desire for Bliss: a novel of Sex, Mystery and Romance (RiverHart Book 2)

by Adira August

She rose up on her knees in front of him, using the fingers of both hands to comb through his dark curls. “I’ve never felt this safe with anyone,” she told him. “You remember on the floor of the dressing room, I just got out of the shower and you were messing with my hair. Was that sexual?”

  “No,” he said. “I just wanted to … I just wanted to be in contact with you.”

  She nodded. Her hands slid down to his neck and shoulders. “You’re so beautiful to me. But sometimes it becomes sexual. I have a feeling that’ll happen pretty often between us. Or it might just be sexual, like in the back of the S.U.V. Friday.”

  A flush was slowly infusing his skin as she ran her hands over his arms and chest. “So when you touch me and it’s sexual, you want to be in control?” He asked, his voice was low and hoarse.

  Avia pulled away and sat back on her heels. “I wouldn’t want that now. I don’t want to make any decisions or take any responsibilities. I love you doing that for me, for us. I learn so much about what you want and like and what I want and like, but …” She cocked her head, considering.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I'll want to do what I want to do. So - so maybe when I want that I could just say ‘My turn.’ Would that work?” She felt a little foolish, wondering if there was some special signal everyone in the “BDSM Community” used for that.

  “Would you be asking me or telling me?” He asked, keeping his voice even with effort.

  She leaned over and wrapped her arms about his neck. “I’d be informing you. And if you want something else, you’ll inform me.” She grinned at him. “Maybe we’ll end up wrestling for it.”

  He shifted. “You’d always lose.”

  She grinned. "Yeah."

  His arms were around her and he’d rolled her onto her back, looking into her eyes. Her hands roamed over him, down to his waist and pulled his shirt up out of his waistband, her questing fingers finding his skin, sliding around to his back, the valley of his spine as she stroked up.

  He sat back on his knees suddenly and pulled all three garments, sweater, shirt and t-shirt off, and lay back down over her, giving her access to his nude upper body. She couldn’t stop looking him, touching him, feeling his skin, the rolling landscape of muscle. Her palms came around the front and slid down under his belt.

  Her eyes found his. “Undo this,” she whispered.

  He leaned his weight on one arm and reached down with the opposite hand. He opened his jeans, sliding the zipper down. As fast as he did her hands moved in under the fabric, over his hips, around and under his buttocks, back to the front, sliding down his abdomen behind the hard, hot column of his erection.

  He voice deep, thick with his arousal, he asked, “Is it your turn now?”

  “What?” She seemed confused by the question, so distracted was she by the feel of his body under her hands. “I just … I just don’t want to stop touching you.”

  He wrapped her in his arms then and kissed her, deeply, lovingly, passionately. She accepted him, stroking his tongue with hers. Her hands wrapped around his great cock, tightened. He growled into her mouth and moved directly over her, both forearms on the ground above her shoulders. She pushed his pants and briefs down, over the curve of his hips and hard, rounded buttocks.

  Bending her knees, she slipped off her shoes and used her feet to push his pants down to his lower legs, her hands exploring his strong thighs. She mewled with longing as she slid her palms up to cup his glutes and draw him up and into her.

  He broke the kiss, his head thrown back and her hands came back around between them and he lifted up on his knees to give her room. He pulled her skirt up.

  “These didn’t last long,” he said and ripped her panties down one side, dragging them down her other thigh, out of the way.

  "Avienne,” he groaned as her hands found him and guided him to her entrance, soft and hot and slick and she rubbed the head of his cock against herself, rocking her hips up, stroking him with her wet velvet heat.

  He looked down into her eyes and saw her awareness of him and a frisson of energy ran through him and tightened his core, and heated the fine web of nerves in his pelvis.

  He slid into her slowly, one of her hands slipped down between his legs and cupped his tight sac, while the other moved down as he entered until she ringed his dick tightly at the base with thumb and forefinger, keeping him from penetrating her fully.

