Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play

 

 

 

Touch
S
tone

for play

 

by

Sydney
Jamesson

 

 

 

 

Praise for TouchStone for
play

 

"To memorable days and unforgettable
nights"

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, it is beautifully descriptive and well
written. I highlighted like crazy!!! I could picture every piece of the story
in full glorious colour. The characters were brought to life instantly and with
so many dimensions.

The sex is HOT, descriptive, tasteful and beautifully erotic.
 
With
some erotic novels I have a tendency to 'skim' the sex scenes as they feel a
little duplicated but this was never the case, their dialogue to each other was
beautiful and I enjoyed every last bit! It does end with a cliff hanger and I
am chomping at the bit to get to the next in the series TouchStone for giving.

'This is the start of something special'
4 Stars

 Nikki. Bookaholics Blog

 

First things first, I am not
an erotic book reader. I like romance and beautiful love stories, but until
TouchStone for play I have never ventured over to the side of erotic. With that
being said, I completely fell in love with this story from beginning to end.
Overall, I was bowled over by Sydney Jamesson’s
book. I loved it so much, I got to the last page, flipped back and read it
again in the same day. Don't read the other, more hyped books of this genre ...
Read Sydney's, it's incredible! 
5 Stars!

~
Eryn LaPlant: author of
Beneath the Wall

 

Ayden Stone is a rich and powerful man who is
a major player in England. He meets Elizabeth, a school teacher, when he comes
to give a speech to the students. Elizabeth finds herself deeply attracted to
Ayden, but is put off when he describes his hobbies as 
"travel, go
to the theatre, to keep in shape and to fuck beautiful women.” 
There is
another story within this book. Dan Rizler is a man obsessed with the one who
got away. He stalks her and plots their reunion, without her knowledge, and we
have a window into his thought process. 
There is a lot of sex in this book, with some light BDSM elements. It is
interesting to watch Elizabeth explore her sexuality since she has not done so
before. The ending leaves us hanging, waiting for the next instalment of the
Story of Us books. 
4 out of 5!

~Babu’s Bookshelf.

 

I'm a romance/erotica reader but this was
unexpected, unpredictable thus entertaining.
Steamy, sexy, sensual, sultry, sizzling ...
all incredible things!
B
ut what really stayed with me about the book
was a concept or promise, which may sum up the whole book, the concept of
a destiny, an intrinsic able and inexplicable connection between lives, a collision
between worlds. Showing everyone, Ayden and Elizabeth, are possibly and
probably connected beyond measure. This connection linked with a love that
defies time and space, to me was all part of an amazing eye-popping story,
heart-warming and challenging at once.
5 stars because I recommend it, recommend you to
have this book as a touchstone to an undoubtedly enjoyable read.
    
5Stars!

~
Miss. T. Choez

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Published by S. J. Publishing, 2013

Copyright  © Sydney Jamesson, 2013

 

This book is a work of fiction. The characters in this book

have no existence outside the imagination of the author,

and have no relations to anyone bearing the same name or

names. Any resemblance to real persons, living or

dead is purely coincidental. Likewise, places and

incidents are used fictitiously or exist within the

public domain.

 

EBooks are not transferable. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied,

scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or

transmitted, in any form or by any means, without

the prior written permission of the publisher.

 

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the

British National Bibliography (BNB)

S. J. Publishing

P.O. Box 796

ENGLAND

SK4 9DJ

 

[email protected]

ISBN – 978-09575850-0-3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To the people in my life
who mean the most to me,

I thank you for love and
support:

Barry, Jenna, Mum & Dad

 

 

 

 

What is love?

Those who play with it, call it a
game.

Those who don’t have it, call it fantasy

Those who find it, call it destiny.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touchstone:

Noun: a basis for
comparison: a reference point against which other things can be evaluated

 

The Story of Us…

When
I was least expecting it, my wish found its way to a fateful star. Someone
extraordinary succumbed to the gravitational pull: a mere mortal. That little
piece of heaven was Ayden Stone.

In that one, defining moment my life changed forever.

