifer  told me about  you, I picked up your last book.”

“And?” she challenged him.

“And I think  you’re very good. Intelligent. Thoughtful. Ex- cellent character development.  The romantic aspect doesn’t over- shadow the story, as it does with so many other writers. And you know how to write sex in a very real way. There’s a rawness to it

I admire.”

“Oh.” Not  what she’d expected him to say. She was momen- tarily flustered. Again. “Thank you.”

“So, tell me about this latest project, why you needed to talk to me.”

Those blue, blue eyes on her. It struck her suddenly how very like Quinn’s eyes they were, although Quinn’s had been innocent in a way she thought Alec’s maybe never had been, even when he was young. But they were that same shade of turquoise that made her think of the Caribbean.

There was sincerity in his eyes, despite his cockiness. She had to glance away, to where his fingers caressed his teacup. It looked so tiny in his hand. Fragile. As though  he could break it with the barest squeeze. And those fingers gliding gently over the smooth surface . . .

She forced herself to look away from his hands,  back at his face.

Not helping. . .

“I’m writing about a couple exploring BDSM. The power ex- change, some bondage, which I’ve written about before. But this time I’d like to delve deeper into it. Possibly explore the pain play. And I want it to have some authenticity. I don’t want to do it oth- erwise. I knew I’d have to do some very thorough research, talk to people who have experienced these things. I found Jennifer on a local BDSM community website recently, e-mailed her and asked if we could talk. I interviewed  her, and she was very nice, very open with me. But as a submissive she didn’t feel she was qualified to give me the whole picture. That’s why she referred me to you.”

He  nodded.  “It’s  difficult  to  get  a good  idea  of  what  the BDSM  scene is about,  what the dynamic and the psychology is about, from talking to one person. Everyone’s experiences are varied and personal. And if she’s purely submissive she wouldn’t have too much insight into the way a dominant’s mind works, our process.”

“Yes, that’s the idea she gave me. And it makes sense.” “You’ve never written BDSM before?”

“No. I’ve written about some minor fetishes, a little bedroom play bondage, but not anything really serious.”

“You feel BDSM is serious?” “Isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer. “You’ve never experienced these things for yourself?”

“I . . . no.”

“Ah, you’d like to keep this discussion professional. Purely for research purposes.”

“Yes. Of course.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, moved a little closer, until she could smell the scent of his cologne, some- thing clean and dark at the same time. Like the ocean and the woods.

He  lowered  his  voice,  suddenly  making  the  conversation seem more intimate. Maybe more intimate than she was entirely comfortable   with.  “I’m  going  to  tell  you  something,   Dylan, and this is simply the  truth.  There is no way you can portray the  lifestyle in any accurate  manner  by dipping  your  toes  in. You have to experience  it, really dive in. There are too  many components—physical,  psychological,  emotional—all  overlapping. It’s complex, which is what those of us who practice these things love about it. The complexity. The intensity.” He reached for her hand, grazed his fingertips over the back of it. His skin was hot. Hers went hotter.  “It’s about sensation. And what goes on in your head. It can be sensual, or it can be sexual. Or both. You cannot begin to describe the dynamics involved without having been there.”

Her  throat  went dry. The idea wasn’t  shocking  to her.  Not nearly as much as his touch  was. She picked up her cup, sipped her tea, cleared her throat.  “I suppose you’re right. And this is an interesting  subject. But, I don’t know . . .”

“Don’t  pretend  it’s  nothing  more  than  an  interesting   sub- ject to you, Dylan.” He slid his fingertips down the inside of her wrist, beneath the sleeve of her cashmere sweater. “I can feel your pulse racing.”

“Alec—”

“Come on, Dylan. You don’t need to do this with me. That’s part of what BDSM  is all about.  That basic honesty  about  who we are.”

“I was going to say that . . . you’re right.”

Had she really admitted  that to him? But maybe he was right about it all—that she had to be honest with him in order to learn anything. Would  have to dive in, as he’d said.

It had nothing  to do with her  ridiculous  attraction to him. Did it?

She pulled  her  hand  away, tucked  it safely in her  lap. “You and Jennifer must know some submissive men. Are there any you trust, that you can refer me to? And would they consider playing with a woman who has no experience as a dominant?”

Alec laughed, sitting back in his chair. “You’re talking about topping, dominating these men?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, Dylan. Don’t you realize you’re a bottom?” “What?”

“I saw it the moment  I met you. I could sense it out there  in the parking lot, even before we spoke.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Why were her cheeks heating up? Why was she thrown so off balance? She hated that he had such an effect on her.

“I think  you understand enough  about  this subject to know exactly what I mean.”

She blew out a breath.  “Of course I have some idea of what a bottom  is. A submissive. But that’s not me. Being a top, a domi- nant, simply makes sense for me. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m someone with control issues.”

