Today I am excited to feature an excerpt from PJ Adams new book The Object of His Desire.
This is one hot, hot, book. Are you ready for a teaser?
I was mad at him. He’d abandoned me in a hotel in a foreign country, left only a note on the pillow beside me. He’d seduced me and then left me.
I was mad at him.
I kept trying to remind myself of that, but it was an exercise that was lost almost as soon as I started.
I’m mad at you.
His embrace was like steel, strong arms wrapped around me, hands on my back, his face buried against my neck, as we stood in that street under the dappled shade of the lime trees, their leaves just starting to turn golden. All the things you notice as you stand in an embrace like that, your head rushing. The cars crawling past in the narrow, heavily parked-up street, the kids playing on the sidewalk, the For Sale notice in a window, a jet’s contrails ruler-straight across the deep blue sky.
His scent, that heady mix of citrus and spice.
I’m mad at you.
Walking together, not touching. Bound together by those invisible lines again. A tension. A magnetism. A need.
I’m mad at you.
Him, reaching for me, pausing, and our eyes locking. “I’m warning you,” I told him, “I was a kick-boxer at Yale. I know how to look after myself.”
That hand, clamping around the back of my neck, locking me in place. “I like that,” he said, suddenly another Will, a powerful Will, in command, strong. “A bit of fight…”
His other hand in the small of my back, as we paused there at the street door. That hand staying there as we passed through into the small lobby and I fumbled with the key for my apartment’s front door.
Tumbling into the apartment, bodies pressing together, those strong hands holding me, turning me, his mouth finding mine. A clashing of teeth and lips and tongues, an animal thing all of a sudden.
Pushed up hard against the still-open door, his body against me, one hand pulling at my clothes, the other stealing round to the back of my head, fingers burying themselves in my hair, closing, pulling my head back so that his mouth could work down my neck, teeth and tongue dragging against my skin.
I pushed him back, away, and managed to swing the door shut.
And then he was on me again.
That night in Austria, in the hotel with its view down a snow-bound valley, he’d been strong and tender at the same time, controlling and controlled.
Now… now, there was none of that. There was need, hunger.
My blouse, pulled from the top of my pencil skirt, his hands tugging at it, fumbling with the buttons and then, with a grunt of frustration, he just yanked it open, fabric tearing, buttons popping.
We stumbled into the apartment, me backwards, him driving me on, until the backs of my legs hit the sofa and I went down in a heap.
I could barely breathe, with the intensity of it.
Somehow my blouse had come off. Had he ripped it open, ripped it off my back as we fell?
It was there in his hands, a white rag and then… what was he doing with it? Twisting it into a cord, wrapping it around my wrists, pulling it tight, looping it with a well-practiced twist up over the wooden frame of the sofa, securing my arms above my head, my body exposed.