by Adira August
desire for touch
RiverHart Series No. 1
written by
Adira August
Copyright © 2016 Adira August
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents
are either wholly sprung from
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
desire for touch: RiverHart Series No. 1 by Adira August
aka Surrender to Ecstasy: Desire for Touch
3rd edition. Fiction - novel - romance - erotica - series
Ecstasy
From Joy there is a scent of bliss,
from Perfect Joy yet more.
The Joy of Cessation is passionless.
The Joy of Sahaja is finality.
The first comes by desire for touch
The second by desire for bliss,
The third from the passing of passion,
Thereby is Sahaja attained.
CONTENTS
WEDNESDAY
THURSDAY
FRIDAY
SATURDAY
FINAL MATTERS
WEDNESDAY
ASSIGNMENT
“Why are they all billionaires?” Avia asked in disgust. “Multi-millionaires aren’t good enough to have hot, kinky sex with?”
Janet “J.J.” Johnson, feature editor of national news magazine The Week (cyber-edition) sipped her morning coffee and didn’t bother to answer. She knew Avia, friend as well as award-winning writer, was just getting wound up.
“And not only that,” Avia went on, “How are they all twenty-eight years old with ‘slabs’ of muscle? Bill Gates isn’t exactly ripped. Fifty is young on the billionaire list! Seventy is standard.”
Janet cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, Nathan Blecharczyk’s kind of a cute guy,” Avia conceded, “But he’s a boy next store, not a sexual super-stud. And all these heroines seem to have some kind of neurological disorder. Everyone stumbles, falls or collapses into the arms of a wildly attractive rich guy with a rock hard chest. If I stumbled into a man, he’d be a sweaty fat guy with halitosis.”
Avia drank from her own large mug of half hot chocolate, half coffee, settling back into her chair and her argument. “I’m also wondering how all these guys can come for minutes at a time? Or even one? And pump out veritable oceans of cum? I mean, seriously, J.J., don’t we have a big enough wet spot to avoid with the one or two teaspoons we get in reality?”
Janet shrugged and waited. Avia wasn’t close to done; she hadn’t asked the question.
“I mean, I like sex as much as the next woman, I think. I’d love to meet a guy who can go as long as I want, whenever I want, stay as hard as I want and be as big as I want, and be completely focused on my pleasure. But even at twenty-eight, how many men can maintain an eight-hour erection and have multiple orgasms? Every night. Every day. Multiple times a day.”
Janet smiled. Avia was entertaining, as always.
“OH! Oh. Aaannnnnd …” Avia went on, “... the billionaires are ALL damaged by traumatic childhoods. How do so many emotionally screwed-up sex gods manage to build business empires? Who reads this stuff? You know the last time I read fiction was for a college class I was required to take. Why, oh why, would you give me this … assignment?”
The question. Avia had spit out the last word, obviously repressing the urge to say -
“This piece of shit assignment, you mean?” Janet asked equably. This time, Avia shrugged.
“I gave it to you because you’re an investigative journalist. You delve into the deepest layers of an issue and expose every facet of the situation. You find the context, the broader implications. Two city Councilman resigned after your story on outsider influence in city politics. One of whom was later indicted. And …”
Janet held up a hand as Avia opened her mouth to respond, “ … as for who the women are who buy and read these books? The books I gave you to read came out of my own library.”
Avia’s mouth closed and her eyebrows lifted. Janet was one of the brightest, most powerful and self-confident women she’d ever met. Why would she seek out stories that invariably depicted submission to a Dominant male? Suddenly, the assignment was interesting.
Janet put her coffee aside and sat forward. She needed to be Avia’s boss, now. Not always the easiest role to take with her strong-willed star reporter and friend.
“This isn’t trivial or I’d give it to someone else. There’s a story here. It isn’t just that female ‘erotica’ is suddenly so wildly popular and culturally accepted that women are openly buying the books off stacks on tables at big box stores. It’s that they are seeking something in droves that they aren’t getting anywhere else.
“I’m sure the readers do know the physical limitations of men in real life. Is that why they seek the fictional kind? Or is it something more? What do the fantasy billionaires give them that the guy at the next desk can’t, besides a mile-high fuck on a private jet? What are we missing about how women see themselves and what these books supply? Do the research, Avia. eRom readers are educated, adult women. Go find the answers to your questions. That’s your assignment.”
Janet ducked her head to hide a smile. In the middle of her speech, Avia had taken out her ever-present notebook, jotting notes on the questions Janet was asking. Avia was the only one of her staff who still used a pencil and paper, instead of a digital recorder.
“The challenge for you is that you are an investigative reporter. You’re addicted to facts. You need to accept that in a fantasy, there’s never a wet spot.”
Janet sat back and picked up her coffee. “That’s not a flaw in the work. Conversely, the advantage of your, let’s call it ‘no-nonsense’ approach to life and work, is that you’ll hone in on the concrete elements and use them to figure out the answers.”
