Teasing the Devil

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

From Book 0:

There is a hint of the wicked about Julian d'Alveda, a darkness that fascinates pretty student Chloe Anthony. Keen to learn more about his scandalous activities, she joins him at Candle Street Hall in Norfolk, a house with a reputation darker still. Once there, she quickly finds herself drawn in like a moth to a flame, first as his lover, and then rather more as the full scope of his strange obsessions and desires becomes clear.

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 224

Sample

Chapter One



WE NEVER DID FIND out exactly why Julian d’Alveda was expelled. All we knew was that it had happened in the chapel, that it involved a girl from the village, and that it was, above all, dirty.

I pretended to be horrified, just like everyone else. Secretly I was thrilled, but then I always did have a taste for the darkness, and for Julian d’Alveda. He was older than me, very dark, with a strong, slightly harsh face that must have come from his Portuguese father and the blackest, deepest eyes I’ve ever seen. I used to watch him across the dining hall and imagine his powerful, bony hands on my body, doing things to me I’d never had done, rough things, rude things, things polite young ladies very definitely were not supposed to permit. His only failing, in my eyes, was that he seemed rather detached, academic, and far more likely to be found in the library with his nose in a book than out on the playing fields.

Then there was the scandal and any doubts I’d had disappeared completely. I was fascinated, entranced, my imagination running wild as I imagined what might have been going on when Reverend Smith caught them, and imagining myself in place of the girl. In the very tamest of my fantasies I was naked across the alter as he took me from behind, and the things I thought about in my wilder moments – late at night with my knickers pushed down and my hand busy between my thighs – those were enough to leave me blushing afterwards, for embarrassment at my own dirty mind.

I knew I was safe, of course. He was gone, and he’d never taken the slightest notice of me anyway. Why would he? I was that much younger than him, shy, studious and a bit of a mouse, I suppose, with my glasses and my hair up in a bun, my outward image a million miles away from what was going on in my head. True, I did get quite a lot of attention to my figure, but not from Julian.

The scandal happened on midsummer night, not all that long before the end of the summer term. By the autumn we all had new things to think about, and Julian d’Alveda and his expulsion quickly passed into legend. I still thought about him, particularly late at night when the disturbing, arousing thoughts would begin to crowd into my head, but I had no idea what had happened to him and I wouldn’t have had the courage to do anything about it if I had.

So time passed; my last few terms and my year off as a conservation volunteer in India, and university, to leave me a little wiser, a little more cynical. I’d almost forgotten about Julian as I sat in the careers room wondering what to do with myself. Term was over, campus almost deserted, myself and a few other unfortunates who were obliged to stay on beyond the end of term the only students about. The thought of settling into a regular job was depressing. I didn’t feel in any great hurry to start an attempt to climb the corporate ladder, but I was skimming through magazines on the off chance of finding something to inspire me.

I was reading an article on unusual jobs and suddenly there he was, as darkly handsome as ever, with a group of people on a sunny lawn in front of a house built of flints and age-blackened wood. I was sure it was him, but had to check the text to make sure I wasn’t fooling myself. Sure enough, he was showing people around Candle Street Hall in Norfolk, a tour guide for ghost hunters. I’d always imagined him being terribly successful; a politician perhaps or a high-flying banker, with a trophy wife six feet tall and most of that leg. To see him doing something I might easily have aspired to myself gave me mixed feelings; sadness to see my idol fallen, a sudden thrill blended with remorse to think that perhaps he might have been accessible after all. I was also curious, and suddenly wistful, remembering how he had made me ache, how I’d wished he’d even notice me, how I used to touch myself over him in the warm comfort of my bedsit; my top up so that I could play with my breasts, my knickers off or taut between my ankles, my thighs spread to the summer darkness as I thought of myself in the chapel, made to do something at once utterly unspeakable and impossibly thrilling.

For maybe two months it had been my favourite fantasy, giving way only once I was on holiday and involved in the romance which had come to a climax with me losing my virginity. Yet even at that moment of glorious surrender my thoughts hadn’t been entirely focused on the boy on top of me, and while my sigh as my body had filled for the first time in my life had been genuine ecstasy it had also held a trace of regret. I’d been ready for a while, and I’d wanted him to do it somewhere special, somewhere daring, at very least outdoors where we’d be at risk of getting caught, maybe in his car knowing that there might very well be a peeping Tom in the bushes, better still over the alter of the local church while the bells chimed midnight high above us. I got it in my own bed at the cottage my parents had rented in Wales, with my sister trying to stifle her giggles in the bunk above us. Still, it had definitely been rude, very rude.

I had to shake myself to clear my head, smiling ruefully as I pushed away the absurd thought which had popped up from nowhere, of how daring and how good it would be to misbehave right then and there, teasing myself to a climax in the careers room, when anybody might come in and catch me at any moment. It was insane, impossible, a completely stupid thing to do, to risk having somebody catch me masturbating, and yet just the thought of it sent a powerful shiver down my spine. I suppose I’m a natural exhibitionist, but I’d never acted on my impulses and I wasn’t about to start now.