  Her fingers kneaded his balls, making him swell and tighten and the ring slid up and down the last inch of him in, her own wetness lubricating his shaft. He thought he’d go mad with the fiery fullness, the need to slam into her, burst the dam and empty himself.

  But her eyes had dropped to watch his cock moving in and out of her, her fingers around him, her mouth open and wet, panting. Her skin shone with perspiration, her pupils wide and black.

  So he fucked her slowly, steadily, because she loved this. He slipped his thumb between them, finding the spot just below her clit to press as her hips tilted with his thrusts. Her legs went stiff and her cunt tightened viciously around him.

  Her head went back, her body bowed. “Ben, oh God, Ben, I can’t ... I can’t ... I can’t …” and then both her arms were around his body and her legs wrapped around his waist and he thrust hard into her, holding her head in his big hands, his mouth pressed to hers and they came together, their cries mingled.

  Avia put her hand on his outstretched forearm for balance and she stepped into her shoes. They gathered everything up and he led her back down the deer trail to the main path back to the picnic area. They skirted around two tables of student picnickers with a cooler of Coors, roasting hot dogs.

  Ben seemed distant as they approached the car. Avia let him alone, he seemed more lost in thought than putting up a barrier. And she was too content at that moment to seek out any drama.

  He shook out the blanket and carefully brushed the leaves from it and folded it with the wet spots inside. She imagined it was destined for the dry cleaners. Finally closing the hatch, he leaned back against it, watching the students.

  One boy stood near the fire his arms casually circling a girl’s waist who was fitting a hot dog on a stick. Another couple was sitting side by side, thighs and shoulders touching, talking to the others.

  Avia went to his side and leaned back against the car next to him. “So,” Ben began. She looked up at him. “I’m in control. But sometimes you’ll want a turn, and you’ll tell me. But - what we just did?” He cocked his head. “How does that fit?”

  She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed the back. “That’s us making love to each other with sex,” she said. She got serious and pivoted around to face him. “Did you want something from me you didn’t get?”

  He shrugged and touched her hair. “I didn’t even know we were going to have sex, again. So I’m all in the plus column.” His hands slid down her arms and he took both her hands and lifted them to his chest.

  “Tell me the other thing. The rule,” he said.

  Avia blinked. “What rule?”

  His thumbs stroked her knuckles. “You said there was something you wanted and a rule you wanted to make. Touching was the thing, what’s the rule?”

  “Oh,” she said. Suddenly she felt uncertain, that it should go without saying. I need to be sure.

  “Exclusivity. It was a rule for Companionship, but now, well, I need the rule. For all the time. Everywhere. So when I’m in court wearing your panties and you’re on the other side of the world, I know you’re my Alpha male. ” She searched his face anxiously.

  “Avienne,” he whispered, gathering her into his arms and kissed her deeply. Thoroughly. Hands in her hair, sliding down her back, pressing her with the full length of his muscular frame. Her arms around him, urging him even closer, she felt the deep hum of satisfaction in his throat.

  He broke the kiss, leaving her breathless. “You collared me at ‘hello’.”

  Watcher 4

  Watcher trusted gut instinct and something was wrong. The reporter’s car
had left the parking garage in Boulder almost two hours ago. Watcher had seen the sunlight glint off blond hair and the slender neck turn as she checked for traffic. The red hatchback was easy to tail, much of the traffic staying on the highway all the way into Denver. Even if the target noticed the car, it was just one of many also heading for capital city.

  She hadn’t gone home, but disappeared into a private lower level of the Colordan Hotel parking garage. Watcher found a space on the street in metered parking and entered the garage on foot, ducking under the automatic yellow barrier gate.

  Descending the concrete ramp, hugging the wall to keep out of sight, if possible, Watcher found a large empty parking area. The space, dimly illuminated by fluorescent strip lighting, while large, would only account for half the full size of the garage above. What was clear was, there was no one else there.

  Watcher carefully examined the barren space and realized the concrete wall at the back of the area wasn’t in deep shadow at one end, but, instead, open to darkness.

