Eden Cove Resort

Prologue: The Last Stretch

The sun beat down on the rooftop terrace of the Fontaine Residences, a glass-and-gold skyscraper nestled high above the smog-tinted skyline. Wind whispered over imported bamboo plants. A bronze water feature trickled behind John's bare feet. It could've been peaceful. Serene.

It wasn't.

"John," whined the voice behind him, "do we really need to do this in the sun?"

John Vanderbilt didn't flinch. He held his position--knees bent, arms slowly sweeping in a fluid circle, breath syncing to the movement like ocean waves. Eyes half-lidded. Focused.

Behind him, squatting awkwardly on an oversized yoga mat that buckled under her weight, was Margot St. Clair--New York royalty, heiress to a food conglomerate, and a professional pain in the ass. She wore a custom lavender tracksuit lined with gold zippers and rhinestone initials: M.S.C.

She wasn't sweating. Not only that, but she was oozing.

"It's about energy flow," John said calmly, pivoting into a palm strike form. "Chi thrives in the open air."

"Chi would thrive in air conditioning," Margot snapped, mopping her forehead with a monogrammed towel. "And my Lululemon has sweat pooling in areas it has no business pooling."

John suppressed a smirk. He'd worked with royalty, celebrities, ex-athletes, and billionaires in retirement. None had prepared him for Margot's unique brand of entitled chaos.

She was in her early forties, proudly curvy, loudly judgmental, and entirely convinced that the universe owed her admiration simply for existing. Every Tai Chi session began with a complaint and ended with a personal philosophical rant, usually about men being useless and carbs being misunderstood.

"Shift your hips back," John instructed. "Float your hands. Good. Now--breathe."

Margot exhaled sharply and wobbled, trying to mimic the movement. It looked less like a graceful form and more like a falling chandelier in slow motion.

"This is absolutely barbaric," she muttered. "I should've just bought a Peloton instructor and locked him in the pool house."

John smiled politely and flowed into the next sequence. His movements were like poetry--strong, precise, soft at the edges. The sunlight caught his blond hair and traced the hard lines of his arms and torso through the fitted black tee.

He was twenty-five, but it showed in his energy more than his face. The kind of body built by discipline, not vanity. He was tall, lean with just the right dose of muscle, and moved with the quiet certainty of a man who'd seen and survived more than he said.

Because he had.

Before this--before New York, before personal training and daily ego management--John had worn a different uniform. A darker one. He'd been special forces. Krav Maga, Kung Fu, extraction missions, black sites. He knew how to take down a man with a teacup or vanish in the chaos of a city. But all that ended three years ago.

A bullet. A classified disaster. A name buried and discharged with honors.

Now, his battlefield was luxury rooftops. His weapons were balance and breath. And his clients, well--most couldn't spell Krav Maga, let alone survive a warm-up.

Margot was glaring at a bird now.

"Why do pigeons always look so smug?" she asked aloud. "They've done nothing for society."

John chuckled and turned to face her. "Let's try the final movement. Then we'll cool down."

"Final? Praise be." She adjusted her waistband. "I'm sweating through my diamonds."

⸻

The door to the rooftop swung open with a mechanical whoosh.

Both of them turned.

And just like that, the morning changed.

She stood in the doorway like she owned the sky.

Tall. Sculpted. Bronze skin glowing in the sun. Her long black hair was pulled into a sleek knot, and her tailored suit hugged every elegant curve. Mirrored sunglasses reflected the scene--Margot hunched like a melting meringue, John mid-pose.

"John Vanderbilt?" she asked, voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

John straightened slowly. "That's me."

Margot blinked. "I didn't order anyone--"

The woman strode forward without a glance at her.

"I'm Gianna. Eden Cove's Welcome Mistress." She extended a folder with a seal John didn't recognize. "I'm here on behalf of the Eden International Consortium to deliver your prize."

"My what?" he said, taking the folder.

"You're the winner of the Global Oasis Lottery."

Margot gave a loud, flat laugh. "Oh, please. That scam?"

Gianna didn't look at her. She removed her sunglasses, revealing fierce amber eyes.

"Not a scam. One man chosen from 8.9 billion entries. Full financial freedom. A private jet waiting downstairs. A seaside villa on Eden Cove."

