Pleasure Point

by Eden Bradley

  The sun was beginning to set and he was still naked, sitting on the end of the bed. He could still smell her in the room, that delicate scent of citrus and jasmine.

  She tried to show him her strength even as she submitted to him, but he knew there was a certain fragility to her beneath. And he’d fucking hurt her. There was no way he couldn’t beat himself up about it.

  He’d let her down. But first he’d purposefully taken her up, to the soaring heights of D/s play, of pain play. Taken her to the space where she was no longer able to care for herself, where she was his responsibility. And he’d let her fall, rather than preventing it.

  “It’s like Kerri all over again,” he muttered, scraping a hand over his jaw.

  Where the hell had that come from? It was nothing like Kerri. Kerri had cancer. That hadn’t been his fault.

  But he’d felt somehow that it had been. He thought he’d let that go. Apparently not.

  “Jesus.”

  He was one messed up bloke.

  But this really was nothing like Kerri. Or, it hadn’t been until he’d been an asshole and made Miranda leave and he was left…without her. Maybe he’d created a self-fulfilling prophecy of loss. Maybe he was fucking scared, even now, after all this time. He’d always thought he was simply done with love—that Kerri had been it for him. But maybe what he’d been doing was hiding from it, keeping most of his heart shut down, locked away. It had taken Miranda to open it up again, and it was apparently rusty as hell from lack of use. What had the grief counselor told him? That grief happened in stages? He just hadn’t expected to have yet another stage ten years down the road. It had popped up and bitten him in the ass. So damn hard he’d freaked out. Was still freaking out, if truth be told. But at least he was getting some perspective as to why.

  When his cell phone rang he answered without looking, thinking—hoping—that it would be Miranda.

  “Hallo.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Jenna? I thought you were away at summer camp.”

  “Oh, that was over days ago,” she said, in the dismissive manner only a teenager could manage. “Well, I was supposed to stay for another two weeks, but Tricia went home early and then I was bored and Mum let me come home.”

  “Didn’t you have any fun, darling girl?”

  “We went riding every day, and there was a painting instructor who was really quite good. And his assistant was so cute. But I suppose you don’t want to hear that part.”

  “I’m your old man—I don’t want to hear about any ‘cute’ males unless I’m there to hold a shotgun to their heads should they consider hurting my girl.”

  “You’re so dramatic, Dad,” she said with a long sigh.

  “I learned from the best, my darling.”

  Jenna huffed. “So Tricia and her aunt are going to Paris in a week and they’ve invited me but Mum said I was getting spoiled and wanted me to talk to you before deciding.”

  “And what are you to do in Paris?”

  “See the Louvre, of course! If I’m going to be a famous painter someday, I have to see the Louvre. And the d’Orsay. And maybe wander around Montmartre a bit.”

  “Just watch out for those French artists. They’re a lustful bunch.”

  “All creative types are.”

  “And how do you know that at your age?”

  Another long, dramatic sigh. “Dad. I’m sixteen, not six.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. But yes, you may go, if my opinion counts. You should see as many of the museums as you can. It’s a good way to spend some of your summer. Tell your mother I approve. And I’ll transfer some cash to your account, since I’m fairly certain no woman can visit Paris without doing a bit of shopping.”

  “Thank you, Daddy. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. You’ll still be coming to London next month?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Must run, Dad. I have to call Tricia and tell her it’s alright.”

  “Love you, my darling.”

  “Love you, Dad. Bye.”

  He was smiling as he hung up the phone. Jenna was the one thing he’d done right in this life. The thought, and their conversation, had improved his mood considerably.

  His cell rang again and he figured it was Jenna calling him back to ask him something else about Paris, but it was Joely, the island’s pilot, whom he’d known since he had first come to Eden to design the dungeon spaces. They’d had many flights to and from the island in which to talk in the small puddle-jumper she flew. Never anything too in depth, but enough that he felt he knew her. Still, he was surprised to see her number light up the screen.

  “Hallo.”

  “Roan, I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be polite and wait in the foyer.”

  He shook his head as he grabbed his robe—the same one Miranda had worn that morning—and wrapped it around himself as he moved into the living room.

  “Joely? What are you doing here? And how did you get up here?”

  Joely stepped into the room, bravado radiating from her small frame, her hands braced on her hips. She was dressed in her uniform of khaki shorts and black polo shirt with the island logo. Her green eyes were blazing.

  “The guys at the security desk know I’m the island’s pilot—I told them I was picking you up. They didn’t even bat an eye. You might want to talk to them about that. But right now, you and I need to have a talk.”

  “About?” But he had some idea. He remembered that Miranda had said Joely was her close friend. “Look, if you came here to discuss Miranda with me, I think—”

  “Apparently you don’t, or you’d be with her right now instead of treating her like some piece of trash you can throw away when you’re done with her. She’s an amazing person, Roan, and… Well, until recently, I kind of thought you were, too, when you’re not behaving like a jerk, or I wouldn’t have bothered to come here.”

