Primal Impulse (Xtreme Edition), страница 1
Copyright © 2014 James Johnson
E-Copyright © 2014 James Johnson
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by JamesCafe.com
Cover design by Kari Ayasha/Cover to Cover Designs
This is my big leap into the romance genre. As a male I am deeply indebted to the women in my life, past and present. Without you I would never have come to understand your complicated gender—of course I still don’t. You know who you are. A special thanks to the number one woman in my life, my mom. You are the absolute best.
I would like to thank the following for their invaluable advice, assistance and editing: Joyce Cox, Alicia Lozano, Carolyn Loshuertos and Deborah Havre. Kari Ayasha—you are the CoverGirl. I thank you so much.
Table of Contents
Connect with James
“True love opens the door to your soul.”
Every granule of her body luxuriated in ecstasy. Every fiber was a receptacle of pleasure. Once again she convulsed in fiery gratification. It was a picture of exquisite pleasure. Nothing could ever compare to this. It was free and raw and pure. It fed from the soul. It was a primal unleashing of passion, an unbridled lust fulfilled.
Christina shuddered as one last powerful orgasm rocked her body. This one was different than the others. It pierced through the physical realm of pleasure, transcended the sensual sphere. It reached through layers of lusty desires and into her soul. It was powered by emotion, fueled by spirit and guided by the heavens. It was destiny.
Jena felt it like it was hers. Every word pierced her soul with an arrow of emotion. Every sentence unleashed her primal desire. Each chapter fueled her with a raging lust that burned within. Every novel carved her heart up into little pieces before placing it back together again. Jena turned to the next page.
They were immersed in the afterglow of Christina’s primal release. They basked in the warmth of togetherness. The world stood still as they held each other tight.
Even their breathing was in tune as they inhaled each other. Their air was theirs and theirs alone. It was a bouquet of contentment and fiery lust dissolved. It was the fragrance of fulfilled desire and endless joy. It was the scent of two lovers becoming one. It was the smell of sex. It was the breath of God.
It was all so perfect. Justin and Christina were each other. They were bound by body, mind and spirit. They were complete. They were two sated souls locked into each other. Nothing could ever tear them apart. They were forever one.
Jena looked at the clock—2 a.m. She had to get some sleep. She had to wake up at seven to go to work. She put down her book and turned out the light.
Joan Dixon’s tale of love and lust remained. It was just too powerful to quickly fade away. It reached places where no one had ever been. It touched the heart and heated the body. No one could write like her.
Joan Dixon had written three books so far. Naked Emotion was her current favorite, but that changed like the wind. They were all classics in Jena’s mind. They were all her babies of which she could never choose one over the other. They were each precious in their own way.
Jena had read each novel several times. Each one was distinctly different, but they all had one thing in common. They were conceived of raw emotion. Joan Dixon’s novels ripped a gash into her readers’ hearts. Then she filled that hole with hopes and dreams and a real chance at love. Her words came not from her intellect but from her soul. They flowed not from her fingertips but from her heart.
That’s what Joan Dixon captured—the emotional state of a woman. She paints a picture with words. When her characters are riding high so are you. When they’re falling from the sky you’re falling too. You become that girl who’s showered in the golden ray of love. You ride her same emotional high. You are that woman who’s covered in the cold blood of a broken romance. You too bleed from the heart.
Joan Dixon leaves a piece of herself. The ink on the paper is her spirit and soul. Every page is saturated with that special something that’s hard to explain. She somehow taps into her reader’s inner psyche. It’s as if Joan Dixon’s soul is bleeding onto the pages.
Hers are tales of the heart that leave you with hope. Every novel has a happy ending. The girl always walks off into the sunset with the prize on her arm—her one and only. She never fails to find true love and all its trappings. She gleams under the bright light of her triumph, the sunshine of love.
Joan Dixon’s novels are inspiration. You never know when you’ll step out that door and he’ll be there. Fate could place your prince right at your doorstep.
Just like Christina in Heart of the Animal you could hit the jackpot of love. Just like Alicia in Naked Emotion you could feel the arrow of romance slice through your heart. Just like Jessica in Dirty Love you could experience the electrifying pleasure of consummated desires.
