by Lori Power
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Other Books You Might Like
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Storms of Passion
by
Lori Power
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Storms of Passion
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Lori Power
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-188-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-189-2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
T-Love is our adventure together
Chapter One
His hand, such a sweet caress, leisurely cupped her breast as they spooned for the last warm snuggle on a chilly winter morning. Under her thin camisole, his thumb flitted across her nipple causing it to harden and respond. She awoke to his gentle, but insistent movements over her warm body. Her body heat rose and her heart beat quicken.
He stirred behind her and rubbed his loins ever so gently across her backside, prompting her to prostrate into him in a slow circular motion, inviting him in for more. As his hardened member slid along her buttocks, his fingers tickled across her stomach toward its inevitable destination—the wet cleft between her thighs. Moist, warm, and ready, she parted her legs just enough to allow him access as he slid his fingers along her slit, enjoying the slippery feel of the folds envelop his fingers as he slowly massaged and explored her private depths.
“Whew.” Vivian’s toes curled in their thick, woolen socks. She stretched them toward the fireplace on this freezing January evening. She glanced up from the manuscript submission she was reading, titled, The Marriage Bed, one of many she hoped to get through this weekend. She focused on the fire’s dancing flames before taking her red pen to make some notes in the margin. Vivid description, but not the right genre for our publishing house.
Vivian was a reader and loved her job. The publishing house she worked for received a multitude of manuscript submissions on a consistent basis. Some were good, most worthy, and others a pity. Only a few, representing the exceptional, were published. Vivian learned quickly that publishing is big business and expensive. Every manuscript of an unknown author is a complete gamble on how well the book would perform in the marketplace. However, every once in a while, Vivian found a gem. When she found the right combination that would work for the marketplace, it became the most exciting process for all parties concerned. The first time author’s bliss of finally being recognized and the publishing house’s gamble paying off. The marketing, the movie rights if the manuscript fit the artistic flair of the day, and on and on. For Vivian, who was at the beginning of the process, her reward consisted of the finder’s fees for being the one to discover the diamond in the rough.
To some, her job may seem tedious, but to Vivian, being the first line of contact for authors was most pleasurable. Imagine being the reader who launched Jane Austen. Vivian couldn’t imagine a better job than reading for a living. Being a reader not only paid the bills, it allowed her to support her other passions of cooking and collecting junk. Well, some may call her treasures junk, but she preferred to think of them as diamonds in the rough.
Sure, she had to sift through a lot of sand to reach gold. This would apply to both her passions of reading and searching for finds at garage sales, but even in the sand there were quartz and other interesting rocks to keep a miner interested.
She read a bit more of the erotic manuscript that had been slipped onto her romance genre pile. The story was still worth reading and interesting enough. Granted, it was a bit too over the top for their readership of the twenty eight to forty five female, typically busy moms who wanted to lose themselves in an adventure romance, but not over the top that they felt like they were cheating on their spouses. Oh, to discover a Nora Roberts or a Susan Robards, or a Tiffany cut diamond ring! Vivian’s career would be made.
She continued to read.
Awake now, with heat radiating from her core to create a glorious sizzle throughout her nerve endings, she reached behind her to pull his head into the curve of her neck, luxuriating in the feel of his tongue flicking over her rapid pulse. His hand between her legs seemed to keep the same rhythm as her heart beat. She pushed her bottom toward his enlarged member, relishing the feel of its sleek firmness between her buttocks as his hand…
Vivian stuffed the manuscript pages back in the envelope. “Oh, my God,” she said, placing the envelope to the side. Wow. Her body filled with warmth. “That’s it for that one.”
Taking her big, wooly socks off her feet, she pushed out of the comfy, plush chair. Striding toward the kitchen, barefoot, she spotted her sixty-five pound dog lying on his back. He was asleep and his feet were bent in all directions. Snickerdoodle jumped up from his slumber as she reached for her tea cup. Tail wagging, he followed her, she knew in hopes for a treat along the way.
Snickerdoodle was a Golden Doodle, a cross between a Golden Retriever and a full-sized poodle. When she saw him as a twelve week old pup, Snickerdoodle, like the cookie, was the first name that came to her and the name stuck.
Stopping to glance out the window, she touched the small frost lace gathering at the bottom to highlight just how cold the temperature was outside. Reflecting on the first few pages of the steamy manuscript, Vivian contemplated her lack of marriage bed, both the lack of a ring on her forth finger and the passion under the sheets. At thirty-one, she had friends who were male and boyfriends who turned into lovers over the years, but none were her ideal soul mate—that special fit she read about all the time. People wouldn’t write about love, desire, romance, if it didn’t exist, right?