  “Uh…thank you?”

  Joely snorted. “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you were smart you’d get over it damn quick and go over to her place to apologize. If you’re lucky—very lucky—she’ll find some way to forgive you.”

  He met her fiery gaze and said quietly, “I don’t think I shall be so lucky.”

  “Really, Roan? You’re just going to give up and run away with your tail between your legs? I would never have expected that from you. Not that I know you that well, but at the very least I’d think those British good manners would have kicked in.” She huffed. “I’m usually right about these things.”

  He shook his head—her words were hitting below the belt, but they were true. “You are right.”

  “What?”

  “I said you’re right. I have to apologize to her, at the very least. And maybe… I don’t know. There are other circumstances. Things I’ve never discussed with you. With anyone.”

  “That’s fine. I’m not the one who needs to hear your darkest and deepest. She is. You’d do well to discuss whatever it is with Miranda, or you’re going to lose her for good. Moment of truth, buddy. Do you really want that to happen?”

  Fuck no.

  He shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t.”

  “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to get dressed. And Roan? You might want a shower first. I’ve seen you look better and the sweet island breeze can only do so much.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “I’m certain you have. I shall take your advice.” He sobered then. “All of it.”

  Her chin lifted. “Good. See that you do.”

  She turned and left with a small, dismissive wave of her hand, and he would have been amused if his gut weren’t churning so damn hard.

  He had to see Miranda. Had to talk to her. Hope she accepted his apology.

  But then what? There was still Jenna to consider. And he wouldn’t—couldn’t—drag her through another heartache, even if he now understood that he was willing to do it himself for the first time in ten years
. But only if he took that risk with Miranda.

  “Well fuck,” he murmured under his breath as he got into the shower.

  First things first: he had to see Miranda. Had to. As reckless as it felt not to go in with a more fully-formed plan—particularly if it could involve his daughter—he was going to fly in blind. But Joely was right—it was better than not flying at all.

  Chapter Eight

  She woke with her head pounding, blinking in the dark room. It was still night, then. How long had she been sleeping?

  The pounding grew harder, louder, until she realized it was someone knocking at her door.

  “Crap.”

  She got up, still in her little pink robe. Shuffling through the apartment, she paused to flip on a lamp, then unlocked the deadbolt on her door. “I don’t know who this is, but it’s late and I think you’ve got the wrong—”

  As the door swung back there he was. Roan. Had she ever imagined he’d come after her? And damn it, if she had she might have soaked her post-crying jag eyes in a cool compress or brushed her hair.

  She was such a girl.

  Even more so because her heart melted a little seeing him standing there, so damn gorgeous with those incredible green eyes, his dark brows drawn, looking as disheveled as she’d ever seen him in a pair of low-slung sweat pants and a plain white T-shirt. More approachable, which also made her a wary. And hell, she was still mad at him, no matter how damn sexy he looked.

  “What do you want, Roan?” she demanded, hurt radiating through her chest, making it go tight.

  “I want to talk about what happened, Miranda. May I come in?”

  She stood back, gesturing with a flourish of her hand—she didn’t know what else to do. And maybe it was time for her to have her say about what had happened. “Be my guest.”

  He moved past her and it took every ounce of will and anger in her body not to breathe him in. He sat down on the white sofa.

  “Sit with me, Miranda,” he said. “Please.”

  The anger rose, burning like bile in her throat. “You know what, Roan? You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

  “I wasn’t…that wasn’t my intention. I simply wanted to try to explain myself.”

  “There is no excuse for what you did earlier.”

  “No. There’s not. Which is why I said ‘explain.’”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

  “Miranda…you know I’m a widower. You know the sort of loss that can be. How it can stick in places you aren’t even aware of.”

  “Jesus, Roan. Are you going to tell me what it’s like to be widowed? Because I’ve had less than half the time you have to deal with that, so I think I have a pretty damn good idea of what it’s like. And I’ve come to realize that at this point it’s a lousy excuse for…anything. Which make it about half as a good an excuse for you.”

  “Yes,” he said simply. She waited for him to say more, but he sat quietly watching her, a storm in his eyes.

  Well, let him be pissed off. Fine. She was plenty fucking pissed. Let him see what it felt like. She knew she was being childish. She didn’t care.

  Finally he said, “Miranda, I know you understand this perhaps even better than I do at this point. I do. But that’s only one part of what I’m dealing with.”

  “What else, Roan? You have some girlfriend in San Francisco?” she asked, the idea hitting her all at once. They hadn’t discussed being exclusive—of course they hadn’t—but the words nearly choked her. “Do you have some sub there?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  “Well, I don’t know you very well, even after…” She had to force the words out as she remembered the intensity of their time together. “…even after these last days together. You could have women all over the world for all I know, being the big kink lecturer and dungeon designer.”

  He had the grace to look hurt. “Is that what you think of me? Because I’ll admit I’ve played with a lot of women. Been with my share. But what you have to understand—have to,” he said, his voice breaking a bit, making her heart twist, “—is that none have touched me in the way you have. None have managed to get inside. Because I never allowed it to happen. It never even seemed to be an option. And then I met you and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to prevent it.”