“Which  is exactly why you need to bottom.  You need to let go. You need the safety in handing  the control  over to someone else in order to do that.”

She was getting angry now, but trying to keep her temper  in check. “You’re very arrogant.”

“Yes, I am. I’m also right. I am always right about this. You do have control issues; I can see it in the way you hold yourself. I can see it in the anger in your eyes. In the tight set of your jaw. And you could probably manage to successfully ‘switch’ now and then, top a man. Or a woman. But it wouldn’t reach inside you as deeply as bottoming would. It wouldn’t give you what you truly need.”

She shook her head, her teeth clenched.

He leaned forward again, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his once more. It was large, enveloping  hers in heat and strength.

“Dylan, let me make a proposal to you. Bottom for me.” She tried to yank her hand from his, but he held on tight.

His gaze was hard on hers, his eyes that impossibly compel- ling, brilliant  blue. “Try it,” he went on. “See how you respond. If it turns  out I was right,  you’ll have learned  something  about yourself and you’ll have some very personal and unique research for your book. And if I’m wrong, well, you’ll still have done your research.”

“I can do that research as a top.”

“No, you can’t. It’s extremely difficult for a bottom to teach an inexperienced  top. Once the endorphins begin to pump through a bottom’s body, once they’re down in subspace, that head space where everything goes quiet and all they can feel and see is that interaction between  top and bottom,  the sensations  and scents, they aren’t present  enough  to act as teachers  for you. You can’t possibly learn as much that way. But you can learn from me. I’m very good at what I do.” He  waved his free hand.  “I know, I’m being arrogant  again. But it doesn’t matter.  What  matters is that this is the truth.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe it was true that this was the best possible way for her to learn. Maybe it had nothing  to do with the fact that Alec sitting so close to her, holding on to her hand still, was making her hot all over. Was making her wet, for God’s sake. But this was noth- ing more than intense chemistry. It didn’t mean anything, didn’t lend any credence to his argument.  She was sure she could prove to him just how wrong he was.

She bit her lip.

He was definitely wrong about her.

“How long would we try this for?” she asked.

He shrugged. “For as long as it takes. For as long as you need to discover what you should know. For your book. For yourself.”

“So we would sort of play it by ear? See how things go?” “Oh, I know how things will go.”

“Really? And how is that?”

She was angry again. And he was still holding her hand. His thumb  caressed her knuckles, sending  a spark of lust deep into her system. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of trying to pull away again.

“You’ll fight it at first. I’ll have to really work with you. Gain your trust.” His voice was low, a gravelly murmur.  She had to lean closer to hear him. “But bit by bit, you’ll turn yourself over to me. Into my hands. I’ll be hard on you. And gentle.”

He lifted her hand and brushed his lips across it, the heat scalding her,  shocking  her.  She couldn’t  say a word. Her  mind was in a small state of chaos.

Alec laid her hand down on the cool tabletop, his gaze locking with hers. “That’s how it will go, Dylan.”

She hated that she felt dizzy, confused. She didn’t understand it. And she refused to give in to it. Or to Alec Walker.

She picked up her teacup and sipped, swallowed. Drawing in a deep breath, she forced herself to calm, and put the cup down on the table with a steady hand.

“You can think  whatever  you like, Alec. But you obviously don’t know me yet.”

He  picked up his own cup, took  a long swallow, taking  his time.  His  piercing  gaze never left hers.  “Not  as well as I will, certainly. If you agree to my proposal, that is.”

“Oh, I’m agreeing.” “You like a challenge.” “Yes.”

“So do I.”

That steady blue gaze bore  into  hers, but she wouldn’t look away, wouldn’t back down. He was right  about one thing: She’d fight it. Because it wasn’t in her nature  to give in. Not  even to Alec Walker and his amazing eyes. His warm hands, his soft, lush mouth . . .

She had to keep things under control,  as she always did. And ignore the way he looked. The way he spoke. The way he touched her.

He was going to really touch her soon.

She silently commanded  herself  to calm once  more,  took  a long, quiet breath.  Control was the key here, and she was noth- ing if not the queen of control.  Her  life had dictated that she be exactly that, ever since she was a child. She’d had to be, with her mess of a mother.  Someone had had to be, and she was the oldest. She’d had to take care of Quinn.

You did a lousy job of it.

Why was she thinking  about all of that now? She pushed her past to the back of her mind, where it belonged.  And focused on the man sitting across from her, watching her so carefully.

Yes, she could handle Alec Walker, whether  he thought so or not.

“Alec.”

“Yes?”

“I have a proposition of my own.”

“Oh?” One dark brow raised.

“If it turns out you can’t break me, as you seem to think you can—”

“Oh, I will. Although I prefer to think of it as taming.”

“So you keep saying. But if it doesn’t work, you’ll let me play you. Top you.”

He surprised her by grinning.  “Fair enough.”

