Exit to Eden
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The bold erotic masterpiece by #1 New York Times bestselling author Anne Rice writing as Anne Rampling
They call her the Perfectionist. A stunning, mysterious, and fearless sexual adventurer, Lisa is founder and supreme mistress of The Club—an exclusive island resort where forbidden fantasy meets willing flesh. Here eager participants who can afford life's most exquisite luxuries can experience the breathtaking pleasures of surrender and submission. Here nothing is taboo.
A thrill-seeking photojournalist, Elliott risks his life daily in the most dangerous, war-torn regions on Earth. Now he has come to Paradise to explore his most savage and vulnerable sexual self, committed to the ultimate plunge into personal risk.
Together, their journey to the limits of erotic pleasure will take them farther than they ever dreamed they'd go . . .
at this, Elliott. It’s going to be good, I promise you. I’m going to see to that.” I could feel the electricity coming from him, the energy that underlay his manner, the sharp sincerity of the look on his face. I think some acknowledgment passed between us then, something much darker and simpler than a smile, a slow silent concurrence, without irony or humor, that the statement had its charms. I felt power coming from him, and confidence in that power, and there was a powerful, seductive
eye, her jutting breasts under that elegant layer of lace, the vest that made her into a little hourglass. This was heaven and hell. And as she directed me towards one of the small clearings, I realized she might show me all of the diversions before choosing the one that had affected me the most. But when I saw the game in the clearing, I couldn’t too well cover up what I felt. There was a race in progress here, men all around the four-sided fenced enclosure with feet on the rail as they might
the flags outside and french doors all the way down the length of the room just the way they had been in her room at The Club. The bath and the kitchen broke the spell a little, same white tile and chrome fixtures, microwave oven, electric coffeepot you find in any luxury motel I shut the doors. It wasn’t hot enough for the air conditioning and the smell of the rain was exquisite, so I turned off the machine and I went outside and closed up all the big green shutters over the french doors so
said that. Was I going to let her down? I wanted to say something, but there weren’t any words. It was that baffling desire I’d had before in her rooms at The Club to confide something to her. I think I wanted to invade her, but not with meanness, not with cruelty, not with violence, not with strength, but with something else, more vital and more important and private than that. She made some little uncertain movement towards the bed. And I could feel her heat again, see it dancing under her
and we put on more of the discount store shorts and shirts and sandals. And we were pretty much ready to go out. Then something stupid happened, well, more or less. One of those big brown horrible Louisiana roaches got into the room, and Lisa jumped up off the bed screaming, absolutely screaming, when the roach came waddling over the bumpy polyester carpet across the room. Now these are actually waterbugs or so I am told. But no one that I have ever known from Louisiana ever called them