  Investigating the opening revealed a smaller space beyond the wall. There was a locked metal door, an elevator accessed by a keypad, a small parking area with car care equipment on shelves, including a hose mounted over a faucet, a large rolling trashcan (empty), and the reporter’s car.

  A faint bit of natural light caught Watcher’s attention, and this led to the discovery of a simple set of concrete stairs that led up to the sidewalk in front of the hotel.

  SonuvaBITCH! A locked door, a security elevator or the stairs to the street meant the target could easily have left the garage without being seen. She could be anywhere inside the hotel or downtown by now.

  Taking a calming breath, Watcher thought of the nondescript rental car used in her surveillance. She had no reason to believe she was being followed. No reason to sneak away. The most likely explanation was, she was meeting someone at the hotel. A friend for lunch? An interview? Not likely. She knew about the underground parking, had a code to be admitted. She would have needed a key for the door, a code for the elevator.

  Someone told her these things. Someone with the authority to grant her access. That would be the someone she was meeting inside. The set-up in the parking garage screamed V.I.P. access. Private. Discrete. Someone with a driver who might do some simple car maintenance while the boss was - where? Having aged whiskey in the pub with a pretty blond reporter? Lunch in the restaurant? Could be having a lot more than just lunch in a room. A suite. But still … an entire floor of a parking garage that could be turning a profit dedicated to a guest?

  Watcher leaned over the steering wheel and peered up at the top of the building, catching a glimpse of green caught in a breeze. A tree? Watcher smiled, pulling out a cell phone. Time to find out who owned the Coloradan Hotel.

  Weigand, Ivers, Weigand & Shore

  “You want to do anything about Rivers?” Preston Shore asked Dave Weigand, looking through the trial plan.

  “Who?” Weigand asked, reading a text.

  At the end of the conference table, Raina Jackson kept her head down, eyes glued to the diary pages on her laptop screen. It would do her no good to show her contempt for a lead attorney who didn’t know the names of the principals in a case.

  “The reporter,” Pres answered. “The one who should have been called to establish probable cause for the warrant to be issued that the prosecution’s case hinges on.”

  Weigand sent a text and looked up. “They aren’t calling her,” he frowned. “Why do we need to do anything?”

  Preston shrugged. “They might be waiting to see if we take their deal. If we don’t, they can put her on their witness list later. Surprise us.”

  Weigand shook his head, reading a new text. “They won’t call her. She’s covering the trial,” he said, not looking up.

  But Raina did look up, surprised. She exchanged a look with Preston Shore, who showed no reaction, as usual.

  “You sound confident, Dave, how do you know she’s working the trial?” Preston asked.

  Weigand waggled his cell at Pres. “Dad’s informants came through. The Week assigned her national coverage, they aren’t bringing in anyone else. And, she’s staying at The Coloradan for the month.”

  Even the Zenman’s eyebrows went up at that. “The Week is footing the bill for a luxury hotel room for a reporter when the Holiday Inn is two blocks away?”

  Dave Weigand flicked off the phone and picked through a last few pastries on a large plate in the center of the table. “That’s the word. Her editor probably got deal from Hart, they go way back.”

  “Hart who?” Pres asked.

  David Weigand leaned back in his chair and chewed a big bite of pecan danish, enjoying the moment. He’d learned a few tricks from his father, one was never letting anyone know how smart you really were. It was time for Shore to learn he hadn’t been made partner by nepotism alone.

  He reached for his coffee and nodded at Raina Jackson. He could tell from her expression, the smug black bitch knew exactly who he was talking about.

  Jackson thought she’d manipulated his father into giving her the job. Dave knew Cecil had let her think that and then lowballed her shamefully when he made the offer. And she took it, thinking the job offer, itself, was her victory.

  The firm gained a top candidate with exceptional credentials. She worked twice as hard as anyone else for less money than anyone else to prove she wasn’t just a great set of tits and ass.

  David Weigand really did admire his old man.

