So… at what stage does denial become futile? And at what stage would denial get laughed out of any court in the country?
There is no ‘us’.
Charlie had a place in Aldgate now. Not quite the heart of the city, not quite the incredibly up-market whirl of docklands. Charlie was always neither one thing nor the other. He could be so obvious a lot of the time and yet, well, I’d never suspected him of sensitivity, for a start. Not so much hidden depths as not entirely surface. There’s a difference, but I was only just starting to see it. Charlie was a man who tried, but didn’t always succeed, to hide himself behind a glossy veneer, that posh English thing that could mask almost anything.
That posh English thing that he could use to wrap me round his little finger, even now.
This doesn’t mean anything, Trude. There is no ‘us’. My inner voice, justifying the unjustifiable.
It was a modern apartment, some kind of industrial building that had been stripped out and completely refitted. A concierge to buzz us in to the airy lobby, an elevator already summoned and waiting.
That elevator, its mirrored walls all around us. Even the inside of the doors were mirrored. As I looked over Charlie’s shoulder it was as if I was watching another couple. A man in a blue suit, pinning his lover’s arms up above her head, her wrists enclosed in his strong hands. His hips twisting and pressing, his neat ass just visible below his jacket, tightening with each thrust.
I could feel him, hard against me. His face smooth, just a fuzz of stubble, almost velvet-like, a coarse velvet. His lips firm, moist, working along my jaw, then teeth, needle-like, sharp on the lobe of my ear. Those teeth, scraping down the side of my neck.
He had me pinned, trapped with his body, with his tight grip on my wrists. He was a rough lover, Charlie; that was another reason the sensitivity had surprised me. He liked to control. He liked to pin me, to hold me, to take out his pleasure, and there was something about that roughness, the surprising brutality of this well brought-up English man, that made me buckle, made me wet, made me want nothing but to feel him inside me once he’d got me like this.
There is no us, Charlie. There is no us.
Writing under other names, PJ Adams is a successful novelist, with several novels published by major publishing houses and optioned for movies. As PJ Adams, she writes in the genre closest to her heart, erotic romance – love stories with that added heat, including The Object of His Desire and Four Temptations.
The Object of His Desire by PJ Adams
When Trudy goes to her estranged brother’s wedding, the last thing she expects is one of those moments: a handsome stranger, their eyes meeting across a crowded room… a tempting, but dangerous stranger. Determined to find out more, she discovers that dark secrets bind him to her brother; she also learns that he’s the kind of man who gets what he wants, and what he wants right now is Trudy.
Introducing her to the world of the super-wealthy, he showers her with designer clothes, shoes, and diamonds, whisking her off to dinner dates by private jet… what more could a girl want?
But as she finds out more about him, Trudy begins to wonder if she can ever love a man she can never fully trust. A man involved in murder and blackmail, who may just be using her as an alibi. Should she run or let herself fall for him? And will he give her a choice?
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.
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