Avia finished writing and sat very still, pen poised - waiting. She was an information siphon who didn’t so much question a source, as allow her subjects to reveal themselves. Regardless of how surprising or even disgusting the revelations might be, she appeared impartial and non-judgmental. She had the gift of inspiring trust.
Janet swung her laptop around so Avia could see the screen. “Do you know who this is?”
The image showed a man in a tuxedo entering what looked like the Performing Arts Center at night. Avia judged him to be in his early thirties, the natural wave of his dark, medium-length hair defeating whatever product he used to keep it in place. Errant curls drifted over a straight forehead above a strong profile.
“No idea,” Avia responded.
“His name is Ben Hart.” Janet looked for a sign of recognition, but Avia shook her head. “You have an appointment to interview him this morning. Which is the only time he had this week.”
“You’re taking me off the erotica assignment?” Avia asked, with a twinge of disappointment now that J.J. had piqued her interest in the topic. She was already thinking of avenues to pursue the story.
“No.” Janet scrolled down to show the headline under the image: ‘Companion’ Sues Sex Toy Maker for Millions Claiming Deviant Sexual Assault.
“Isn’t sexual assault deviant by definition?” Avia asked rhetorically scanning the story. “You want me to get his side of the story, this … sex toy guy?”
“Sure, if he’ll give it to you, but I’m pretty confident he won’t.”
Avia made a note. “Ben Hart … is that ‘Benjamin?’ ”
“Benedict,” Janet corrected. “Ben’s doing me a favor.”
Avia looked up from her pad at J.
J.’s familiar use of the man’s nickname.
“We met at Cornell. I consider him a friend. When I called him this morning for a comment on the lawsuit, he demurred. But he did agree to an interview as deep background for your story.”
Janet stood, motioning Avia to follow. “He knows what women want in their ‘sexual support products,’ as he calls them. His publishing house markets a large selection of erotic romance titles. Two of the five best-selling eRom authors are on his list, exclusively.”
“He willing to share demographic info with us?” Avia asked.
Janet stopped at the door. “Yes. But I also thought it would be an interesting angle to talk to a flesh and blood guy who represents the typical reader’s dream lover. Maybe find out if any of the heroines would interest him in real life.”
Avia eyed her friend suspiciously. “Hang on. ‘Suing him for millions.’ Don’t tell me. He’s -”
“- a billionaire,” Janet finished. “And he’s expecting you in an hour. C’mon, I’ll walk you out and brief you.”
THE JOURNEY BEGINS
Avia drove with every window open, enjoying the perfect September day. Perfect days were typical of Colorado. A brilliant blue sky, a line of spectacular Rocky Mountain peaks, a clean breeze from a mountain canyon sweeping across the plains outside Denver.
She’d driven this road often, passing the thick stand of fir bordering the east side of the road for several miles above Sedalia. There was nothing unusual in the regularly-spaced “NO TRESPASSING” signs posted on the trunks of the trees or the unmarked and unpaved road that led into them.
This time, she was on the lookout for that road, armed with the newly acquired knowledge it was the entrance to the Hart property. She found it easily and guided her red hatchback carefully along the narrow track that curved abruptly about fifty feet in and broke out of the trees into a hilly, boulder-strewn landscape.
The well-graded gravel road wound around switchbacks up a steep slope. The stone embankments weren’t natural. They’d been built up with rock from the surrounding area to support the roadway. As the road was designed, she couldn’t see any structures until the car reached the final switchback and the slope evened out to a more gentle rise.
In the distance, a huge, three-story stone house perched atop a hill beyond a high stone wall. House? She thought. Looks like fortress. Avia had a moment of deja vu, and pulled to the side of the road, staring up at the imposing edifice. Then it hit her. And she laughed.
“She’s getting out of her vehicle.” Holland Dever said, eyes on the security feed tracking the red hatchback.
“She’s what?” Hugo Ramos leaned over the Security Chief’s shoulder for a better view of the monitor. “What the hell is she doing that for?”
“She’s looking up at the house. Back the way she came. Back to the house, back the way she came … and … she’s laughing,” Dever answered.
“You find any evidence of mental instability in her background?” Ramos asked.
“No, Sir. The opposite, in fact.” Dever considered the screen. “Maybe she’s just happy.”
As Avia neared the top of the hill, a low square building came into view. The gravel road terminated at its parking lot. Several small vehicles, modified golf carts, sat near a paved track that led away from the lot toward a high stone security wall.
She pulled into a parking space and grabbed her comb out of the console. She paid very well for the shortish, layered cut that allowed her to restore her wind-battered hair to something simple but stylish with a few fast strokes. Clear lip gloss followed, demanded by the dry Colorado climate. She didn’t want to be licking her lips during the interview.
Exiting her car, she found one of the carts stopped behind her car. A pleasant-looking, middle-aged Hispanic man with lightly salted black hair and a warm smile waited for her.
“Ms. Rivers?”
“I am,” she said, realizing the cart was electric; its approach virtually silent.
“I’m Hugo Ramos, Mr. Hart’s Chief of Staff.” He gestured her toward his small vehicle. “I’ll take you to him.”
