The last bit was a menu from an Amsterdam restaurant. A restaurant famous for its Bitterballen.
‘Bitterballen’ is a fancy Dutch word for ‘croquette’. Croquettes like potato balls.
I began to giggle. I slid off the bed to my feet and read the letters again. Captain Taco meowed his displeasure and swiped angry claws at my backside. “Ow! You can come with, fiendish feline!” He sauntered off without so much as a thank you.
I hadn’t seen Sam since he’d broken into Ellen’s apartment. I did get obscene texts outlining the parts of me he missed, and links to dorky things on the Internet—sometimes even handwritten letters full of non-dirty words and surprising sentimentality.
No word as to when or if I’d ever see him again, though.
But with one little envelope, my body had shifted into lust gear faster than you could say, “He’s even better than a vibrator.” My heart pounded, and my nether regions sang.
Not that a single, solitary visit in four months was a relationship, of course. No. It was just…fun.
Harmless fun.
With a gentleman friend.
A nice Southern boy, if you will.
The North Carolina boy I lo—lorvsted after.
Who loved me.
Nothing bad could happen on a quiet side trip to one of the great cities of Europe, right?
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The Key
Geraldine O’Hara
Excerpt
Chapter One
It was the stockings that had done it. Fishnet. Nice thick seam up the back of each leg. They’d turned me into another woman. When I’d worn the first pair I’d acquired from the little newsagents down the road…wanton, deliriously delicious, that’s how I’d felt. I’d then bought one hundred pairs from eBay. They came this morning in a plain brown box—and why wouldn’t they? I supposed it was guilt that had me thinking they’d have been delivered in a bright pink affair that had a flashing neon sign jutting from the top that read Singleton has a thing about kinky clothing.
My online shopping hadn’t stopped at the stockings, either. No, I’d chosen a PVC get-up, all shiny material and silver eyelets, whip-thin laces up the centre of the bodice, too. I hadn’t gone online to buy anything of the sort, so seeing it then finding myself putting it into my virtual basket had been a shock. Oh, and a pair of black stilettos a mile high with a bright pink sole—I’d dumped those into my basket too, selecting my size and width as though I were only buying flip-flops or furry winter boots. Dressed to impress, that’s what I’d been. Which was where my obsession had begun. Now I had to find a man to wear them for.
I pondered on how I’d go about this task. I didn’t like going to the pub by myself, didn’t fancy joining some group or other at the local community centre that meant I’d have to say, “Hi, my name is Jane, and I can’t find a man for love nor money.” Enrolling in a dating agency didn’t appeal either. However, the latter got me thinking and had me going back to the newsagents after work, where I purchased several daily rags. I stuffed them into my bag as if they were another guilty secret, although why I did that I had no idea. Jeans, a fluffy pink sweater that, okay, showed a bit of cleavage, and my little black pumps would hardly give anyone the impression I was a sexy vamp and using the newspapers for anything other than catching up on the latest goings-on. People bought newspapers all the time. Except I had them because I needed to trawl the wanted ads. For men. Oh, God, I was embarking on such a vixenish journey, throwing caution to the proverbial winds, and it felt bloody good.
I left the shop and walked down the busy street, shifting my eyes left and right, watching the crowd as though I had a neon sign on my head much like I’d imagined the stocking box would have had. Singleton has newspapers with a view to getting sausages inside her muffin. I blushed at my thought, convinced a man coming towards me with a black bowler hat perched on his large head was the type who would place such an advertisement. He appeared to have no hair, going by the absence of sideburns, and his somewhat fleshy jowls and wrinkles gave me the idea that he was older than Lobb Mountain—a grass-covered protrusion in the local park that wasn’t exactly a mountain but a small hill. As a kid I’d torn up and down it in a manic fashion, rolling too. Once, I’d tumbled over into dog shit and my mother had had the unfortunate task of washing it out of my long, wire-wool hair.
Those had been the days…
And now look at me. Climbing an entirely different hill—that of my thirties, still single, still unable to find the right man made just for me.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Bowler Hat shuffled closer, studying my cleavage as he passed. I wouldn’t have minded, but he’d licked his lips. It had my stomach churning and me asking myself whether I was destined to have older men leering at me for the rest of my life instead of the hunk-o-matics I so craved.
As I approached my flat in a side road off of High Street, my neighbour, whom I secretly called Mr Big Bollocks, raised a hand while tending to his front garden. He always seemed to have a swollen groin area and be pulling up weeds. I often wondered whether he replanted the ones he’d already removed in order to appear as though he was constantly gardening. I suspected he had the times of my comings and goings firmly imprinted in his mind because when I was inside my flat, he was never out with his trusty trowel.
“Nice afternoon,” he said, nodding, waving that mud-encrusted trowel like it was a medieval spear and he a warrior.
I smiled, agreed that yes, it was and walked past pondering on whether he had ever been married. In my estimation he was in his thirties, an average-looking chap with mousy brown hair, blue eyes and a bit of a square jaw. Nice enough, but not for me. Not my bag, as they say. But what did it matter what my bag was? I couldn’t afford to be choosy, yet I was anyway.