Smiling for my own silly thoughts, I got up and went to make myself a coffee. It was amazing how Julian d’Alveda had got into my head, lifting me from utter boredom to a sharp, needy arousal in the space of a few seconds, as if he’d somehow put a spell on me. It was a ridiculous idea, because he hadn’t even been there, but one of the many rumours after his expulsion was that he had been engaged in some sort of ritual, something to do with witchcraft or even Satanism.

The memory sent my thoughts down a new track. As I stood sipping my coffee I was imagining how it would be if he had somehow made his picture project a strong desire to any woman who saw it, or better still, just to me. If that was the case I’d be helpless, unable to stop myself. I’d start to tease my breasts, struggling to fight the urge but unable to stop my fingers as my nipples came up until they were sticking out, high and proud, making two very obvious little bumps in my top, little bumps nobody who came into the careers room could possibly fail to notice.

I wouldn’t stop there, far from it. With every touch my arousal would grow stronger, and my helplessness. I’d be astonished at my own behaviour as I removed my bra under my top and tugged it all up to show off my bare breasts. He’d know too, somehow, amused and horny as I cupped my breasts, feeling their weight in my hands as I held them up to show off to him, his cock a hard bulge in his trousers as he appeared from nowhere, beckoning to me, cool and commanding as he told me to get on my knees and fold my flesh around him, and to suck his cock as well, to suck his cock while he fucked my cleavage.

Again I shook myself. The words alone were impossibly dirty; shocking, shameful, utterly inappropriate for any self-respecting woman, and yet utterly compelling. In ways they were worse than the act, although it was all too easy to imagine the horror of my friends if they caught me like that, on my knees to a man, his cock bobbing up and down between my breasts and I kissed and licked at the head. They’d call me a slut, tell me I was degrading myself, making myself the instrument of male sex fantasy. I’d be burning with shame, but I wouldn’t be able to hold back.

I couldn’t. My nipples were hard, the ache between my thighs was too strong to resist. I was going to do it, then and there. Nobody was about, the few students in college all out enjoying the bright summer sunshine. I’d be able to hear anybody who did approach anyway, the tiled floor of the corridor and the utter silence ensuring that I heard footsteps long before the door was pushed open to expose me. That was what I was telling myself as I tugged up my top anyway.

Just having my bra showing felt so naughty a sigh broke from my lips, and my fingers were shaking as they went to the catch behind my back. One hook, two hooks, and the catch came free. I felt the weight of my breasts loll forward, took hold of the cups, lifted and I was bare, topless, holding my own weight in my hands, satisfyingly full and heavy, my nipples painfully sensitive under my fingers. It felt so good, to be showing off in a public place, for all that I couldn’t stop shaking or biting my lip with nervous tension.

A last flicker of common sense made me go and sit in a high-backed chair under the window, giving me the best chance of covering up if anybody did come and making sure nobody outside could possibly see me. With that went my last chance of holding back from utterly disgracing myself. My skirt came up, tugged high around my waist to sit the seat of my knickers on the coarse weave of the chair. I gave a little wriggle, enjoying the feel of rough cloth on the flesh of my bottom and thighs. Another quick motion and my knickers were down, my bottom bare on the seat.

My thighs came open, stretching the little scrap of cotton tight between my knees. One arm went to my chest, supporting the weight of my breasts, one nipple taut between finger and thumb. My spare hand went between my legs and I was doing it, stroking and teasing as I shut my eyes and let my mouth come open in bliss. I let my thoughts drift, to my fantasy of being under Julian’s spell, imagining it was for real, that I was helpless, unable to stop myself from masturbating in public.

His face came up in my mind, cool and handsome, his lips curled up in mild amusement as he watched me with my breasts bare and thighs spread, rubbing at myself in dirty abandon and unable to hold back. I thought of my friends watching, horrified, as Julian ordered me to my knees. He’d make me suck him erect. He’d fuck my cleavage. He’d come in my mouth and make me swallow, so that every single one of them could see.

That was too much. My back arched tight and I was gasping and mumbling his name, over and over as my climax rose up inside me to burst in my head, not just once, but again and again, shock after shock running through my body as I clutched at myself and my nails dug deep into the soft flesh of my breast. His name was still on my lips as I started to come down, dizzy with reaction and bittersweet yearning for what might have been.

Chapter Two



IT WAS ONLY AFTER disgracing myself in the careers room that I realised there was nothing to stop me visiting Candle Street Hall. The thought of seeing Julian again gave me butterflies so badly I felt a little sick, and I couldn’t help but imagine a ridiculous scenario in which I introduced myself and he didn’t even remember who I was. That seemed depressingly likely, but telling myself that I could go but not introduce myself seemed just plain silly. I kept trying to tell myself I was 23 and shouldn’t be behaving like an adolescent, but I’ve never been good at rationalising away my feelings.