  “God damn it, Roan,” she said, her jaw clenching against the emotion welling inside her. “Don’t say these things to me if you don’t mean them.”

  He got to his feet, came up to her, towering over her. She’d forgotten how tall he was. How incredible he smelled.

  “I do mean it. Every word.”

  She bit back the tears, swallowed them down hard. “Then what else are you dealing with that has anything to do with you and me?”

  “My daughter.”

  She shook her head. “What?”

  “Jenna is sixteen. I met her mother in university in London before I transferred to UC Berkeley. It was one of those very short-lived things people have at that age. I didn’t even know about her until after she was born, until I’d moved to the US.”

  She could feel her eyes going wide. “You have a daughter? And you haven’t mentioned her until now?”

  “I don’t…I don’t talk about her to too many people. It’s complicated.”

  Miranda leaned her back against the wall, the room spinning. “I think you’d better tell me how it’s so complicated having a child you don’t tell a woman you’re… sleeping with that you’re a father. People have kids all the time.” He reached for her hand but she jerked away. “Tell me, Roan.”

  He scrubbed at his jaw and for the first time she saw uncertainty stark on his face.

  “Jenna was only four years old when I married my wife. Kerri was her name. I don’t know that I’ve told you that. But I feel as if I have to tell you everything now.”

  “I think you do,” she agreed quietly.

  “We had Jenna come here, went to London to visit her as often as possible. She adored Kerri. When Kerri died Jenna went through a terrible time. She’d become so attached. I can’t tell you how awful it was to see my child’s grief. So much worse than even my own. She was only seven—far too young to have to go through such a painful loss. It wasn’t as if her goldfish died, damn it, or even some cousin she barely knew.” Raw emotion made his mouth a tight line. “I swore I would never put her through that again. And perhaps in there somewhere I swore the same for myself. So…” He shrugged. “Complicated.”

  “God, Roan.” She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I do. And I understand that this seems pretty much like it’s insurmountable.”

  He shook his head. “I just don’t know. I need some time to think it through. Because it doesn’t involve only myself. I have to make my decisions based on what’s best for her.” He let out a sharp laugh. “She thinks I’m an architect. Well, I am that. But she has no idea about all the places I design. Nor should she.”

  “I’m sure you do everything you can to protect her.” Even as she said the words, knew they were true and the mark of an utterly responsible and ethical man, her heart sank.

  Insurmountable. And he ‘just didn’t know.’ Her head dropped.

  “Roan, I don’t think you really need any time to think about this. This is your child. I understand why you feel you can’t have anyone in your life, having been through what you have. Both of you. What is there to think about?”

  He moved in, raised her chin with his fingertips, and she felt the tears burning behind her eyes. “There’s plenty, trust me.”

  Did she? Could she?

  Don’t cry.

  She swallowed, pulling away from his hand. She couldn’t stand it. Her heart was breaking all over again, without the righteousness of anger to soothe her.

  “I think you’d better go,” she told him, no matter how it hurt.

  “I just need some time, Miranda.”

  “I’m going into Miami tomorrow. I’m not
sure how long I’ll be gone.”

  “I’ll reach you on your cell if I miss you.”

  She shook her head. “Can you…please go now?”

  He moved toward her again. She flinched. He stopped.

  “I am so damn sorry, Miranda. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I think I do. Please go, Roan.”

  He nodded, moved past her and out the door. She managed to close it behind him before the tears came, pouring down her cheeks in hot streaks.

  Insurmountable.

  She leaned her forehead against the closed door.

  “Fuck.”

  Roan drove down to the beach, barely seeing the dark, sandy road winding in front of him—he simply drove toward the sound of the sea. He parked, kicked his shoes off, got out and began to walk down to the water’s edge. He let it wash over his feet, walking until his calves ached from the shifting sand and the pull of the tide, strong at this time of night. Finally he stopped and stood staring up at the stars and the moon shining brightly from behind a veil of silvery clouds. He was in one of the most beautiful spots on earth, but he couldn’t have cared less. All he could think of was the conversation he’d just had with the woman he loved.

  What if he allowed things to develop between them, allowed himself to love her? Hell, what if he allowed Jenna to love her? And then things ended somehow. He was certain he could survive, if not entirely intact, but did he have any right to risk that for his daughter?

  Jenna would adore Miranda.

  He adored Miranda. Loved her. Loved her in a way he could barely comprehend. It felt as if they’d spent five thousand nights together instead of only five. Was that what the island magic was all about?

  But…

  What if Miranda got sick and Jenna had to go through that terrible pain once more? What if he lost the woman he loved again?

  He hadn’t expected to love a woman ever again. That had to mean something.

  He was going in circles. But every spiral of thought led back to Miranda.

  Staring up at the faery brilliance of a star-strewn sky, the powerful and magical roar of the ocean in his ears, he knew what he had to do.