Just after her breakup with her ex-boyfriend, Mark, she started thinking about real love. Their breakup had been bad. They dated for more than a year after meeting at a book launch. He owned an electronic bookstore. In this web-based era, Mark had capitalized early on the digital technology of electronic books and created a fortune five-hundred company helping to revitalize the industry which, at the time, had been fledging on how to approach the new age. Mark appeared, to their mutual friends, to be her ideal man. Athletic and intelligent, he was well versed on many subjects and seemed completely genuine. Seemed being the operative word.
They had been discussing the option of moving in together, the obvious next step in their relationship. In hindsight, perhaps it was those discernible next steps that threatened her sense of independence. Mark wanted Vivian to move into his place and she wanted him to move into hers.
They were having what was supposed to be a romantic dinner at Lindies when the subject of moving in together came up. The tranquil, mood-lit interior contrasted rather significantly with Mark’s table manners. Elbows spread on the table, he jabbed and cut his food as though he were a sword fighter, slaughtering the steak. Skewering the overly large piece of meat, he proceeded to scoop potatoes on top as one helping on his fork as if this was the first time he had eaten in weeks, instead of just a few hours.
He glanced around the posh downtown restaurant interior. “Moving to your place doesn’t make sense. I work downtown. I’m needed downtown. I live downtown. You can work and do whatever it is you do, anywhere.”
Vivian remembered how he made that statement as though he didn’t know what she did for a living.
He continued. “All you do is stop by the office once a week to pick up and drop off. You live in the middle of nowhere. The commute alone would be a killer for me fighting traffic from your place.”
She remembered how he had lifted the large, green napkin from his lap and scrubbed it across his face, then down over his chin before laying out his terms. He addressed the situation like a business meeting. He laid out the plan as if expecting her to make notes. His vague reference to her profession as the whatever you do should have been Vivian’s tip-off. She remembered starring into Mark’s intent blue gaze. What he had said made sense, to a point. What he failed to take into account was the Brick ‘n Brack Shop and Café she opened seasonally. Her shop stood along the edge of her property across from a lovely bed and breakfast. She loved her small side-business where she sold trinkets, and cooked and prepared her favorite dishes. She didn’t do this for profit, but for pleasure, and for the seasonal tourists heading to the mountains. The fact that her business actually turned a profit was a reflection of her passion.
Besides, she couldn’t move to the busy city. Snickerdoodle needed space to run and be the dog that he is. And she loved her home. Her house was so cozy, warm, inviting, and filled with treasures accumulated over the years, each one holding a memory. Mark was wrong. Her house wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. It just wasn’t downtown.
As she stood at the window, watching the icicles drip from the branches of the trees in her large back yard, she knew why moving in with Mark wasn’t in her best interest, and she noted with some degree of irony, the whole argument was a moot point now anyway.
Her reflections did nothing to change the current situation. She and Mark were no more. All of these thoughts, these imaginary discussions, should have been said back then. She should have made her feelings about her home, her business, her basic wants known to him at the time, but she didn’t and she had to own that. She had wanted to make their relationship work—wanted the ideal love. The love she shared with Mark was only gloss on the outside.
Running her finger along the cold window, tracing a heart on the misted surface, she now knew she never loved Mark. Not truly. But she had wanted to be in love so badly, she had been afraid to look deeper than the surface.
Vivian shook her head, remembering the final confrontation. Her best friend, Marcy, happily married with a toddler and one in the oven, had told her how good Mark was for Vivian—how she shone when Mark was around.
Marcy’s pert mouth was set in a determined mold. “Listen girlfriend, we can’t have everything our own way. You’re an independent woman, I get that. But at some point you’re going to need someone to share a life with and in doing so, you have to be willing to compromise a little.”
Marcy’s stance was almost aggressive, but Vivian understood her best friend only wanted to get her point across, which was for Vivian to be happily settled as she was, all a glow with her most recent pregnancy. Marcy was one of those women who made maternity wear look good, her dressing hugging all the right curves to accentuate the roundness of her burgeoning bulge.
After her visit with Marcy, Vivian had made the decision to move in with Mark, and was eager to celebrate with him. As she eagerly jumped behind the wheel of her Ford Mustang, she planned the menu of the romantic dinner she’d make for them to share, and tell him her decision over a glass of champagne. Yes, he’d like that, she had thought at the time. In her fantasy, they would then make passionate love and he’d ask her to marry him.
She had stopped at the corner deli across from Mark’s building to pick out all of his favorites, and then made her way to his penthouse apartment, grocery bags in tow. Before inserting the key, she smiled. She’d tell him he was right about the move after they made love. Grudgingly, she admitted his apartment had more living space than her two-story, cozy cottage. Snicker would adapt. All pets do.