"Eden what?" Margot snapped, flustered.

"An island paradise with unique lifestyle freedoms," Gianna said, glancing now--just briefly. "Far from judgment. Or rhinestone sweatbands."

Margot's mouth fell open.

John flipped open the folder.

Inside, a letter gleamed in embossed gold:

⸻

Congratulations, John Vanderbilt.

You are now the exclusive winner of the Global Eden Lottery.

Your prize includes:

• Full access to the Eden Trust Fund (currently valued at $19.3 billion)

• Lifetime ownership of our most elite seaside villa

• Global tax exemption and private travel access

• Citizenship under Eden Cove's Free-use Charter

Eden Cove is unlike any place on Earth.

On the island, all women--staff and guests--freely accept the Free-use Policy. There are no taboos. No need for permission. No games. Your desires are honored, openly and immediately.

And you are the most desired man on the island.

Savor it.

Monica Deyna

Director, Eden Cove

⸻

John read it again. And again.

"You're joking," he said, finally.

Gianna's voice softened. "Not at all. Your former apartment lease has been paid out and closed. All accounts transferred. This is the last time you'll ever need to be anywhere you would rather not be."

Margot stepped in, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me. He is in the middle of a private session. You can't just swoop in and take him like a prize--"

"I can," Gianna said, turning slowly. "Because he is one."

Margot flinched.

"And while you're here huffing lavender polyester and confusing motion with progress," she added, stepping closer, "he's about to be the most worshipped man in the Caribbean."

"You can't talk to me like that--"

"I just did."

Margot huffed. "You look like a glorified flight attendant in a pantsuit."

Gianna smiled slowly. "And you look like your waistband is losing a custody battle with your thighs."

John choked on a laugh.

Margot stormed past them, towel flying. "I'll be calling my lawyer!"

"Call him from the pool," Gianna called after her. "Maybe he'll teach you how to float."

Silence fell.

John stared at the folder. At the jet-black keycard tucked inside. At the words "No permission required."

Then he looked up at Gianna.

"You serious?" he asked.

Her gaze softened. "You deserve this, John. You've given enough. Now you get everything."

He considered that.

Then he picked up his water bottle.

"Lead the way."

The ride down was quiet.

The concierge looked stunned as they swept through the marble lobby and straight into a waiting black car with the Eden emblem in gold. The driver never spoke. The streets blurred past.

John asked once, "Is this real?"

Gianna only smiled and said, "It's Eden."

As they pulled up to a private airstrip outside the city, he saw it: a gleaming jet, engines humming, a gold infinity symbol painted on the tail.

No press. No photographers. Just a red carpet and sunlight.

Gianna turned to him.

"This is your last chance to walk away," she said softly.

John looked at the jet.

At the sky.

At the future.

Then back at her.

"Not a chance."

Chapter 1: In-Flight Instructions.

The private jet gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, its white fuselage polished to a mirror finish. A golden infinity symbol adorned the tail, subtle but unmistakable--a mark of something elite, secret, and far beyond normal.

John Vanderbilt stood at the foot of the boarding stairs, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He hadn't packed it. Gianna had handed it to him in the car, claiming it held "something more comfortable." He hadn't opened it yet.

Beside him, Gianna watched the plane without blinking. The wind teased a strand of her long black hair loose from its sleek knot, and she tucked it behind her ear with a gesture so effortless it could've been rehearsed.

"This is really happening," John murmured.

"It's already happened," she said. "You just haven't caught up yet."

She led the way up the steps, her heels clicking in a smooth, confident rhythm. At the top, the door hissed open, and a cool breath of lavender-scented air wrapped around them.

John stepped into luxury.

The cabin wasn't just first-class--it was another world. A plush L-shaped couch upholstered in deep cream leather stretched along one side, wrapping around a smoked-glass coffee table that shimmered with inlaid silver. Opposite, a built-in minibar sparkled under soft ambient lighting, stocked with crystal decanters and rare liquors. Toward the rear, a widescreen television nearly spanned the wall, quietly displaying aerial footage of a sunset drifting over ocean waves. There were no rows. No other passengers. Just space. Comfort. And indulgence, curated.

"Make yourself at home," Gianna said, gesturing toward the couch.

