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About the book
Mills & Boon partnered with Scantilly by Curvy Kate to launch The Scantilly Tales, a romantic flash-fiction competition for women wanting to reveal their hidden writing talents and unleash their seductive side.
Six tantalising short stories were released each week on the Curvy Kate website. Fans and aspiring authors were asked to use their writing prowess to submit the seventh, and final, story, ultimately deciding how these sexy tales would end.
Entries were judged by an expert panel including bestselling Mills & Boon author Heidi Rice, Scantilly Brand Manager Hannah Isichei and Mills & Boon Editor, Charlotte Mursell.
The Scantilly Tales contains all seven stories (#ScantillyTales), including the winning tale by the equally talented and stunning Danielle Shoebottom.
To discover more about the Scantilly range by Curvy Kate, visit the website at www.scantilly.com.
Acknowledgements
We would like to thank all the team at Curvy Kate and Scantilly and, of course, our mysterious Scantilly Ghost Writer.
We would also like to thank Figleaves, Lotte, Joanne Grant, Heidi Rice, Emma Pickard and Charlotte Mursell for their contributions and support in making The Scantilly Tales happen!
THE SCANTILLY TALES
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Cover
About the book
Title Page
The Scantilly Tales
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
Macari's
Q&A with The Scantilly Tales winner
Meet Curvy Kate model, Lotte
Curvy Kate’s top romantic date locations
The changing roles of the heroine in Mills & Boon
Style tips from Figleaves
Want to be a writer? Top tips from Mills & Boon author Heidi Rice
Exclusive extract from Heidi Rice’s new book
Extract
Free eBooks
Mills Web
eBook subs
Copyright
The Scantilly Tales
Monday
I gaze in wonder. It’s magic lingerie, I swear. In the hallway mirror I see my perfections rather than the usual. I’m glad nobody can hear my thoughts. I look amazing. It’s not just that – it’s scandalous how I feel. I wish I could show someone, to label it hot would be far too cold.
It began earlier when a courier rang my doorbell at 7.15am. Though awake and dressed, it was pre-coffee and I grumbled to myself as I went to answer it. Yet my face transformed at the sight of a parcel wrapped in ribbons. I beamed at the yellow-uniformed man, gave him my sweetest ‘thank-you’ and carried the gift inside.
I untied it and before the ribbons had unfurled over my oak kitchen table, I’d removed the lid. My eyes widened at the material sleeping inside. Shimmering like mist over water was a tempting black satin interlaced with a semi-transparent mesh. Then the centre-piece, a glittering rose-gold island, an ornate charm etched with an enigmatic ‘S’ that mesmerised my wits.
In a trance, instinctively, my hands submitted to the two-piece’s allure. It was perfect. I adore sexy lingerie but I’d never seen anything like it. I lifted the acquiescent briefs and gasped pleasure. I should have left for work but accepted the inevitable lateness without thought.
In the kitchen, I undressed. I needed to see it on. Immediately. The touch as it fitted my skin was softly caressing, stirring and exciting. Eyes closed, I lightly traced my fingers along the fabric sensing satin first and then mesh; before last, the cut-out in the briefs where I reached my own exposed skin. I was in danger of getting carried away.
In front of the mirror, I gape. It is flawless … I am. I can’t turn away or take it off but I have to leave for work. I keep it on. It’s not a decision, already it’d be like removing my skin. I re-dress, replacing my flats with heels. Monday has looked up.
Only when I’m about to leave do I notice the card on the floor. I haven’t even thought about it. I pick it up:
Peek-A-Boo!
x
Who could have sent it? I am intrigued, I confess.
The thing is, now is not the time. This is for me and about me. I walk out feeling euphorically sinful.
Today, I’m Peek-a-Boo.
Tuesday
It’s 7.15am again. I’m awake going through mundane morning routines. The doorbell rings. Could it happen again?