Knowing he was staring at my arse, I tried to walk in a non-sexy way—nothing like how I’d sauntered around my bedroom in my heels and stockings this morning. That walk belonged to…
Hmm, should I choose myself a snazzy new name to go with my siren-like persona?
I climbed the outside steps to my front door—second-storey flat for me—mulling over names that might suit a sex-crazy woman. Well, I’d be sex-crazy once I had my outfit on again at any rate. My real name—plain old Jane Smith—was hardly one that I wanted to hand out willy-nilly when responding to the wanted ads. I rolled a few around in my head—Rachel Redlips, Jenny Big-Jugs, Susan Sexpot—then tossed them out in disgust. I wasn’t taking myself seriously—and this was serious business. I mean, starting a new journey always was, wasn’t it? One had to be prepared for all eventualities, and falling at the first hurdle wasn’t an option.
I slid my key into the lock and let myself in, tossing my bag onto my rather tired-looking, royal blue velvet sofa on my way through to the kitchen. Tea didn’t appeal—after all, I needed to get into role—so a glass of wine would better suit the task at hand. I poured, left the cork out so the rest of the red stuff could breathe, then took a large gulp to give myself a buzz. It went down far too easily, and before I knew it I’d finished the whole glass with no sexy new names forthcoming.
I stared at the bottle, contemplating just one more serving. The label proclaimed the drink to have been made in France. That was an idea. A French name would not only sound sexy but mysterious too. Chantal Rossi?
I splashed another goodly amount of wine into my glass then took it and the bottle into the living room. Plonking myself on the sofa beside my bag, wine bottle on the coffee table, the drink in the glass threatening to leap out and stain my sweater, I stared ahead at the TV. Saw my reflection and decided I looked sad and lonely. Perhaps desperate. After a sigh or two—or it might have been five, I wasn’t too sure—I opened my bag, pulled out the newspapers and put them in a pile on my lap. I’d gone for the locals. Stood to reason I would have—no good poking through the nationals for what I had in mind. Travelling far and wide wasn’t something I was prepared to
do. Not yet, anyway.
Thumbing through the first one and drinking more wine, I found the wanted page. Lots of people after all manner of odd things. A pipe for an Indesit washing machine. An indoor TV aerial with a plastic square top so it could be made to look like a spaceship for a kid’s school project—too much information? A set of old-fashioned lampshades for landscape purposes. I shook my head, briefly wondered about the workings of the human mind, and realised I wouldn’t find what I needed there. I turned the page.
Ah. There they were.
Man seeks man with GSOH. Woman looking for man to fill lonely nights with intelligent conversation. Man needed for alternative liaisons with a view to perm relationship. Alternative? Was that some kind of code for kinky? I’d have to watch out for that. I wasn’t sure if I could handle anything off-the-wall.
But Chantal Rossi might be able to.
Hmm, there was that. Chantal Rossi could well be into all manner of rampant rendezvous given half the chance. I needed to know for sure before I proceeded any further. Quickly, in case I changed my mind, I slid the pages off my lap and onto the sofa, put my glass on yesterday’s issue of Chat! magazine, the base covering the words I had a thirst for an orgy! then made my way to my bedroom.
The box of stockings sat in the middle of my bed, one flap pointed slightly upwards, the other still closed tight with brown tape. In my haste to peek inside, I’d failed to lift them both, then, when I’d realised how utterly insane I’d been to buy one hundred pairs in a single transaction, I’d walked away from the carton thinking I ought to start worrying about myself. I’d gone to work—boring office job—and thought of the box all day, of the grey plastic-bag parcel containing the PVC corset, just waiting for me to get back home and try it on again. And now, here I was once more, undecided as to whether I should become Chantal Rossi after all.
“Do it,” I muttered. “Be your true self proudly.”
It was all well and good talking to my sodding self, but actually doing was another matter. Taking a deep breath, I lunged forward, got my trembling little hands on the box and ripped open the closed flap. Delved inside and drew out a pair of stockings, the lure of their sauciness already taking a firm hold. An enormous wave of adrenaline washed through me, and I staggered to one side a bit, overwhelmed and feeling more than a tad demented. If I didn’t know any better I’d say the stockings had cast a spell, but I did know better and I was buggered if I’d go down that devil of a track.
I opened the packet and withdrew the stockings, laid them on the bed while I stripped out of my Jane Smith clothes and stood naked, heart hammering, knees knocking. I could almost taste the sexiness waiting for me to embrace it. I sat on the bed, drew one stocking up my leg, and oh, there it was, that vixenish feeling. Without further ado, the second stocking was well and truly clutching my other leg, the lace band at the top nice and tight, and I felt like…like a beautiful little whore.
Like Chantal Rossi.
As though my arse were on fire, I slipped the PVC corset around me and laced it up, my hands shaking, nausea-riddled to the point of feeling faint. I paused to give myself a chance to acclimatise to this sudden change of persona. I no longer harboured any self-consciousness. Instead, I oozed confidence and believed I could tackle any Tom, Dick or Harry’s…well, tackle.