Avia slipped into the cart’s passenger seat and fished her notebook out of her pocket. “Chief of Staff. Like the President has?”
He laughed. “Mr. Hart didn’t know what else to call me, I think. ‘Guy who manages all kinds of stuff in my life and business’ is really hard to fit on a business card.”
LVNG BRBCN
Benedict Hart deleted the text, as he did all texts, before he set his cell to vibrate and slid it into his trouser pocket. He didn’t want his time with the reporter interrupted, but he also didn’t want to miss any information Hugo deemed important enough to send him during the interview.
It wasn’t that he was so looking forward to what he presumed would be a fairly tedious hour explaining his choice of profession. But the fewer distractions, the faster he could deliver what information she wanted (that I’m willing to give) and get back to his day.
He’d checked the non-disclosure agreements in his center desk drawer. He wouldn’t put that plan into action unless Ms. Rivers turned out to be both sensible and smart. To that end, he’d told J.J. not to send some kiddie cyber writer who didn’t know what a preposition was. J.J. assured him Rivers was good. He’d judge for himself.
Approaching the stone wall, Avia saw the track passed through it by means of an archway. A small sign set about a foot off the ground read: “FISH HAVE RIGHT OF WAY.” It heralded a fixed stone bridge over a clear flowing stream.
Avia laughed aloud. “A moat!” she exclaimed. “Guess we’ve left the ordinary world behind for sure, now. Naturally, there’s moat.”
Ramos started. “I’m sorry?”
“My father was a professor of medieval history. We built castles together. This whole place looks like a castle to me.” She twisted around, but, of course, the trees were out of sight.
“The line of trees would be the palisades. The fortified roadway in steps, earthwork ramparts. And please tell me that building we left is full of security people.”
He nodded. She grinned. “It’s a -
“- barbican!” She and Ramos finished in unison, delighting her.
“You know about castles?” she asked.
“Not me. Curtis, Chief of Property Maintenance. Hobby of his, I guess. Mr. Hart inherited Curtis when he bought the place. Curtis referred to everything with castle jargon. We all picked it up. No choice. Hard to know there’s a problem with the air conditioning in the research building if you don’t know what palas refers to.”
“I think it’s delightful,” she grinned, looking about curiously. “So, this research building is a part of the company, not just Mr. Hart’s home?”
“He likes to fiddle around with things,” Ramos said, deflecting the question. “He just has a fancier toolshed than most.”
Avia realized she’d pushed a privacy boundary and made a tactical retreat. In no way did she want the staff here to be on the defensive with her, in case she found an opportunity to ask them questions.
“Does that stream outside the Curtain Wall really circle the property?”
“Not exactly,” he said.
The closed circuit feed over the wet bar across from the desk Ben Hart sat at showed the security cart arriving at the front entrance.
A woman’s leg, a rather nice one, swung out. The foot, shod in a simple black pump, felt for the ground. Her skirt hiked up as she slid out and - was that a stocking top? Ben grinned at the image. Why Ms. Rivers, how not hard-boiled reporter of you.
Rather than follow the security feed inside to the elevator, he set his laptop to the Hart Development welcome screen and opened several more pages relevant to the coming discussion, behind it. He clicked on an email Dever sent, with Avia Rivers’ information. He’d had less than an hour, but still collected a decent amount of data.
Ben’s mood improved while skimming Rivers’ bio and examples of her work. His old friend wasn’t exaggerating. Rivers was talented.
And she had nice legs. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
He moved into the activity support part of the room and covered the two prototypes there with custom-fitted covers. Neither of the new devices he’d brainstormed with his team of engineers had even been beta-tested yet.
He imagined this woman, Ms. Rivers, would be curious about his product line and assumed she’d want explanations for the various objects and furniture arranged around the large space. But unless the NDAs in his desk drawer came into play, he’d be keeping the proprietary information away from her.
He checked the canvas bins on the shelves near his desk to be sure he had at least one example of each product to show her.
He was ready.
“Wow,” was all Avia could say when Ramos had led her through the huge double entrance doors, being sure the holy shit that had sprung to her lips existed well outside bounds of acceptable, professional language use. Besides, ‘wow’ is really appropriate.
Instead of the large entryway or hall she’d expected, she’d entered a two-story jungle of green. The stream from outside, flowed through the inside, burbling over rocks and diving under a far wall.
Birds. Live, exotic, colorful. They flitted and flew amongst the branches of twenty-foot high trees.
She recalled that from the outside, the house had seemed a three story, stolid granite square. The second story showed as a continuous band of arched, geminate windows. Inside, the second story was set in with a balcony overlooking the veritable jungle of plants below. Light from the band of windows supported the dense growth.
Hugo Ramos waited while she gawked. “This came with the house, too. Curtis informed us it maintains heat in winter and absorbs it in summer. Mr. Hart asked if the fish were edible and suggested if not, he should stock the moat with trout. Curtis has no sense of humor about his fish. Anyway, here it stays. Mr. Hart likes the birds.”
