The Object of His Desire (erotic romance suspense) Read online

  “Quail breasts,” said Will. “I ordered ahead.”

  The in-control Will. I didn’t normally like to be treated like this, but sometimes... well, what’s there to argue with a powerful man giving you what he knows you will love?

  The meat was so tender it just dissolved on the tongue, and there was that subtle gaminess to it that I adored.

  “So why all this?” I asked again. “It can hardly be that you need to get to know me. You’ve clearly done your research: what more is there to discover?”

  He visibly winced again.

  “I thought perhaps you could try your book pitch on me again,” he said, pausing with a forkful of quail in mid-air. “I thought we could spend some time together, try to work out why it is that I feel this intense attraction to you and whether it might be mutual. That kind of thing.”

  Gaming me. Always gaming me.

  “I have work in the morning,” I said. “Does your plan include getting me home after dinner?”

  “If that’s what you want, yes,” he said. “It’s a two-hour flight, and then a car to your door. It’ll be a late night, for which I apologize, and I really should have made it clearer when I invited you, but I was fearful that you might have turned me down.”

  “So, I can add deception to your list of crimes?”

  “Economy with the truth,” he said. “Not deception.”

  I looked down and saw that my plate was clean. I took my napkin and dabbed at my lips, then freshened up the gloss with the little Dior brush I’d been given back in the suite.

  He watched me closely, which was just as well. He was meant to. He wasn’t the only one who knew how to play games.

  “So why Austria? What brought you here? Family business? More James Bond fun and games?”

  I didn’t expect the answer that I received. I expected him to be evasive, to drop hints about brave deeds, high-level negotiations. I expected him to tell me he was here to visit this little hotel he owned overlooking its own private valley in the heart of the Austrian Alps.

  “A girl,” he said. “A girl and blackmail.”

  §

  “Sally Fielding,” he told me. “Her name is Sally Fielding. I knew her at Cambridge.”

  “Old girlfriend?” Our plates had been removed, and replaced with tiny crystal bowls of champagne sorbet. To cleanse the palate before the entrée, Will had told me.

  He shrugged, falling back into that slightly flustered act of his.

  “That a ‘yes’?”

  “A ‘kind of’,” he said. “Sally was a popular girl.”

  I tried not to laugh out loud at that. My head was a mad rush of thoughts, foremost of which was the question of why he’d brought me here to tell me about an ex-girlfriend. “‘Popular’...?”

  “Not like that,” he said. “You’re deliberately misinterpreting me.”

  Sure I am. But only because you’re not telling it to me straight.

  “So,” I said. “Sally Fielding?”

  “There was a bit of a to do,” he said. “A falling out.”

  That’s when I remembered something Charlie – or was it Ethan? – had told me. The three of them, Charlie, Ethan and Will, had been close at Cambridge. Then something had happened, a dispute over a girl, and they’d fallen out. The bad chemistry survived to this day.

  That girl must have been Sally Fielding.

  “So why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because Sally’s back on the scene and she’s in trouble and you asked me why I was here in Austria. I came out here to help. There were drugs and shady characters involved. Money. Of course there was money, where Sally was involved. I’d have helped her anyway. She didn’t need to resort to blackmail.”

  “What is there to blackmail you about?”

  “Everyone has something to be blackmailed about. But if you’re someone who gets involved in hush-hush business on behalf of his family and country, then you’re even more exposed.”

  I wondered then if I’d got him completely wrong. Up until that point I’d taken it for granted that he’d brought me here to wow me and then get me into bed. But if that was the case would he really be telling me all this?

  “So why me? Why am I here?”

  He shrugged. “You’re here because you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever had the luck to encounter,” he said. “You’re here because I can’t get you out of my mind. You’re here because I keep making an absolute arse of myself to you and I hope I can redeem myself, at least a little.” He spread his hands, and looked at me with eyes I could easily get lost in. “You’re here because I’m having a shit time and I’m selfish and you’re the most glorious, indulgent, beautiful distraction for me. You’re here–”

  “Enough,” I said. I put my hand on one of his, pressing it back down to the table between us. “Just enough, okay?”

  He could show me all the van Goghs and Rembrandts, the artists who were old friends of the family. He could put me on a private jet and fly me anywhere in the world. He could dress me in fine clothes and jewelry from Tiffany, have my hair done by a hairdresser to a princess. He could do all of that and, while it would be a thrill, it wouldn’t really work. I’m not that shallow.

  But say those words, describe me as the most glorious, indulgent, beautiful distraction while looking at me with those dark, dreamy eyes... Do that and I just melt.

  §

  He’d brought me here so that I could find out more about him, so that he might just start to redeem himself in my eyes.

  So I learnt that he had studied at Harvard for a year, around the time I’d been at Yale. I learnt that he could, of course, pilot that private jet of his, just as he flew his own helicopter. I learnt that he was a champion fencer, and could easily have competed at the Olympics if he’d had the time. I learnt that he grew orchids in a hot room in one of the wings of Yeadham Hall.

  I learnt that he wore a cologne that was both spicy and citrus, something I half-recognized but then decided I didn’t. It was somehow the perfumier’s equivalent of that dark, intense look of his, a scent you could lose yourself in.