Back in the living room, I perched on the sofa arm, one leg bent, the other sprawled seductively in front of me, and leant across to flick through the other papers. Several ads caught my attention, but one in particular had me jolting forward to peer closer.
Man seeks woman to take the role of my fair maiden. Need fun and a lady willing to try new things. Are you the key who can slide successfully into my lock?
I could have laughed. I could have thought this man ridiculous. A charmer, trying too hard to win the heart of a fair maiden—and I wasn’t fair. I had black hair that most of the time made me look like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards—very unruly—and my skin had a permanent pink blush as opposed to the blondes I envied with their perfect porcelain cheeks. Still, I couldn’t be authentically French-like without the dark tones, so if he wanted a fair maiden, he’d be sorely disappointed.
Of course, Jane Smith would have questioned whether he’d even find a dark-haired woman attractive, and whether she ought not to contact him in case he knocked her back. But Chantal Rossi was a different kettle of fish. He’d want to meet her. She was saucier than a bottle of Heinz.
Instead of the usual PO box as a contact, he’d bravely included a mobile phone number. How many oddball females had called him so far? Maybe some disgruntled men, too, barking at him about being a sexual deviant who fancied himself as some knight in shining bloody armour. Well, Chantal Rossi was about to be the next caller on the end of his line. I took my mobile out of my bag then jabbed his number onto my screen. Held the phone to my ear. Heard ringing, my heartbeat, the thud of my pulse. Excitement barrelled through me, and I swallowed a glut of it before it had the chance to form an uncomfortable ball and make me speak like a man once he answered.
“Hello?” he said.
Oh, he sounds lovely.
“Hello,” I said, going for a French accent.
“Are you calling about the ad?” he asked.
“Yes. I saw it in The Stanton Mail. Do you have any inclination to meet a sexy French woman who believes she holds zee key?”
He laughed, a wonderful throaty chuckle, and my insides seemed to turn to liquid. I inhaled deeply through my nose then exhaled from my mouth, hoping the sound came off as sexy breathing.
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “I’ve never dated a French woman before.”
“French is good. Mysterious.” I paused for effect. “Wanton.”
“Oh,” he said. “I must say, you do sound rather…forward.”
“Forward is the way ahead,” I breathed, wondering where those words had come from and just who the hell had taken possession of my mouth. “You like it, no?”
“Hmm, can’t say I’ve ever encountered a forward one before, but there’s a first time for everything.”
“There is,” I said, getting right into it. “And what is your name, may I ask?”
“You may. David Thompson. Yours?”
“Chantal Rossi,” I said, pleased with how it had rolled off my tongue. “It is sexy, yes?”
“Very.” He cleared his throat. “What do you look like?”
“I am not a fair maiden. Will that be a problem?”
“No, no, not at all. What are you wearing?”
Again, I could have laughed. I’d stumbled onto a massive pervert, I’d bet, but I couldn’t stop now. “Fishnet stockings. A PVC corset.”
“Oh, well. Um…”
“Is that kind of outfit not to your liking?”
“I, err, I just didn’t expect you to say such a thing, that’s all. I really wanted to get an idea of the type of person you are. You know, jeans, T-shirt, that kind of thing.”
“I can wear whatever you want…or nothing at all,” I said, thinking of Jane Smith’s jeans and boring outfits, imagining they’d maybe be more his cup of Darjeeling.
“I’m sure you would. Well, um, when would you like to meet?”
“Now,” I said. “No time like the present.”
He didn’t answer. Had I pushed for too much too soon? I opened my mouth to fill the void with more sultry words.
“Seven o’clock at The Plough,” he said. “That be okay?”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me, pretending that he could. “That is perfect. How will I know you, gallant knight?” Oh, God…
“I’ll be wearing a black suit and red tie.”
“Ah, a red tie like a long, lapping tongue.” Oh, heck, stop it now…
Thankfully, he laughed and it sounded genuine.
“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” he said. “So, The Plough, then. How will I know you? I take it you won’t be wearing your stockings and corset.”
“You wi
ll have to wait and see,” I purred. Oh, Lord, I was good at this. “But I shall definitely wear a long raincoat, beige, like a secret detective.”
“Uh, right…”
“Until then, David.” My mouth had gone suddenly dry. My wine was wailing for me to pick it up and drink it. The bottle, not that little bit in the glass.
“Until then, Chantal.”
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About the Author
Lucy Woodhull has always loved le steamy romance. And laughing. And both things at the same time, although that can get awkward. Her motto is: “Laugh and the world laughs with you—cry and you’ll short-circuit your Kindle.” That’s why she writes funny books, because goodness knows we all need to escape the real world once in a while. She believes in red lipstick, equality, and the interrobang. Lucy daydreams in Los Angeles with her husband and a very fat cat who doesn’t like you.
Email: [email protected]
Lucy loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
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The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 25