  “Ms. Jackson, tell Mr. Shore who Hart is,” Weigand ordered, taking another bite of Danish.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said. “Benedict Valor Hart, thirty-two years old, Cornell graduate, worth in the neighborhood of four point five billion dollars. Designs, manufactures and markets sexual support products internationally. He is also the second largest publisher of erotic romance books in the United States.”

  “Sexual support products?” Pres asked.

  Dave Weigand smirked and gestured to Raina to explain, wanting to enjoy her discomfort. He was disappointed when she answered promptly and without embarrassment.

  “Sex toys,” she said. “Also products like lubricants, kink clothing, condoms. That sort of thing.”

  “Very good, Ms. Jackson,” said Weigand. “And besides all of that, he owns The Coloradan hotel. Janet Johnson, Rivers,’ boss, is an old college friend. Maybe they were fucking back then,” he shrugged. “It’s not out of the question he offered a room for the month at a very deep discount."

  Preston Shore relaxed back in his chair, considering. He wasn’t at all discommoded by Weigand’s celebration of his own cleverness. He’d one-upped Shore, which only meant Pres had to be more careful of showing his strength too early. He didn’t want to alienate Dave.

  What Pres didn’t understand, is why Dave seemed so extraordinarily pleased. It was all interesting, he supposed, if you followed social media, but it hardly had much relevance to the trial.

  Unless it did.

  Shore knew asking for the information would really boost Weigand’s ego and cement his self-image as the shrewdest legal mind in the room. Pres considered it job security and plunged ahead.

  “How does this help us?” He asked.

  Weigand grinned like a man about to lay a straight flush on top of four aces. “Hart’s connected. … Both directions.”

  Now that was interesting, Preston thought. If he had someone inside the District Attorney’s office and he had organized crime connections, he might know more than anyone but Madigan, himself, about the case.

  “Rivers isn’t testifying,” Weigand declared. “If she was, Hart would know and he wouldn’t tie up a room for a month when she’ll be sequestered next week and won’t be staying.” He finished his coffee and got up to get more. “So quit worrying about her. Just find whatever’s in those diaries they don’t want us to find.”

  He sauntered out and the door closed behind him. Preston turned to Raina. “Well, what do you think?” He asked.
<
br />   “I think billionaires get to be billionaires because they like money more than they like people,” she said.

  “Do you think Mr. Weigand’s source is wrong? Rivers isn’t staying at The Coloradan?”

  “Maybe she is,” Raina replied, finding her place in the diary documents. “Just not sure she’s in a single on the second floor over the dining room with a heart-shaped chocolate mint on her pillow. Maybe J.J. Johnson isn’t the only Week employee Hart’s fucking.”

  The Boulder Turnpike

  “... so I understand now, why I am the way I am around you,” Avia said, snuggled down in the passenger’s seat under Ben’s leather jacket which smelled divinely of him. She rolled her eyes at herself; he caught the look.

  “What? Understanding is a bad thing?” He asked.

  “No, but it makes me very comfortable with how I feel and what I want and how you are and that makes me ...” She cleared her throat and squirmed in her seat. “It’s as if if they announced chocolate was calorie free and prevented cancer.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, smoothly guiding the car from lane to lane through a cluster of cars. He caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “Tell me without modesty or bullshit, do you know how sexy you are to me? How much you turn me on? All the time?”

  Avia laughed at this idea but shut down fast, he looked so serious. “I - well - okay - no modesty. I’m attractive, you know. I mean, men don’t break their necks for a second look, but, well, my sister is kind of a knockout, so I must be fairly attractive, too. But ... no, I can’t say it occurred to me. I mean, you’re a pretty sexually dynamic man, I assumed you respond to most women this way.”

  “Sexually dynamic?” He grinned, looking at her.

  “Like you don’t know,” she said, pointing ahead. “Eyes front.”

  He was nodding to himself as if she confirmed an hypothesis. “I respond to a lot of women. But never the way I do to you. It’s unnerving, really.” He looked her over via the mirror. “And you’re beautiful.”