  I learnt that his jacket, tailored to hug his physique, just slid off his shoulders, its sheer lining sliding smoothly against the fine high thread-count Egyptian cotton of his shirt.

  I learnt what it was like to have that five o’clock shadow stubble that he favored dragging gently against my own soft skin, as I fell into his embrace, his cheek against mine, that stubble rasp, that hard line of his jaw, the whisper of his breath at my ear.

  I learnt what it was like to melt into those strong arms.

  This wasn’t flustered, apologetic Will.

  This was the in-control Will. This was the Will who took my in his arms by that window, the valley unfolding before us, our entrees sitting untouched on the table; the Will who held me close and whose heart I could feel beating against mine, whose growing hardness now pressed against the pit of my belly, whose hand in the small of my back held me close against him, whose hand at the back of my neck positioned me for his kiss.

  16.

  The private dining room was part of his suite, of course.

  He started to undress me at that window, peeling my dress slowly down my body.

  The backless dress and low sweetheart neck meant that I wore no bra, and so I stood there, leaning back against the frame of those French windows, my dress pulled down to my waist, my breasts lit silver by the moonlight reflected from mountain snow, the nipples dark, hard nubs which, now, he lowered his head to.

  That rasp of stubble, dragging down one breast, the softness of his lips. A tongue-flick against a nipple.

  Teeth. The sudden sharp pain of teeth closing on my nipple, and then the softness of that wet tongue again, flick, flick, flicking.

  I buried my fingers in his hair, holding him there.

  His other hand was working at my dress, trying to slide it down over my hips.

  “The back,” I gasped. “A catch at the back.”

&nbs
p; He turned me roughly, surprising me with his strength, with his urgency. I’d thought he would be a gentle lover, but no, he was rough, strong, domineering.

  He pushed me against the glass, my nipples so sensitive to the sudden chill. I felt his hands on my hips, one at the base of my back, a sudden easing as my dress was released, and then he was against me, pressing himself against my ass, the hardness through his pants a sudden, maddening tease.

  I reached back, slipped my hand between us, found that hardness.

  I tipped my head back, knowing what my long auburn hair must look like, waterfalling down my bare back in the moonlight.

  I fumbled at his buttons. I needed that hardness.

  He stepped back, loosened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  I stayed where I was, just stepping out of my dress and kicking it away. Now, only in a silk thong and those Manolo Blahniks, I stood with my hands above my head, palms flat against the glass. My face was against the glass, too, turned to one side so I could look back at him, watch him undress. My breasts, squashed against that cold glass, the nipples hard from the chill, hard from arousal.

  The last of the buttons undone, his open shirt revealed a hard body, tightly muscled, and covered with a fine mat of dark body hair, thickening at the nipples and lower belly.

  His belt, the buttons of his pants. Kicking those pants free and then pulling his short, black socks off.

  Black boxers, the fabric stretched taut.

  I wanted to turn. I wanted to go to him, take him in my arms, reach down for that hardness again, explore it.

  I stood at the window, instead, and he came to me.

  That hardness against the divide of my ass. The fabric of his boxers was wet where the head of his manhood pressed.

  He moved against me, aligning himself so that his shaft ran up between my buttocks.

  One hand stole around, found the flat of my belly, held me, and then, slowly, moved lower.

  The other hand buried itself in my long hair, pulling my head back so that his mouth could find my throat, while all the time that other hand worked lower.

  His hand pressed against my mound, the palm lying over the flimsy fabric of my thong and the narrow strip of hair beneath. He pulled at the thong, sliding it down around my thighs and then that hand returned. His fingers cupped me, pressed, and the tip of his middle finger dipped into my wetness.

  I’d had strong lovers before. Charlie liked it rough. He liked me to feel his strength. But I’d never been taken quite like this, never felt myself so totally dominated. His arm was like steel around me, holding me in place while that palm pressed and those fingers stroked and pressed. That fist buried in my hair seemed to lock my whole upper body in place, pulling my head back almost painfully, but a pain that was so close to pleasure that the two blurred, merged, and it was all part of the same sensation as his mouth explored my neck. His teeth dragged across taut skin, his tongue gliding and pressing. His lips... that rasp of stubble.

  Everything was alive, everything intensified.

  He turned me, in one powerful movement, his hard body driving me against that glass, lifting me to my toes, almost clear of the ground.

  Now it was my turn to take over.

  I buried a hand in his tousled hair, pulling his head back as he had done to me. I kissed his jaw, his neck, down across his collarbone. I reached down and pulled his shorts down to his thighs and his manhood sprang out.

  It was hard like steel in my hand, broad and long...

  The head was wet, as I swirled my thumb and forefinger around it.

  It tasted salty and slightly sweet as I lowered myself and took him in my mouth, still hanging onto the base of that impressive shaft.

  I swallowed him deep, but still there was length enough for my hand to wrap around that shaft. I started to bob my head back and forth, my lips pursed tight, sucking hard each time I pulled away.

  Now it was his hands on the window, his head thrown back.

  With my free hand I cupped his balls, squeezing and rolling them together, one long finger pressing hard behind them, applying pressure to that so sensitive area.