John dropped onto it, letting the leather embrace him like a sigh.

"I've trained in palaces," he muttered. "This beats all of them."

She smiled faintly and stepped to the bar, pouring two drinks--something golden and aromatic. "You're not just flying to Eden," she said, handing him a glass. "You're becoming part of it."

He took a sip. Smooth. Sweet with a trace of spice.

"Alright," he said, settling in. "Explain it to me. Everything. The resort. The island. This... Free-use thing."

Gianna sank into the seat opposite him and crossed one leg elegantly over the other. "Let's start simple. Eden Cove is a private island. Technically sovereign, recognized under a niche maritime agreement. It's run by the Eden Consortium--a group of ultra-wealthy patrons who believe the world has too many rules."

"Sounds vague," John said.

"It's meant to be," she replied smoothly. "Because Eden isn't for everyone. It's for the chosen few. Those who crave beauty, freedom, and indulgence without apology."

He leaned forward. "And the Free-use Charter?"

Gianna gave a small, amused tilt of her head, as if she'd been waiting for that.

"Every woman who comes to the island," she said, "whether staff or guest, signs the Eden Charter. By doing so, she agrees to a lifestyle where sexual availability is open, non-possessive, and prioritized around pleasure--yours in particular."

John blinked.

Gianna continued, calm as ever. "The idea is radical in most places. But on Eden, it's cultural. There's no shame. No resistance. No manipulation or pretense. If she's there, she's already said yes. You don't need to ask. You just enjoy."

"... Every woman?"

"Every. Woman." Her lips curved. "With one very specific clause: only you have Free-use privileges within the resort."

John tilted his head. "What do you mean 'within the resort'?"

Gianna stood and moved toward a small panel embedded in the wall. She tapped it, and a holographic map flickered into the air--an island shaped like a curved teardrop, dotted with beaches, coves, and architectural outlines.

She gestured toward the central area. "This is Eden Cove Resort. It's not just a hotel--it's an experience. Curated. Controlled. Everyone you'll meet there is part of the lifestyle."

"And outside the resort?"

She pointed to villas scattered along the outer edges. "Some residents. Private patrons. They live on the island, but they're not part of the resort itself. Some of them are men--but they don't have access to what you do."

"No Free-use?"

"No status," she confirmed. "Not within the resort. You are the man, John. The only one with full rights, full privilege, and full access. There are no rivals. No competition. Only you."

He was silent for a moment.

Then: "That's... a lot."

She smiled. "It's the fantasy every man has--and only one gets to live."

He exhaled slowly and leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. "So, what does a day look like?"

Gianna's voice was soft. "Whatever you want. Wake when you like. Swim. Drink. Walk the beach. Someone may join you. Or several. No games. No waiting. If you want it, it's yours."

He looked at her, searching her face. "Why me?"

"Because you're everything they crave," she said. "Disciplined. Desirable. Grounded. You've lived through fire and emerged focused. And you've already proven you know how to lead."

John looked down at his hands. Strong. Scarred. Capable.

"I thought I left all this behind when I left the military."

"You left war behind," she said. "Not power."

A quiet pause settled between them. The hum of the jet surrounded them like breath.

Then John turned to her.

"What about you?" he asked. "Are you included?"

Gianna held his gaze for a moment. No change in her expression. Then, without a word, she rose from her seat and crossed the short distance between them.

She sat beside him.

Close. Her bare thigh brushing his jeans, her dark eyes steady and unreadable.

"I've signed the Charter," she said simply.

John's gaze drifted down--her high-collared blouse, the subtle rise of her chest as she inhaled, the poise in every gesture.

He lifted a hand.

She didn't stop him.

His fingers grazed her bare knee, then traveled higher, skimming her inner thigh beneath the slit of her skirt. Her body was warm. Responsive, but still. Watching him.

She kept talking, as if nothing unusual was happening.

"Most winners don't ask that until much later," she murmured, voice smooth, amused.

"I'm not most," he replied, his hand sliding up more boldly now.

"No. You're not." she purred, her full lips curving into an enigmatic smile.

Gianna shifted slightly, allowing easier access as John's fingers danced along her thigh, drawing ever closer to the heat at her core. The slit in her skirt fell open further, revealing tantalizing glimpses of her long, toned legs.