Jena felt a tear roll down her cheek. Right now that dream seemed a million miles away. She had just finalized her divorce. Her one and only had left her for another. Her shot at love had fallen through the cracks. It lay shattered in the muddy waters of mistrust and suspicion. Every new man she met seemed to be the same. They were all silver-tongued conveyers of bullshit. The world and everybody in it seemed to be lying or living within a lie.
That’s the way she really felt. That was the reality of a cruel world. Truth was buried under layers of falsehoods and misrepresentations. Happiness was a carrot that romance novels dangled in front of a lonely horse.
Love was no more than a myth, an illusion that everyone strived for but never attained. It was a delusional fantasy that didn’t exist. There would be no rapturous ride into the golden sunset because it was all a lie—a big fucking lie.
Another tear f
She felt the agony of going through life all by herself. She felt the hopelessness and heartache. It felt like someone had stuck a dagger into her heart. All of her hopes and dreams were bleeding from the hole—gone forever.
The darkness sent her imagination soaring through the night. Joan Dixon’s novels rang of truth and beauty and raging lust. She wondered if her own fairy tale could come true. Could there ever be a day when her prince would show up out of nowhere and sweep her away? Could her dream ever come true?
How she wished Joan Dixon’s sexy character could come to life and be lying next to her now holding her tight. How she wished his strong arms were wrapped around her and whispering how much he loved her.
Sleep was overcoming her. Finally she would take a break from the world that seemed so cruel. For a few sweet hours she could escape a harsh reality. Maybe she would dream about the love she never knew. Perhaps her prince would pay her a visit in her dreams so she could steal some romance from the night.
Just before she shut her eyes she remembered something. It was a tune she had been humming all day. Earlier in the morning she had heard this song on the radio. She had no idea who sang it, but she sure remembered the words. Right now the lyrics seemed appropriate. Jena whispered them one final time as she drifted off to sleep.
I feel I’m slipping away
I feel I’m going mad
I think I’m going crazy
This is all too much
I feel like going under and never coming up
This breath may be my last
And what does it matter anyway
I feel I’m slipping away
I feel I’m going mad
I think I’m going crazy
This is all too much
Steven poured the boiling water into his oversized cup. This was a three-tea bag morning. That’s what it would take to get him going. It wasn’t easy getting up at 4 a.m.
That’s the way it had been lately. Rising so early wasn’t exactly his preferred habit. But there really was no other option. He chose the path he was now treading. He was the one who decided to become a writer.
The fact that he also had a fulltime job was just that—a fact. There was no getting around it. If he wanted to get those words on paper he had to squeeze in the time. That’s why he was up at this ungodly hour every morning. That’s why he climbed out of bed at 4 a.m. Whether he liked it or not he had to plug away at his computer. There were no other options, at least none of which he was aware.
Yep, that was the only way he knew how to write a novel. They didn’t get written on their own. The old saying was all so true—writing was perspiration, not inspiration. That’s why he crawled from his cozy bed to his desk every morning.
But the high surpassed the sacrifice. The unleashing of his creative instincts was a feeling like none other. The overwhelming joy eclipsed the relatively minor deprivations. So he lost a little sleep—no big deal. Those two or three hours every morning were the highlight of his day. They captured his essence in a way that nothing else could, stealing the show with the magic of literature.
Yes, writing was the drug that took him to the edge. It was his savior who set him free. It let him run up the mountain and enter the light. It let him walk through the fire that seared his soul.
Yeah, it was that fine little line between reality and fantasy that people wanted. That’s the balancing act that they craved. Humanity walked a tightrope. They wanted to escape to a fantasyland where everything was perfect and climb inside a dream and live it out. They wanted to turn the pages of a novel and pretend it was them.
That’s what Steven tried to give them. When the words began to flow he fell into the zone. The real world faded with every stroke on the keyboard. It was replaced with the brilliant colors of fantasy. But it was fantasy that became real in his head and in the heads of his readers. It relayed the possibility that this could be you. You could be King. You could be the Queen of the Universe.
Six novels so far, three from one genre and three from another—that was the count. Steven had been a late starter as far as his writing career was concerned. It was only five years ago that he decided to put his thoughts on paper. That’s when he exposed his raw emotion to anyone who bothered to look. His heart lay spread open between the covers as it bled onto the pages that flowed from his fingertips.
Steven’s life experiences were the fuel behind the fire. They were the words that fell onto the pages. He had experienced his own journey and it hadn’t always been a smooth one. There were ups and downs that had lifted him and crushed him.
