Captivation
Authors: Nicola Moriarty
Tags: #Fiction, #Erotica, #General, #Horror, #Ghost, #Romance
About the Book
A compelling paranormal romance novella, with ghostly overtones … True love never dies.
After Juliette lost her beloved husband Danny, she closed herself off from the world, tormented by her grief.
But now, just as she is finally preparing to move on, she senses he has returned. Is he trying to come back to her?
How can Juliette say no to the man she loves more than life itself? And why would she want to when Danny’s methods of persuasion have her weak at the knees …?
Yet there is always a price to pay. And when their passionate love starts to turn sinister, will she find the strength to finally let him go for ever?
Contents
Prologue
Juliette was drifting. She walked from one room to the next, but when she reached the doorway, she would linger for just a few moments before turning and moving to the next room. Each time she waited for something to hit her. She wasn’t sure what. Perhaps a sense of loss, or a realisation that the news was real. Or maybe she was searching for his scent. Hoping to catch some indication that he was still there, that he hadn’t left her, that he wasn’t really gone.
She walked until her legs ached. Until the light from the windows dimmed, and the apartment slowly darkened.
Study. Bedroom. Kitchen. Lounge. Hall.
Study. Bedroom. Kitchen. Lounge. Hall.
Hours passed, her stomach churned and her thighs burned, but still she walked.
He must be here.
It can’t be true.
He can’t be gone.
The sun was beginning to rise again, the first shards of light filtering through the soft gauze curtains, when her legs gave way. She collapsed into a heap on the floor of the hall, and it was then that she started to cry. She tucked herself into a tight ball, bit into her knee with her teeth and sobbed.
‘Danny,’ she whispered to the carpet, ‘come back.’
Chapter One
Juliette stepped into the shower with the bottle of body wash clutched in her hands. She hadn’t used it in six months, not since before her husband had died. The last time had been late one rainy afternoon. They had showered together, and he had massaged her entire body with a sponge filled with the fragrant body wash. The day after he had died, when she had finally picked herself up off the floor, undressed and stepped into the shower, she opened the lid of the bottle, only to be overcome by the smell: mango, cream and frangipani. The breathtaking devastation terrified her. She hid the container at the back of the bathroom cabinet and tried to forget about it.
But today she had decided it was time. She was lonely and her body ached to be touched. The scent of the soap would take her back to that day, and she would close her eyes and pretend that it was his hands spreading the creamy liquid all over her body. She would pretend that it was his fingers circling her nipples, and the palm of his hand that crept up her inner thigh.
As the scaldingly hot water cascaded over her body, she hesitated before opening up the shower gel. She was wondering if this meant something, this moment. Was it a sign that she was getting ready to move on? Did it mean that perhaps the next step would be to leave the house?
Agoraphobia.
This word had been playing at the edges of her mind for several weeks now. She knew it was strange that she barely left the house anymore. It had been such a gradual process, though. After the funeral, she had spent several weeks in bed. Barely eating. Refusing to answer the phone. Just grieving. Finally, she had started to get up each day and get dressed. But when she left the house to do those normal, everyday things – buy the groceries, visit the
drycleaner, take a jog along the beach – the world felt wrong. Sort of like she was entering the set of a television show each time she stepped outside her front door. And so she started leaving the house less and less. She ordered her shopping online. She declined invitations to coffee or dinner with friends. She didn’t need to worry about money, Danny had ensured that before he died, and so she didn’t need to go to work – in fact, she hadn’t had a day job for a long time, since well before she lost Danny. Looking after him had been her day job. Keeping him safe, making sure he was sensible, that he didn’t push himself, that he took it easy.
But now she had barely seen the outside world for several months. The only place she saw the sunshine was from her balcony. The only human contact she had was when something was delivered, and even then she tried to avoid any form of lengthy conversation. When her parents phoned from France, she found herself keeping their talks short and clipped, or else she simply avoided their calls.
As she stood under the gushing water, and continued to avoid the moment when the intoxicating smell of mango and frangipani would envelope her, she thought about how easy it had been to shut herself off from the world. When you considered that less than a year ago she had been constantly in contact with people from so many different walks of life, it seemed amazing that along with the death of her famous husband, all of those friendships had died too. Danny was an internationally acclaimed bestselling author of crime fiction. In his prime, before he had become unwell, they had travelled the world, visiting writers’ festivals, book fairs, charity events. Everyone loved Danny. He was a goddamn star. By default, they loved Juliette too. But without Danny, Juliette had quickly slipped into the role of a ‘nobody’. A rich nobody, but a nobody nonetheless. She had always been shy though, happy to stand in Danny’s shadow, so this suited her just fine.
Eventually, Juliette realised she couldn’t put it off any longer. She had already been standing under the shower for twenty minutes; it was time. She opened the lid of the container, closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The smell was so overwhelming that she staggered backwards. Her lower back hit the tap handle and she yelped involuntarily.