My name is Elizabeth Parker, some would say I’m the
luckiest woman you’ll ever meet, but today I may be inclined to disagree. The
time is 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the rain continues to drizzle; it clings
to the glass like tears and mirrors my mood. It’s been eight hours, 12 minutes
since we’ve kissed and my lips are already starting to twitch.

I’m sitting here at my desk rolling a red pen between
my fingers gazing into space, trying to hold onto a single thought, wondering
which set of exercise books to mark first. With time to squander, I surrender
myself to vivid memories; blue-green eyes that undress me, a wicked mouth that
promises the world and always delivers, and a recollection of this morning’s
orgasm that has me squirming in my chair. How can I be expected to get anything
done?

Regrettably, Ayden has spent the entire day with his
mistress, but knowing that doesn’t stop him invading my consciousness; he’s my
guilty pleasure, and a very distracting one at that.

But when did our love affair begin? Was there a single
moment when I knew, we knew that Fate was taking us by the hand and leading us
towards our destiny? When the planets aligned and the stars came together to
form a new constellation? I’m not sure, but what I do know is that Ayden Stone
is my heaven on earth, my world. Through memorable days and unforgettable
nights, he has been and will always be my saviour, my lover and my life.

That’s all I know, so look and listen and let me tell
you the story of us …

1

 

I can’t move. I can’t run. There’s the stench of stale
beer on his breath; he’s licking my face, his hands are on me.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing? I’ve been watching
you princess and I’ve got something for you …”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“If you’re good, then I won’t have to, will I?”

He’s lifting my dress… God! No! “… Please don’t do
this … please … please.”

 

 

One
of these
frosty, October mornings I’m going to greet a new day with bright eyes; eyes
that have not flickered and blinked their way through another restless night.
Caffeinated and clothed, I’ll temper the noises in my head with distractions:
breakfast news, the pages of a glossy magazine, an Aquarian prediction.

‘… prepare to meet a tall, dark stranger …’

The prospect of that lifts my spirits, but that ‘lift’
is fleeting; like hope and beauty it fades and I am, once more, grounded.
Alone.

Until that fateful l day, I’ll play solitaire with the
cards I have been dealt and wish for the kind of flush that comes when two
hearts come together.

I wish …
  

I’ve been on my own for too long. Too many night’s
spent listening to music, reading romantic fiction, experiencing life second
hand; characters have lined up to take me to places I’ll never visit without
them, and I’ve been content to play chaperone while they have laughed and
danced and fallen in love.

For now, it seems my life comes down to the alignment
of stars, the roll of a dice or a hand of cards. But, what do you do when your
hand is shit? Your prospects are shit and it’s Monday. I hate Mondays. There’s
only one thing I can do: stop feeling sorry for myself and get a grip, or this
navel gazing will make me late for work.

Work. A fifteen minute car journey to Harrow Hall
Grammar School, one of the best schools in north London – or so it says on the
prospectus. Stopping at the traffic lights, I take a quick look at myself in
the mirror and smooth on some lip balm, tie back my faded blond hair and
re-adjust my glasses: what the hell, I’ll do. I amuse myself with a sing-a-long
to The Cure …
Friday I’m in Love
and my mood lifts a little.

I arrive at the school gates at 8.20am, already the
natives are restless; shirts in disarray, skirts the size of pelmets and me
struggling with a bouquet of cream flowers and a large bottle of spring water,
neither of which are for me. They’re for our honourable guest speaker who seems
quite the diva: even MD’s have riders these days. I agreed to cover for Susan
on her maternity leave and, although it’s a short term salary boost, offering
careers advice to sixteen year old adolescents is hardly my forte. 

Thankfully, that job rests with Mr. Ayden Stone, a 32
year old media magnate; he has the unenviable task of introducing our students
to ‘Career Opportunities in a Global Environment,’ – good luck with that Mr.
Stone. Sounds very grand, but it will probably amount to a 20 minute
power-point presentation and the handing out of some glossy leaflets which will
end up on the locker room floor.