I decided not to go, yet booked a place on his ghost tour the same afternoon. The journey was only just over an hour by coach and bus, which dropped me in a sleepy Norfolk village outside a big brick and flint church almost completely hidden by trees. It was a hot, still day, the air full of summer scents and the lazy drone of insects, not creepy at all, which made the conversation of my fellow tourists seem very odd as we gathered at the lych gate. One or two tried to engage me in conversation, but I answered in monosyllables, unable to focus on anything but the arrival of Julian.

He was coming to collect us in person, that much I knew, but I hadn’t expected him to step out from the churchyard as if appearing from nowhere. In the picture he’d been all in black, as he was now, but no photograph could have done justice to the reality. His plain, slightly worn top was tight over the smooth muscles of his chest and abdomen, his jeans looser but hinting at muscle beneath and an impressive bulge where it mattered the most. Just that would have been enough to make me look, never mind his dark, dark eyes and the set of his mouth, which seemed ever ready to twitch up into a half smile as if at some private joke. Everything about him exuded masculinity, confidence, also a touch of mystery, especially his voice when he spoke.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, welcome to Candle Street Hall.’

I knew he was putting on a show for the tourists, but that did nothing to calm the fluttering in my stomach or prevent me hanging on to his every word as he made his introduction. He hadn’t noticed me, but I was right at the back, behind a truly huge American in a Hawaiian-style shirt. I was hiding, and I knew it, but I didn’t dare step out, unwilling to face the moment when he failed to recognise me.

Once he’d introduced himself he motioned us towards where the mouth of a lane emerged from between two giant oaks, still talking.

‘You will excuse me, I am certain, if we make a slight detour on our way to the house. This is Black Dog Lane, along which, in 1749, the then verger of St Peter’s, one John Aickman, was chased down by a gigantic black dog. He was found the next morning in the very lych gate under which you now stand, in a state of terror from which he never recovered. They reckoned him one of the lucky ones, for the hound was, or is, no mortal dog but an apparition said to be part of the Devil’s own pack and known locally as ... Chloe Anthony?’

He was looking right at me, eye to eye, and I felt the blood rush to my face as the entire group turned to look at me, no doubt somewhat puzzled. Julian was a great deal cooler, recovering himself almost immediately.

‘I do beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen. I wasn’t expecting to see an old friend here today. The hell hound is known as Black Shuck, this young lady is Chloe Anthony.’

‘Hi.’

The word came out so faintly I barely heard myself speak, but for all my embarrassment as the tour group greeted me I was singing inside. Not only had Julian d’Alveda recognised me, but seeing me had broken his legendary poise, if only for an instant, and he had called me his friend. I did my best to play it cool, explaining to the big American man and his wife that I’d been at college with Julian and claiming that I’d just happened to be passing through. He’d walked ahead, leading the group into the mouth of Black Dog Lane, but I was sure he could hear me. Candle Street wasn’t on the way from anywhere to anywhere else, cut off by a loop of the River Yar. He’d know I was lying, maybe that it was him who’d drawn me there. I could even imagine that he knew exactly how I felt, and every little detail of the fantasies I’d built around him over the years.

Whatever he knew, or guessed, he wasn’t showing it, once more his usual calm and collected self as he led us down Black Dog Lane and across a field path. The village had been on a slight rise, but the land beyond was absolutely flat, the lane running between great old oaks with a ditch to either side, following the gentle curve of the river until we reached a gate from which a footpath led arrow straight across the fields. Julian waited until we had all caught up before speaking again.

‘And there, ladies and gentlemen, we have Candle Street Hall.’

I recognised it from the picture in the magazine; a long, two-storey house built of flints and age-blackened timbers, with high, eccentric gables and chimneys higher still. Like the village it was built on a slight rise and grown about with mature trees, so that it seemed to have its own private island among the wide, flat fields. It also projected an aura, not of menace exactly, but like something I hadn’t felt since I was a little girl, when a group of boys had dared me and my sister to go into an abandoned house. At least, it seemed to, but Julian had been building it up as we walked, describing how each midsummer night the ghost of Lady Howard left the house in a coach made of bones and pulled by headless horses, so I wasn’t sure if the aura was just suggestion.

We struck off across the fields, along the path and across bridges and duckboards where a piece of wetland fringed the rise. Julian explained that there had once been a moat and launched into another grisly tale, of how the original house had been besieged and sacked during the Civil War. He was good. I could almost see the flames and hear the screams of the family and their retainers as they were slaughtered, despite it being a bright summer day and as peaceful as could be. He carried on as we mounted a set of crooked stone steps leading up between the trees.

‘And this is Mary’s Stair, where Lady Howard would walk in the evenings while under house arrest. Imagine how she felt, when every day might bring pardon, or, as it eventually did, her nemesis.’

I found it easy, so easy that I as I turned to look back over the fields to where the tower of the church rose above the trees I felt a cold shiver. My companions were no less affected, some quiet, others talking in hushed voices as we came out from the trees. Julian continued to relate the history of the house, which certainly seemed to have had more than its share. . .