Vivian had let herself in Mark’s apartment and walked to the kitchen. She was unpacking the groceries into the fridge when she noticed an open wine bottle on the counter. Strange, maybe he left it there last night? Reaching to cork the bottle, the unmistakable sounds of a couple making love pierced her hearing as a hot knife through butter. The heavy male sighs, the breathy gasps, unmistakable female.
Even though Mark’s betrayal occurred nearly nine months previous, the wound still tore at her heart. A tear slid slowly down her cheek as she gazed out to the frozen landscape.
To her credit, she did not do as the books and movies so typically depicted. She didn’t storm to the bedroom to confront Mark and his lover. She didn’t grandstand. Instead, she’d left the one bag of groceries unpacked on the counter, pulled a sticky note from the drawer, and wrote, Came by to surprise you with supper, but I was the one surprised. Have a good life. V. Then, she left.
Her friends had rallied around her, equally shocked and constantly questioning if she was sure there was another woman, when she didn’t actually see the event. Vivian always just shrugged.
“Why doesn’t he call?” she had asked Marcy, unconvinced. “If I’m wrong about what was going on in his bedroom, then I’m happy to be wrong. So, why hasn’t he called to plead his innocence?”
Vivian had waited by the phone. God, how she waited. Time seemed to slow as she served out her sentence in purgatory. She picked up the receiver more times than she could count to listen to the dial tone, ensuring the phone was indeed working. She even went as far as to punch in his number before promptly hanging up.
“Honey, he’s likely as hurt and confused as you,” Marcy said, but the light of conviction didn’t shine in her soft, brown eyes. “I really liked Mark and I liked the two of you together. I want you to be sure about what happened before you throw in the towel.”
He never called and within a month, rumors circulated that Mark’s new lover had moved in with him. Everyone in the small world of publishing would now see that Mark and his new girlfriend were a couple.
Vivian avoided the office. She was humiliated. To show her face made her sick that she’d be seen as the laughing stock of office gossip. She questioned her relationship with Mark. Did he look elsewhere when she was unmotivated to make the commitment he wanted? Was his infidelity was her fault? Her mother would say so. Keeping a man happy and satisfied should be a woman’s top priority, is what her mother would say.
Then the letter arrived.
Vivian, I am not going to bother to call to explain myself. What happened has happened and is, in my opinion, for the best. I simply want closure as I move on with my life. I don’t need to explain or justify my behavior to someone who has her head so far in the clouds she can’t see life happening around her. I want to share a life, live life. I don’t think any male can live up to your ideal man. I gave up trying. Mark
Her tears had splattered the surface of the heavy parchment, leaving water blotches and running the ink. Later, when the irony of the letter struck, her eyes were stinging and dry from crying as she crumpled the letter and threw the balled parchment across her bedroom floor.
“That would have been good to know prior to your sleeping with someone else, you bastard!” She yelled at an imaginary Mark into the air of her empty house. “You bastard!”
She wanted to smash furniture, make a big dramatic show of her emotions, but who would care. There was no one to see. No one to care. Empty. That is how Mark’s letter had made her feel. He had worded the letter purposely with malicious intent. He wanted her to feel hollow with lost hopes and dreams.
Despite the acknowledgment that they did not truly love one another, the way the relationship ended still spiraled her thoughts. Mark’s note, so succinctly written with the minimum amount of words, had been so harsh, she wondered if her head in the clouds part was true. Had she created a life where no one could live up to her ideal man?
How could an author be motivated to write about love, passion, and adventure, if it didn’t exist? She shook her head. “If romance is out there Snicker, I will certainly find it.” She made a vow to the over-sized dog, and bent to give his ears a good scratch.
Vivian opened the back door leading off the kitchen. A blast of frigid cold air sailed over her bare feet, bringing her back to the present. She crossed one foot over the other to preserve their warmth. Vivian waved her hand forward, an indicator for Snicker to go outside do his business. “You go on now.” She couldn’t help but smile when she glanced down at Snicker. If dogs could talk, she was pretty sure his return stare would be vocalized as, “You try to pee in that cold. I’d rather hold it than freeze my…”
She shut and locked the door. “Okay, I get the picture. At five, you are certainly old enough to know your own mind.” She checked his water and food dishes to ensure they were full. As if having not appreciated her insinuations, Snickerdoodle merely sniffed and turned his nose up at the food. “A man of discerning tastes as well today. Well, well.”
“A cup of tea for me.” Vivian turned the kettle on. “Then back to the next submission.” She was thoroughly cooled down now from that last story and in need of a good distraction from her present train of thoughts.