‘Dammit,’ she cursed, as she reached a hand around to gently rub her back. After a moment she felt more composed, and she grabbed the loofah that was hanging from the shower caddy and determinedly squeezed the pale, peach-coloured liquid onto the sponge. Finally, she began to rub the soap over her body. Up each arm, across her stomach, down her legs. She closed her eyes again, and let herself become immersed in the sweet smell and feel of the creamy soap on her skin. As the water continued to pound down on her back, she took the sponge and began to massage her breasts, allowing the roughness of the netted material to brush against her nipples, feeling them harden beneath her touch. After a few minutes, she let the loofah drop to the floor, and began to use just her hands to massage her breasts, squeezing the nipples between her fingers, trying hard to imagine that it was Danny’s calloused thumbs and forefingers that were caressing her skin, rather than her own. And then she took her hands and let them slide down her stomach, still creamy with the soap, and pushed them between her legs.
Leaning back against the tiled wall of the shower, she slowly and deliberately slid down to the floor, keeping her eyes firmly closed. She hadn’t come since the last time she and Danny had made love, so she had the sense that it wasn’t going to take her very long to finish the job. As she slid first one and then two fingers deep inside, she tipped her head back and allowed the water to cascade over her face. She was trying her best to picture him, to imagine that he was right there in front of her, stroking her skin, kissing her neck, pulling her close, urging her to come.
It was in the final moments – just as she realised she was about to climax, when she knew that there was no turning back– that she felt it. There was the sudden and definite feel of a set of lips pressed against her own mouth, of a tongue sliding quickly inside, circling her own tongue. Her eyes flew open and her heart began to beat wildly – but as quickly as it came, the sensation vanished, overwhelmed by the response of her body as the climax hit her. She shut her eyes again, squeezed them tight, and all other thoughts left her mind as she was overcome with that familiar rush of euphoria. She arched her back, pressing her head hard against the tiled wall, savouring the moment … and then it passed, and she was left, panting on the shower floor, her fingers still pressed against her tingling flesh, her thighs squeezing together, holding her hand in place for just a few more seconds.
As Juliette’s breathing returned to normal, she began to wonder about that strange moment, just before she had come, when it had felt exactly as though someone was kissing her – and not just the feeling of lips gently brushing past her own mouth, but a hard, passionate kiss. Was her imagination that good? That just by envisioning Danny had been there with her, she had managed to conjure up the sensation of his kiss? If she hadn’t been so focused on her approaching climax, she probably would have been frightened. But the more she thought about it, the more the feeling faded and she began to dismiss it as a symptom of her overactive imagination – probably due to being cooped up inside for so many months.
Maybe it really was time she left the apartment – even if it was just to visit the local supermarket for a change, instead of ordering online. Although part of her was starting to wonder why she should make changes. Her lifestyle suited her so well.
Juliette stood up and twisted the handles, disappointed as she always was to stop the comforting flow of water. She slid the shower screen open and
stepped out onto the bathmat, but as she did, something made her pause. She froze. There was a different scent in the air, almost masked by the heavy fragrance of mangos and frangipani – but it was definitely there, hiding behind the steam and the moisture.
Danny’s aftershave.
What the hell was going on?
Chapter Two
Juliette was baking, which was what she did when she felt nervous or lonely, or bored. It had become what she did almost all the time, these days. It was a way to numb the pain, to transport her mind to a calmer place. The only problem was what to do with all of the apple cakes and brownies and triple choc cookies when she was done. Isolating yourself from the world made it difficult to move excessive amounts of baked goods. Obviously she ate some herself – weight had never been an issue for her. She was tall with a tiny waist, but curvy hips and bust. Her mother was French, her father was English, and she had always followed the French way of dieting: consume lots of butter, lots of pastry, lots of red wine. Somehow, it worked for her. But if she consumed everything she was baking at the moment, she’d make herself sick.
Her freezer was currently stacked full of all of the cakes and slices she’d made in the past few weeks, so she knew she really shouldn’t start cooking again. The problem was the strange ‘incident’ that had happened this morning in the bathroom. First the sensation of a passionate kiss, followed by the smell of Danny’s aftershave. She’d been thinking about it all day, and eventually her fingers had begun to twitch and, before she knew it, she was pulling flour, cocoa and sugar out of her walk-in pantry, taking butter and eggs from the double-doored stainless steel fridge. Her body moved without prompting – Juliette didn’t need to follow recipes, she just did what felt right. She poured the ingredients, touched them, stirred them, tasted them – until the flavours were perfect.
Her kitchen was ideal for baking¬– there was a massive Caesarstone island-bench where she could stand and work, a state-of-the-art oven, and cupboards filled with mixers, bowls, trays, moulds – everything she needed to create anything she wanted, although she mostly ended up using just a bowl and her hands. Juliette liked to feel the mixture with her fingers, get a sense of its texture and weight, feel how moist it was.
Today she was making a choc-raspberry slice with a cinnamon-spiced shortbread-biscuit base. It was going to be decadent – everything she made was. And, more importantly, as she started to move, the soothing activity began to work for her, clearing her thoughts, helping her to focus. The more she kneaded the dough for her biscuit base, the calmer she became. By the time she was sliding the tray into the oven, she had dismissed this morning’s incident as an illusion, completely invented by her grief-addled mind. She should never have used that shower gel – the smell had triggered it all. She ought to throw it away and choose something completely different when she did her next grocery order – something refreshing, citrusy. Leaning back against the benchtop, Juliette folded her arms, her eyes on the oven door. She liked to monitor her baking closely, like a mother standing above her baby in its bassinette – always watching. But a knock on the door caused her to jump. She hadn’t buzzed anyone into her apartment block – so who was knocking on the door? A neighbour?