It does. The same courier as yesterday receives the same sweet smile. I grab the package, thank him, dart inside on bare tiptoes, place the box on the table and pause to gaze at its ribboned symmetry. Next, I remove the lid (slowly) and it makes a glorious whoosh as I prize it open.
I let the sumptuous vision bathe my sore, tired eyes. It is a dream given shape. Leopard-print adorns the cups while a black frill naughtily dances the edges. I am a coiled spring as I notice the complementary coal black waspie and suspenders. They purr, resting, waiting for me.
I read the note first this time – delaying my gratification.
Pounce?
x
Who sent you?
I stalk the lingerie with my hands, folding the briefs over my fingers sensing the shadowy latticework. I step into them without thought and the reverie begins. A promise of decadence, I fasten the waspie – it tenderly clinches – and hook the suspenders. My skin trembles.
Last, I slide into the lingerie and it is like slipping into a cloud. I step over to the mirror, admiring the cute bows, and could almost believe the rose-gold centre-piece etched with an 'S' is the source of an enchantment. I eye myself for far too long.
Eventually, I leave for work and on the bus I spot Ben, a graphic designer who freelances for my company. I sit with him and catch-up amid the melee of morning noise. I try to pay attention but the lingerie has a hold on my memory and imagination – it is all I can think and feel. It has beguiled my wits and my mind wanders to scenarios unfit for a commuter bus. The word ‘Pounce’ echoes silently in my head like a mantra.
Suddenly Ben nudges me and with a slightly worried face, asks:
“You okay? You’re looking a little flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I say, readjusting to reality. “Just a little warm and tired. Late night, you know me?”
“I do,” he answers and then adds softly, “better than you think.”
There’s something in how he says it, in the deep gravel of his voice, in the blue gleam of his eyes, something suggestive.
“Do you, now?” I reply coolly, a little mocking, and stare out the window with a smile.
Wednesday
I’m running behind due to a late night when the doorbell rings. 7.15am. I dash down the stairs in my dressing gown, hair wet and loose. There is a beautiful familiarity to this scenario.
I sign, thank the courier and head inside. I read the card first.
All Wrapped-Up?
x
I savour the anticipation before opening the package, a square box with delicate satin ribbons. I want to know the sender’s identity, I do, but devouring the black-latticed fabric with my eyes, I cannot resist. My fingers stroke the polka dot cups and as soft as down, they yield to my touch. In my hands the ensemble glistens as light passes through the noir mesh.
Then the ultimate surprise – what I’d taken for straps are actually wraps, removable for play (or punishment). As designed, I wrap myself up and sigh as it envelops and lifts me. In the mirror, the V of the silken throat tie teases the eye down towards the circular rose-gold 'S' charm I adore.
While the sensible part of my brain thinks of wearing a high collar to work, the imaginative side blocks it with vivid dreams of log-cabins, snowy peaks, a rug and roaring wood-fire, someone’s hot skin pressed close… I shake my head. I need to get dressed.
“High collar,” I say out-loud. My brain argues, repeating, ‘all wrapped-up.’
Delighting in sensations of sin, I get ready while my mind turns to yesterday night. I went to a new bar where I told my friend Jess about the mystery gifts.
She’d said: “It must be someone you know well.”
“Why?” I asked.
Hiding behind her deep auburn bangs, she replied: “They know where you live; the time you leave for work and more importantly, what you like … It could be Jhal, you know.”
“Jhal?” I said confused. “I thought he was still abroad.”
“No, he got back last week.”
I raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Later, it went a bit surreal. Dancing close together in the dingy, humid air, she’d leant teasingly into me. A bit of a surprise but, tellingly, I didn’t back off. However, her rouge lips went to my ear:
“I know you very well too,” she whisper-shouted above the music, before giggling and high-heeling it to the bar.
I check the clock. Already late, I overindulge and take my time: past and future don’t matter - All Wrapped-Up is my present today.
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