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    Velvet Trap: The Awakening Book 1
    Velvet Trap: The Awakening Book 1
    Velvet Trap: The Awakening Book 1
    Ebook92 pages1 hour

    Velvet Trap: The Awakening Book 1

    By Mael d'Armor

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Book One of a mesmerising trilogy of seduction, entrapment, and ultimately, liberation.


    Helen has the hots for her photographer. The kind of hots that can hit you when you pose nude in the tropics. Trouble is, Helen is newly married. And her honeymoon is about to kick off. And the photographer is a long-haired temptress - one with more appeal than a sex goddess.

    Helen has never been with a girl. She's not like that, is she?

    She can resist. But how can you do that when you're inches from the lens, and melting with desire? How can you say no when a blue-eyed siren is fanning your fire?

    There is no way.  No way to escape that velvet trap.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins Publishers Australia
    Release dateJul 1, 2014
    ISBN9781460703939
    Velvet Trap: The Awakening Book 1
    Author

    Mael d'Armor

    Born in a cosy village in Brittany, France, Mael D’Armor has worked as an academic, cartoonist and young children’s author. He came to Australia in search of wide spaces and exciting life forms. For reasons as yet unclear to him, this prompted his move into fiction and his first, award-winning short story was published in 2012. He writes about the complexities of desire, frustration, hope, love and French kissing - though not always in that order.

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      Book preview

      Velvet Trap - Mael d'Armor

      Prologue

      Her head is spinning real bad. Damn. She should have gone easier on the wine. Her eyes zigzag to her watch, but the hands on the bijou dial are blurred, unreadable. She has had too much to drink, definitely. It has been a fun evening, but it is time to leave. Time to leave. She repeats this in her mind, very slowly, moving her lips in silent encouragement.

      Tiiiime-toooo-leaaaave.

      The words float up before her like distorted, meaningless pictograms, then swirl into an almost perfect circle and start dancing. Weird. She usually does not see sentences drifting and cavorting like this when she is tipsy. She tries to get up, but her legs are stubbornly unresponsive. With every new second, they seem to become more deeply rooted to the floor.

      ‘Can you … Can you help me up?’ she asks.

      She was feeling euphoric only moments ago. Euphoric, and so relaxed, so loose, so free, she was laughing at everything. At the jokes he was cracking, all of them uproariously funny. At the little papier-mâché pumpkin dangling from the ceiling – that toothless Halloween grin had her in stitches. At the old calendar on the wall, hanging lopsided from a single pin – who had ever seen anything quite as farcical? At the stain of wine on her jeans, just above the knee, for its blobby shape was so, so extraordinarily comic.

      But now it is as if an invisible, vexatious sandman had cut open a hole at the base of her neck and was doggedly filling her up. Like she was some sort of hollow puppet to be stuffed bit by bit to the brim and made utterly passive.

      ‘Can you … help me … up?’ she repeats. The words seem to be catching in her throat.

      ‘Help you up? Why?’

      ‘I … I should get going. I’m feeling a bit … dizzzzy.’

      ‘Come on, you can’t go now, just before the real fun begins.’

      ‘The real …?’ She looks up at him through the mist in her eyes. Bizarrely, his head does not look like his head anymore.

      ‘Why … Why aaare you looking … like a hoooorse?’ she slurs. She must be hallucinating.

      He responds with his own question.

      ‘Don’t you like my Trojan horse look? Just a quirky little mask I picked up at the corner shop. It rather increases my sex appeal, don’t you think?’

      That was an awful lot of syllables, and she struggles to grasp them all.

      ‘Your … your sex appeaaal?’ she echoes. It is so difficult to get the words out.

      ‘Horses are usually well-hung, you know.’

      She wants to get up, but the sand keeps seeping inside her, without remorse, and has reached up to her chest. She is not going anywhere.

      ‘Aren’t you sitting comfortably?’ he asks.

      ‘I’ve … I’ve had too muchchch to drinnnk.’

      ‘Nonsense. Anyone can stomach a little Gamma Hydroxybutyrate.’

      ‘Gam … hxybtr …?’ What is wrong with her? She can’t understand a single thing coming out of his mouth. Perhaps because he has a horse’s head.

      ‘I thought that might relax you nicely. You’ve been a bit tense lately. Nothing like two grams of Liquid X to start looking on the bright side of things.’

      She has no idea what he is going on about. Confusion is shrouding her mind.

      ‘As I said, horses are well-hung. You’ll enjoy my demonstration.’

      He unzips his flies and pushes down his trousers.

      Her eyes drift down, listlessly, to the cock in his grip. A rather large model, already fully primed. He moves closer, bringing the rigid intruder within an inch of her face.

      ‘Your mouth. Open it.’

      Wooziness is blunting her panic.

      ‘Noooo … Pleaaaase …’ she manages, drifting further and further from herself.

      ‘Oh, but you will, honeypot. You will.’

      She cannot move her legs. Cannot move her arms. Cannot push him off. The cock is floating before her. Floating, dancing. She is so confused. She should feel fear, helplessness, revulsion too, but everything is dulled, jumbled, losing focus.

      ‘Open your mouth!’

      A tear collects in the corner of her eye. But it does not roll down her cheek, cannot roll down her cheek. Even her tears are frozen, like her arms and legs.

      ‘Forgive me,’ she pleads weakly, through her lethargic thoughts.

      She does not see the camera which the devious horse man is holding above her head. She does not, cannot see its light flashing.

      Blip, blip, blip.

      She does not hear the door clicking and strange male voices whinnying in derision.

      Forgive me, Karl.

      She parts her lips in a daze.

      Ten years later

      1

      For a few dreamy moments, she stares at the flow of glossy turquoise beneath her feet. The water feels so close, almost within reach. She imagines leaning over and scything through its smooth sheen with her finger, leaving behind a beautiful sparkling trail. Perfect. She breathes a long whisper of contentment and then looks up, to embrace the marine scenery before her. She’s so lucky. She still can’t believe her luck. This sort of thing only happens to celebrities or glamorous film stars, surely? This is what you read about in the magazines, drooling quietly with envy.

      But, incredibly, her number came up. Just like that. Out of the blue. Out of the big blue ocean. Someone up there must have a soft spot for her. For here she is, strapped inside a low-flying helicopter, being whisked away towards one of the most gorgeous spots on the planet. Whisked away towards three weeks of total relaxation on a tiny tropical island. A tiny private tropical island. Her very own little haven, where she can snuggle up in a deckchair with a good book and watch the occasional sail drift by between her toes. Where she can slip on a pair of flippers, if she feels like it, for a leisurely paddle among the corals – and even, yes, even dabble in some photo modelling, just to spice things up a bit. This is too good to be true, and the perfect preliminary to her long-delayed honeymoon. She pinches herself, just to make sure. She is still in the chopper. The turquoise sea is still sweeping underneath her.

      She looks at the pilot beside her. Brow merging harmoniously into nose, full, perfectly drawn lips, small curved chin – Selena’s profile is strangely reminiscent of those women immortalised by the sculptors of ancient Greece. Funny thing is, she hadn’t even heard of Selena Blankhart until last month. Portrait photographer, as it turned out. Not the run-of-the-mill variety, though, but the kind that zips across the world on exclusive assignments, bagging shots of the powerful and the glitterati, with the odd royal thrown in. Obviously excellent at her

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