By 9.25 am, everything is ready, or as ready as it
will ever be. I’ve set up the laptop and the overhead projector, arranged the
flowers, and provided a glass and his bottle of spring water … anything else?
Oh yes, he’s insisted the students are silent during his presentation: if I
couldn’t guarantee it, then he wouldn’t come, so I guaranteed it. I’ll deal
with the fallout later. Someone from the office is going to bring him over and,
once I’ve introduced him to the gathering, I’ll leave him to it. He’ll have an
hour to enlighten and entertain or die an excruciatingly slow death.

There is the sound of footsteps on the stairs, so I
hold up my finger to the congregation indicating no-talking. I fight the urge
to nibble my thumb nail but occupy myself by realigning my glasses and
straightening my skirt. There’s a hushed silence. So far so good – welcome to
the lion’s den Mr. Stone.

The door opens and Margaret from the office limbos her
way into the auditorium, carrying a box of what I assume are handouts. I’m not
sure how to read her expression but, when the owner of the outstretched arm and
the masculine hand appears, it hits me
.

He’s …

I’m nailed to the spot by a vision. Before me is the
recreation of a heavenly body, male beauty personified and deliciously wrapped
like an expensive gift in navy blue.

Wow!

My eyes appraise him like a lift making its way from
the lobby to the roof and I extend my hand, manners, yes manners I remember
those.

Ping! I just reached the penthouse …

"Miss Parker?" He presents a heart stopping
smile that makes its way to an ocean of sea green eyes, causing the skin around
them to ripple slightly. It renders me temporarily senseless; for in those eyes
I catch sight of a memory, something forgotten, a wish maybe? He’s reaching out
for my hand and I’m offering it instinctively; as we touch, I feel a kind of
tingle that reaches down from my little finger to somewhere below my waistline
and I forget to pull away.

"Mr. Stone, hello. Thank you for coming. Our
students have been looking forward to your visit," I gush, hoping my welcome
will disguise my nervousness; but we’re not moving, we’re standing, I’m still
holding onto his hand, or is he holding onto mine?

“Please make your way to the stage. I have everything
ready for you."

With a confidence born of wealth and achievement he
descends, leaving a trail of Christian Dior or something just as evocative in
his wake. I resist the temptation to lift up my head to get a whiff of sheer
opulence and totter behind him as he strides fearlessly onto the stage.

"Good morning everyone. Thank you for waiting so
patiently, I’m Ayden Stone and I run a company which you may have heard of,
called ‘A.S. Media International.’ He’s claims the stage, talks with confidence
and, with ease, pours out a glass of spring water; he’s even admiring the
flowers, caressing the petals with his forefinger and thumb. I’m happy to
watch.

There’s a snigger from the back row and, with a nod of
his head and a weighty pause, silence is restored. "You need to listen
carefully, because what you’ll hear today may be a turning point for you or, at
the very least, think of it as an hour out of the classroom."

There’s that smile again. If I’m not mistaken, I think
every female in the room is starting to swoon and that includes Margaret who is
still perched by the doorway, holding what must now be a weighty parcel. I
usher her down and she stomps her way to the front, places the box by the stage
and leaves.

Mr. Stone doesn’t miss a beat. I’m impressed, and so
is his audience: he’s a gifted speaker. From the moment the first word leaves
his mouth, he has their attention and gets right down to business by
introducing his ‘Pay Back Programme.’ He spares them the customary rags to
riches tale, assures them there are opportunities out there for the taking and,
from their expressions, they believe him. That has a lot to do with the subject
matter but even more to do with him being the kind of man who exudes power:
he’s become the centre of attention without even trying.

Half an hour in, I sit down and feel comfortable
enough to take off my metaphoric teacher-in-charge hat: he has them eating out
of his hand.

I steal a moment to take stock of him; he’s very
well-manicured, from head to toe, but not so much that the rough edges have
been filed away. Everything about him reeks of money and expensive taste; from
the top of his raven black, just got out bed hair rippling around his ears and
licking at the edge of his collar like … I swallow noisily and become aware of
a quickening pulse.

Moving on … his middle section isn’t too bad either:
his navy blue suit fits his lean frame like a glove and I wonder what it would
be like to squeeze myself inside that glove. I tug at my skirt and glance round,
grateful my thoughts are my own. If ever a man personified male perfection:
it’s Mr. Ayden Stone.