Steven had traveled much of the world and seen good and bad. He had stayed in a castle and slept in the streets. He had wallowed in money and all that it bought and he had been the penniless stranger that they whispered about. He had been drunk from love and sober with loneliness. He had experienced the pain of heartbreak and broken many hearts himself.
His was a tough education in the ways of the world. It was a harsh and brutal ride on the rainbow of life. There were times he just wanted to die and there were other times when he felt like a king. Joy and happiness had made him want to stand up and scream. Anything and everything that made up the world was all in his head just waiting to explode onto paper.
Steven couldn’t wait until that day when he would become a fulltime writer. He didn’t need a fortune. He just wanted enough money to buy his freedom and unlimited time to create, to rise every morning and type away his experiences, to share his passion and emotion with the world. He wanted to offer his personal take on what it was to be human. That’s all he wanted.
That didn’t mean Steven wasn’t appreciative of his job. He was very grateful because it helped him pay the bills. But that was exactly what it was—a job. In the long run it would never work, not for him. He was a free spirit entrepreneur who wasn’t meant to be caged by society. Throw the writing in the mix and it became explosive.
That’s right. No one would ever again tell him what to do. He would be his own boss. He would be in control of his life. He would find love and happiness and freedom. He would be free to be himself. His heart would find its other half and this time it would be real and honest and true.
Something had to happen. Somehow he had to blow down the doors and walk through the fire to exit victorious on the other side. He would emerge from the flames unscathed and cash in on his payday. He would discover the riches of absolute freedom. He would find true love. The world would be his.
Steven sat down in front of his computer. This morning would be a little different. There was something he had to do before he started writing. There was a certain girl on his mind—a very special girl. Her name was Jena.
In a few days his job would require him to travel to California. He would be staying in a town called Rancho Cucamonga. Fate had delivered him a piece of information about this town. Jena Berns lived there.
Maybe his stars were in alignment. It sure did come about in a natural flow. Steven had recently run into an old acquaintance from his hometown of Aurora, Illinois. Coincidently, she had mentioned that Jena lived in Rancho Cucamonga. He found it incredibly interesting that this happened just before his trip. It had to be an omen.
Jena was also from his hometown of Aurora. They had attended the same high school. She was the best friend of Shelly, Steven’s high school sweetheart. The three of them were rarely apart in those years.
That was twenty long years ago. Steven never let anyone know that he always had a major crush on Jena. But now….well, why not? Shelly was just a memory. He heard she was happily married. And Steven was traveling to Jena’s new hometown. All he needed was a phone number.
Steven plugged her into his search engine. Jena Berns Rancho Cucamo
No results! Steven took a deep breath. He would enter a different search. Jena Burns phone contact Rancho Cucamonga CA.
Payday! This one found something. Jena Berns Craven, 909-333-1957, 412 Twain Drive, Rancho Cucamonga, CA.
That was her! It had to be. Craven must have been her husband or ex-husband’s name. She had gotten married, but they had since separated. That matched the information he had received about her.
Ummm…Jena girl, that’s what he called her. Memories of Jena flooded into his brain. She was bright, funny and attractive in her own unique way. She didn’t need the fancy trimmings of makeup and fashionable clothes. She had a simplicity about her that was extremely appealing. Jena was open and honest and so damn sexy. Oh, yeah! Jena was incredible then and there was little doubt that she still was.
Steven looked at the clock. It was certainly too early to try to reach her now. He would write for a while and try later. At least he hoped he could write. Just the thought of Jena was getting him excited. He could feel himself getting harder by the second. Jena Berns was in his head—again. And this time they were both free.
Three rings and Jena picked up the phone. It was from a 214 area code. Who could that be? It was six in the morning. What the heck, she might as well answer it.
“Jena speaking,” she muttered, still half asleep.
“Is this Jena Berns?” asked a male voice. “From Aurora?”
“Yes, it is,” answered Jena. “That was my maiden name. Who is this?”
“Steven,” came the reply from the other end. “Steven Walker from high school.”
Instantly Jena’s blood temp rose three degrees. Steven Walker had been the subject of her rawest fantasies for twenty years. He was the hottest man she had ever met—electric hot. He had dated her best friend throughout high school. Jena had always been their tagalong. She would accompany the couple everywhere. She sure as hell envied Shelly.