An image flashed in her mind,  of Alec naked, on his knees. But even in that brief fantasy, he didn’t appear to be submitting. No, he was strong, defiant, as confident as ever. She didn’t think he could appear to her any other way. There was nothing  soft or easy about this man.

Except for that mouth . . .

“We have a deal, then?”

He nodded once. “Absolutely. We have a deal.”

He  took her hand  once more,  his large fingers curling  over hers.  And before  she knew what  was happening,  he  was pull- ing her into him, leaning across the small café table, whispering against her mouth, “The best deals are sealed with a kiss.”

His mouth  was so close to hers, that lush, delectable mouth. Her body went weak, and she found herself leaning into him, pulling in his sweet, tea-scented  breath. Waiting  for his kiss.

He backed away, sank into his chair.

“But we’ll have to wait until you’re ready for me, Dylan. Until you’re begging for it.”

Jesus. She was nearly ready to beg for it now!

She shook her head. She wanted to press her cool hands to her heated skin. To push the dark red ringlet  of hair that had fallen into her face from her cheek. But she refused to let him see how unsettled  she was. How  full of need. Need  that  made her ache. For him.

She needed to get out of there, needed to get outside, into the cool, damp air. Needed  to breathe.

“I have to go,” she lied. “I have another  appointment.” “Of course. I’ll walk you out.” He stood.

“There’s no need.”

He bowed his head to her, all old-world  manners  once more. “If you insist.”

She stood, gathered her coat, her purse. “I . . . we didn’t really begin the interview.”

“I think we did.”

“Oh. Well, yes. I suppose we’ll talk more when . . . after . . . ” “Yes, we  will. Although  I  believe  if you  experience  these things,  you won’t  find a formal  interview  necessary. I’ll  e-mail you about when we’ll meet next.”

It wasn’t a question.  But she didn’t know how to phrase any sort of protest.

Damn it.

“Yes, we’ll talk.” She went to pull her coat on, and he was right there,  slipping it over her shoulders.  She could smell him again, that ocean and deep woods scent. “Thank you for meeting  with me today.”

“It was my pleasure.”

He was looking down at her, smiling. She drew in one last sur- reptitious  breath, breathing  him in.

God,  she really had to get a handle  on things.  Get  back to her usual self. But everything  felt different  with him. He  was a dangerous  man. But she’d never backed down from a challenge before, and she wasn’t about to now. Even if this particular  chal- lenge already had her doubting  herself, had her wondering which one of them would really end up on top.

It had to be her.

Had to be.

Jane Litte is the founder of Dear Author, a lawyer, and a lover of pencil skirts. She spends her downtime reading romances and writing about them. Her TBR pile is much larger than the one shown in the picture and not as pretty. You can reach Jane by email at jane @ dearauthor dot com

14 Comments

  1. Collette
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 10:39:38

    Ay-yi-yi!

    ReplyReply

  2. Lori
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 11:03:46

    Eden rocks, what else is there to say?! The woman is a goddess with Erotica and bdsm!

    {Edited by Jane to remove email address}

    ReplyReply

  3. Jane
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 11:07:14

    @Lori – i need you to enter via the Rafflecopter widget.

    ReplyReply

  4. desiree
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 11:51:27

    wow i like them blog on them can i ask ? di you have book mark or trading card in them is so how can i get them

    ReplyReply

  5. Jane
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 12:32:29

    @desiree: Hey Desiree, I’m not sure what you mean. If you want to enter the giveaway, simply leave your email address using the Rafflecopter widget.

    ReplyReply

  6. Tory Michaels
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 13:07:09

    Wowser, great excerpt!

    ReplyReply

  7. Eden Bradley/Eve Berlin
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 13:44:21

    Lori-thank you, sweets! And thanks to Dear Author for putting my books up today!
    Desiree-I think you were asking for bookmarks and Romance Trading Cards…? If you’re in the US I can mail you a few-just email me through my website. :)
    Eden/Eve

    ReplyReply

  8. erinf1
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 15:06:52

    Thanks for the fabulous post and giveaway!

    ReplyReply

  9. Dayle
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 16:57:15

    Oh I do like Eden Bradley!!!! And I haven’t read these ones!!!!

    ReplyReply

  10. June M.
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 18:14:11

    LOVE Eden’s books :)

    ReplyReply

  11. Judi L
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 18:46:21

    Awesome give-away!

    ReplyReply

  12. Angie G
    Nov 08, 2012 @ 19:38:10

    I’m so happy to see that this book isn’t written in first person POV.

    ReplyReply

  13. MichelleMc
    Nov 09, 2012 @ 10:15:34

    Thanks for sponsoring a giveaway!

    ReplyReply

  14. Nikki H
    Nov 10, 2012 @ 17:23:07

    I haven’t read these books by Eden Bradley, but I do really enjoy her work.

    ReplyReply

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