Susan had arranged the event months ago and I never
thought to check him out beforehand but, I’m checking him out now and what a
feast for the eyes this man is, moving unselfconsciously around the stage.
Right on cue, he draws his presentation to a close by answering questions which
reflect some degree of intelligence and genuine interest.

I make my way to the stage. "So everyone, I’m
sure you’d like to show your appreciation for Mr. Stone ..." There’s
spontaneous applause, and I think he’s quite taken by it; he attempts a
theatrical bow and the students start filing out of the auditorium, some
stopping to shake his hand.

"Well, that went well, Mr. Stone," I say
with a polite smile, straightening my skirt and pulling down my blouse, feeling
self-conscious. "You’ve done this before."

"Yes, a couple times," he answers, smiling
in a way which might have a younger woman in a quiver. 

"Can I get you anything, a coffee or some water
maybe, or do you have places to go and people to see?" My weak attempt at
humour forces a half smile, so I extend my hand to direct him off the stage.

"No, no places, no people. I’m all yours Miss
Parker."

What a strange thing to say ...

Strange or not, that declaration is causing my body
temperature to rise ever so slightly. I’m grateful I have my back to him; my
sixth sense tells me he’s checking out my derriere. I only wish I was wearing
something more flattering.

"Great, then let’s get something to drink."
In one graceful movement he’s at my side, making me feel a little intimidated,
I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s his height and his self-possessed manner.

Once in the cafeteria, I pull out an inexpensive,
lightweight chair for him, clearly it’s not what he’s used to but this is my
world and he’s just visiting. I place down our chilled bottles of water, two
paper cups and shake out my hands, pretending to warm them but really it’s just
a helpless attempt to stop them from trembling.

Instead of pouring out his water he sips it from the
bottle, slowly tipping his head back to catch every drop. For some reason, this
simple act of drinking and swallowing is so erotic. I try not to look but for
two, maybe three seconds I’m staring. The water is bubbling and tumbling into his
mouth, the rim is touching exquisite lips and his tongue is coating his bottom
lip with wetness, making it moist and glossy. Lost in the moment, I try to tear
myself away, shifting my focus to
my
bottle top which is clearly welded
on. Damn it! Now is not the time to look ineffectual.

"Please let me ..." His perfect mouth forms
into a flat line as he takes the bottle from my hand.

The touch of his fingers across mine is feather light,
sending an electric current the full length of my arm and beyond. I detach my
hand and pull my tingling fingers into a fist, allowing him to pour the water
into my paper cup.

"Thank you, Mr. Stone. The art of chivalry is
alive and kicking it seems," I say smartly, then wish I hadn’t.

He does a kind of shrug that I have neither the
concentration nor the skills to decode. Thinking on my feet, I fill the space
with a compliment. "I must say, you’ve made quite an impression on our
students today. They aren’t usually that enthusiastic about careers
advice."

"Thank you, not many teenagers know what they
want to do at this age, they need guidance and for their talents to be
recognised and nurtured."

That’s a sensible answer.

"True. Is that what happened to you? Did you have
someone who recognised your potential at an early age?" I’m genuinely
interested and he seems eager to explain.

"No not exactly. I came across an opportunity
that others didn’t recognise, modified it to improve the performance of
existing applications and turned it into a profitable business, that’s all.
Wasn’t it Machiavelli who said, “Entrepreneurs are simply those who understand
there is little difference between obstacles and opportunity and are able to
turn both to their advantage?” 

“So you’re a Prince among men?”

He sniggers at the suggestion. “Hardly.”

“An entrepreneur then?”

“Yes, it’s in my blood, but now I’m able to harvest
the necessary blend of talents to expand my business, and that allows me to
remain competitive. I strive to be good at everything. I like to win."

I’m happy to let him talk, transfixed by his stare;
those azure eyes can make you forget every thought you have in your head - and
they have. I feel my breasts heaving and I just know the skin around my neck is
starting to glow. Silently, I’m praying that the flames don’t make their way to
my cheeks.

What’s happening to me?

"I see," is all I can conjure up out of
nothing.

"What about you, how long have you been
teaching?" His enquiry seems sincere enough and, what the hell, I’ve got
all the time in the world.

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