  I thought he was going to climax right then, after those few seconds of my sucking him deep like that. His body stiffened, he started to thrust harder, and then his hands found my head, fingers burying themselves in my hair once again.

  He pulled my head back, holding it in place by that tight grip in my hair, and then he started to thrust into my mouth, roughly, almost violently.

  I put my hands to his ass then, so tight and hard! Clawing my fingers, I dragged them down to the tops of his thighs. That only made him thrust harder.

  I did it again.

  Fingers hooked, nails digging deep, dragging down tender skin.

  Just then I had one of those moments, a snapshot in time. It was as if I was looking down from somewhere in the room. Two naked figures, red claw marks down the ass and thighs of one as he thrust deep into her throat. His hands buried in her hair, pinning her back against the window, the valley beyond lit with moonlight and pinprick house lights.

  His back, arched, straining, thrusting even harder. He was close. So close.

  The cold against my head and back from the window was intense now, the ache in my jaw becoming a pounding pain, and then he thrust one more time and held himself deep, the head of his manhood pressed hard against the back of my throat so that I was gagging, unable to swallow, almost unable to even breathe.

  His shaft pulsed, expanded, pulsed again and then his hot juices hit my throat and the pressure eased. I swallowed, swallowed again as his climax continued and he started to soften in my mouth, and I kept on swallowing, savoring the changing sensation, the easing of the urgency, the shift from brutal need to tender intimacy.

  Finally, he pulled away, soft and spent.

  §

  I stood, took his face in my hands. My touch was soft, almost ethereal. Sometimes control comes from subtlety as well as brute force.

  I turned his face towards mine, drew him in, kissed him tenderly on the lips.

  Our bodies barely touched, his soft manhood pressed lightly against me.

  I took his hand and placed it against me, cupping me as it had before.

  He started to move, started to respond, and I eased my legs apart.

  It was as if he’d been in a momentary daze after that big climax, for now he started to stir, started to resume control.

  He pulled me closer to him, pulled his hand away, reached round to cup my ass, the tops of my thighs, and then suddenly I was in the air, scooped up in his embrace and he was carrying me.

  Past the dining table, our main course still untouched. Turning so we could pass through a doorway, and then we were in a bedroom, surprisingly compact. When the rest of the suite is so large, I guess the bedroom only needs room for the bed. In the whirl of being carried through, I saw that there was a door to a bathroom, and another to what looked like a dressing room.

  He placed me on the wide bed, sitting me on the edge, my feet on the floor.

  He kneeled, undid the Manolo Blahniks and gently eased them from my feet. The carpet was a deep, cream pile, the bedding of the finest, sheer cotton.

  I reached for his head, pulled him into another kiss, savoring the hardness of his muscular body against me.

  He used his weight and strength to push me back onto the bed, and then his mouth was on my neck, working down, tracing my breast bone down.

  His face in the swell of my cleavage, his naked body pressing against mine, I eased my legs apart so he could push against me. He was still soft, but the hard grind of his pubic bone against me was so intense!

  His mouth found a nipple and there was that stab of teeth closing on me again. A hand cupped my free breast, fingers and thumb locating the nipple, squeezing and twisting, sending bolts of pure pleasure coursing through my body.

  I pushed up against him willing him to be hard again, and then willing him not to be, as his mouth worked down, hi
s tongue trailing across my ribs, my belly, swirling around my navel in ever widening loops until it hit the top of that narrow strip of short hair and followed it down.

  The first pressure of his tongue against my clit was like an explosion. That hard, wet pressure against me, barely moving.

  He started to rock his head from side to side, slowly, and that pressure transformed into a dragging sensation.

  I clutched the bedding, taking fistfuls of sheet and pillow as my body pushed up against him.

  His fingers... first one, and then two, three, sliding deep inside me, thrusting in and out, and now his tongue started to twist and turn, describing firm loops around my clit and over its fleshy hood. His lips pressed hard against me, his tongue circling and pressing, flicking fast against my hardness. And those fingers... It was as if there were two people down there, more. So many sensations at once!

  I felt the pressure starting to grow, to build inside me. A heat in my belly. A tightness. My ass clenching, the muscles in my legs tightening...

  My breath was ragged now, my heart racing, and as I pushed against him he sensed exactly that perfect moment. With a final thrust, he kept those fingers deep inside me, kept the fleshy part of his tongue pressed hard against me, not moving, just pressing, holding, sensing the growing tightness, and then my whole body bucked, tightened, lurched, and I was taken over by the most intense climax I’d ever had.

  Over and over, my body lurched, my legs clamped hard around his head, an incredible, intense heat in my belly. And then, finally, each wave diminished, weakened, and my climax started to ebb.

  17.

  I don’t know what happened immediately after that.

  Did I doze? Did I even black out briefly?

  The intensity was something I’d never experienced before.

  When I returned to my senses, he was there, in my arms, his hard body on top of mine, moving, pressing. Tender and gentle; he’d had me before, but now he was making love to me.

  He was hard again, pushing against me, not quite the right angle. I shifted, pushed, felt that sudden pressure against me and then the release as he slid home.