The Object of His Desire 4: Her Desire - new from PJ Adams

"How do you measure a moment like that? When a man you have every reason to doubt, a man you should never even be giving another chance... when he can look at you like that and you start to melt from the inside, when your heart jackhammers inside your chest and you have to concentrate really hard just to remember how to breathe..."

Murderous intrigue and dark secrets from the past conspire to make falling in love the hardest thing Trudy Parsons has ever done. How do you love a man if you can never, fully, trust him? A man whose ex-girlfriend has been murdered and who may have used you as nothing more than an alibi?

Trudy has been wowed and wooed by Will Bentinck-Stanley. She's been flown to the Alps just for dinner. She's seen sides to him that he would normally keep well-hidden. She's been handcuffed to his bed and been used and abused until she ached more than she has ever ached before... ached from the handcuffs and the sex, ached from the intense need for more...

Will she fall, or should she just walk away? And does she have any say in the matter?

The fourth and final part of a passionate erotic romance, where scandals buried away in the past lead to murderous intrigue in the present, in the intensely steamy world of the super-wealthy and powerful, from the bestselling author of A Dangerous Passion and The Wings of Desire.

The Object of His Desire 4: Her Desire is available from:
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00C0EYKFU/ref=as_li_tf_tl?tag=pollyjadams-20Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00C0EYKFU/ref=nosim?tag=pollyjadams-21B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-object-of-his-desire-4-pj-adams/1114910632?ean=2940016303307ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-theobjectofhisdesire4herdesire-1148092-149.htmlSmashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/299099
Extract
It’s all the silly little questions that run through your head...
Like was he a hand-holder, or did he prefer to avoid such public shows of affection?
I didn’t know the answer to that, even though Will and I had got together several times, including one rather awkward date in London, lunch at the House of Lords, and the most romantic evening of my life when he flew me out to his hotel in the Austrian Alps just for dinner.
Are you a holder of hands? I’d have to put him down as a very probable ‘no’ for that. Too many barriers. Maybe somewhere deep inside the real Will was a hand-holder, but the public Will would never show that kind of vulnerability.
Do you wear anything in bed? Well no, not that time when I’d slept over in Austria, but that was hardly typical.
Do you leave the seat up after you’ve peed?
Do you like animals, or funny birthday cards, reality TV?
What’s your favorite movie, your favorite color, your favorite member of the Beatles?
Trivialities; silly details. These are the things that you might find running through your head as you lie there on that wide bed in your lover’s penthouse apartment, your body aching from sex, and from the need for yet more sex, because you can’t get enough of him... lying there with your arms stretched wide up above your head, and your wrists secured to the bed frame with heavy-duty metal handcuffs.
Now, with morning light slanting in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he lay on the bed by my side, Will Bentinck-Stanley, his body half-curled, one leg drawn up tight to his body, his breathing steady, quiet. He looked good like that: peaceful, slim, supple; his body hard with well-toned muscle. He looked so at peace, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
I hurt. Oh my but how I hurt!
I’d never had a lover like Will Bentinck-Stanley. He was strong, and he had so much stamina... He could switch from hard, fast, urgent, to tender and attentive; he could keep you right on the edge, taking you to the brink so many times before finally pushing you over. He was skilled with cock and fingers and tongue, with all the surfaces of his body and yours; going from another man to Will was like comparing an inept lover’s clumsy massage with the attentions of the most skilled masseuse.
He’d done this kind of thing before. I knew that. The handcuff bracelets were lined with soft leather to prevent chafing and pressure sores – this was serious kit. None of those flimsy cuffs you get from a High Street adult store for Will. The leather was worn thin in places, and scuffed pale; these cuffs were clearly well used.
And of course there had been Sally Fielding, may she rest in peace.
§
They called it the Stockholm Syndrome. When a kidnap victim becomes so attached to her captors that she adopts their mindset and becomes one of them.
I was no kidnap victim.
I was here by choice. I’d called him. I’d come here of my own free will. I’d let him sweep me off my feet, and carry me to the bedroom. I could have said ‘no’ when he’d said to me, “You like it a bit rough? You do, don’t you. You know what you like, what you want. Don’t pretend that you don’t. You like the thrill as much as I do.”
I didn’t have to nod when he produced those handcuffs, looked at me with those dark, predator eyes, and said, “You like danger?”
I am a successful professional woman. I am strong. I am not the brainwashed victim of some syndrome or other.
I was here by choice.
Here, with my body aching, and my shoulder sockets on fire with pain from being cuffed all night.   
Here, in a semi-dream-like state where nothing existed for me beyond this room, this man... where the pain I felt was transformed into something else, an intensity of sensation, a deeply sexual thing, a different kind of ache, a need.
I was here by choice.
§
“Do you need to stop? Do you need a break? Just say the word, and I’ll unlock you.”
This was attentive Will, sensitive Will, a side of him that rarely broke through his many protective layers.
“Make love to me,” I said, meeting that dark look. “Now. I’m not done with you yet.”
(continues...)