Her hand found its way to his thigh, fingertips tracing teasing patterns through the denim of his jeans. The touch was light, almost innocent, yet charged with promise.

John's pulse quickened as Gianna's fingers traced maddeningly slow patterns on his thigh, each touch sending sparks of electricity through his body. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin, smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume -- something exotic and floral with an underlying note of spice. It clouded his senses, making it difficult to focus on anything but the woman before him.

"I've never been one for games," he said, his voice low and rough with barely restrained desire. In one fluid motion, he closed the remaining distance between them, capturing Gianna's lips in a searing kiss. His hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, tangling in the silky strands of her raven hair as he deepened the kiss, pouring all of his pent-up passion and need into the embrace.

Gianna melted into the kiss, her plush lips moving against John's with a hunger that matched his own. She arched into him, pressing the soft curves of her body flush against the hard planes of his muscular frame. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself as the world seemed to tilt and spin around them.

When they finally broke apart, both panting for air, Gianna's eyes were dark with desire, her usually composed facade crumbling under the intensity of their connection. She licked her kiss-swollen lips, savoring the taste of him.

"My, my," she breathed, her voice husky with want. "It seems you have a talent for skipping straight to the main event."

Gianna's hands began to roam over John's chest and arms, mapping the contours of his physique with clear appreciation.

John's heart raced as Gianna's hands explored his body, her touch igniting a fire beneath his skin. He could feel the heat building between them, the air growing thick with tension and unspoken desires. His own hands slid down to her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled, his voice low and rough with need. In one swift movement, he stood, pulling Gianna up with him and crushing her against his chest. His mouth found hers again in a bruising kiss, all teeth, and tongue as he poured his frustration and desire into the heated embrace.

John walked them backwards until Gianna's back hit the wall, pinning her there with his body. His hips pressed against hers, letting her feel the evidence of his arousal.

Gianna gasped into the kiss, her body arching instinctively as John pinned her to the wall with his powerful frame. She could feel every hard inch of him pressed against her soft curves, stoking the flames of her desire to new heights. Her hands fisted in his hair, tugging lightly as she met his passion with her own fervor.

When they came up for air, Gianna's chest heaved with each ragged breath, her nipples visibly straining against the confines of her blouse. She looked up at John through lowered lashes, her golden eyes molten with lust.

"I think I have some idea," she purred, rolling her hips subtly against his. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Gianna's hands slid down John's back to grip his firm buttocks, squeezing appreciatively.

John groaned at the feeling of Gianna's hands kneading his ass, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He ground his hips forward, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. One hand slid up to cup her breast, thumbing her nipple through the thin fabric of her blouse until it pebbled under his touch.

"I'm going to worship this gorgeous body of yours," he promised darkly, his other hand already working on the buttons of her top. "I will touch and taste every inch of you until you're trembling and begging for release."

With deft fingers, John undid the last button and pushed the blouse off Gianna's shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He took a moment to drink in the sight of her, clad now in just a lacy black bra that barely contained her ample breasts.

Gianna shivered as the cool air hit her newly exposed skin, goosebumps rising in the wake of John's heated gaze. She reached back to unclasp her bra, letting it join her blouse on the floor. Her breasts spilled free, full and perfect, the dusky nipples already puckered with arousal.

"Then what are you waiting for?" she challenged, her voice a seductive purr. Gianna took John's hand and guided it to her breast, arching into his touch. "Show me the depths of your worship."

At the same time, her nimble fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to caress the hard planes of his abdomen. She could feel the coiled strength there, the power barely leashed. It thrilled her, made her ache to be claimed by him fully.

John's large hands engulfed Gianna's breasts, kneading the soft flesh reverently. He leaned down to capture one rosy peak in his mouth, suckling and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. His other hand continued its exploration, trailing down the dip of her waist to the flare of her hips. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her skirt, tugging it down slowly, reveling in the inch-by-inch reveal of her long, toned legs.

As the skirt pooled at her feet, John pulled back to admire the view. Gianna stood before him in nothing but a scrap of lace that barely qualified as panties, her body a work of art. He dropped to his knees, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her stomach as he went, tasting her skin.