Victoria Fox - Temptation Island

She opened the window. The catch was stiff and she wondered how long it had been left unused. The air was balmy and still. Outside was what appeared to be a yard, though it was difficult to tell at this time of night. Mountains in the distance, darker than the air that held them, stared back, old as time. Lori drank the air in through her nose, fragrant and sweet.

Whenever she pictured the man in Tres Hermanas , she experienced a nagging throb deep inside, delicious and frightening. She had been feeling it on and off for hours, and it kept coming back, stopping her from sleeping and making it hard to eat. Was this what people called love? How could it be, if she didn’t even know his name?

The moon was full, a white outline in the inky sky. Lori leaned out, imagining that somewhere, wherever he was, by some trick, a hole in the sky, it would mean they were looking at each other.

The dragging sensation in her belly returned. She closed her eyes. Her heart quickened. She tried to picture him, not too hard else the image fell away like shattered glass. She tried to hear him, but could not conjure his voice. What was happening to her? She felt possessed, under a spell, the back of her neck tingling in that spot where his fingertips had touched, the accuracy of it, the assurance, how he knew what she wanted and how he was going to give it to her.

A little while later, Lori shrugged on her white cotton nightdress and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold and slightly damp, but the heat from her skin soon warmed them up. She was tired past the point of being able to sleep, and lay with her eyes open, staring into the black. The pillows released an old, musty scent.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. She could not sleep. Each time she came close, something woke her: that hot feeling, again and again, in her stomach. After another half-hour, she sat up and flicked the lamp on. The room was as it had been only now it seemed brighter, sharper, as if she was looking at it with renewed vision. She returned to darkness and lay back.

Faintly she became aware of the swell of her chest as she breathed. She realised her nipples were hard against the cotton of her nightdress. A jolt rushed through her and she raised a hand to touch herself. She ran her fingers across her skin, over the material at first and then underneath it, feeling the softness of her breast. The tingling sensation in her gut was stronger than ever, calling her down, telling her what she must do. Exploring the lines of her own body, she trailed her hand over her stomach and parted her legs, releasing a gasp as she met the surprise of her own wetness. She tilted her hips up, her breath lowering to something wilder as she ground against her own touch. Lifting her knees and spreading them, she stroked gently till she discovered a spot so sensitive it whipped the air from her chest. She pictured him lowering his head, in the way she had heard men did, and as her fingers slipped in and around she imagined it was him, exploring her with his tongue, tasting her, wanting her, what would have happened had the kiss gone on, in that car, across the leather, against the windows. The fire was raging now, flames licking down her legs to the tips of her toes and racing to the blinking lights behind her shut-tight eyes till a great blinding wave crashed over her and every fibre in her body surged. She arched her back, meeting the point of ecstasy. Unable to move, she let the current pass through her, shaking, trembling, shivering.

Recovered, Lori dressed and padded down the dark corridor to the bathroom, where she vigorously washed her hands. She saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were darker than they’d ever been: total black, the most basic of colours.

Shame washed through her. What had she done? She had heard about people who touched themselves … It was wrong; it was dirty; it was sinful. She scrubbed at her fingers and splashed cold water on her face, before killing the light and returning to her bedroom.

The next time she closed her eyes, she fell instantly asleep.

St Agnes School for Girls was a massive, austere building in the heart of England’s Lake District. Grey, bleak and circled with turrets, it resided next to the slate quarry from which it had been built. Aurora thought it the ugliest, most miserable thing she had ever seen.

Her chauffeur-driven car wound up the imposing gravel drive, rounded a stone figurine with its roots submerged in a stagnant oval pond, and deposited her at the main entrance. Immediately she lit a cigarette, smoking moodily while she figured out what to do. She’d get expelled, that was it. There was no way she was staying here longer than a week. What had her parents been thinking? Clearly they had never laid eyes on this shitfest: all she had to do was send a picture to Tom and she felt sure her father would remove her at speed. He would never consent to her suffering. She’d turn the tears on for her first call home and then it would be over.

A woman with a grey bob was bustling across the drive. Grey, grey, grey—even the sky here was grey. How fucking depressing.

‘Can I help you?’ she demanded in a clipped English accent. She had a little moustache tickling her top lip and a mouth tight as a dog’s ass.

Aurora blew smoke in the woman’s face. ‘I’m new,’ she said, enjoying how her brash accent made the lady wince. She spoke louder to make the most of it. ‘Name’s Aurora Nash.’

‘We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’

‘What do you want me to do, camp in a field? I’d like you to show me to my room and then I want a phone call.’ This was just like getting arrested—only it looked as if this cow wasn’t going to be won round with a sob story and a reapplication of Clive Christian No. 1.

‘We do not permit our girls smoking,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Aurora pulled on her cigarette. ‘Not really.’

Plucking the stick from Aurora’s hand, the woman tossed it to the gravel and ground it out with a steel-toed boot.

‘Hey!’

‘ I am Mrs Durdon,’ she said briskly, ‘your housemistress. From now on you will do exactly as I say—or you’re going to wish you’d never set foot in this school.’

‘No kidding,’ Aurora muttered grimly.

‘Come with me.’

Mrs Durdon led the way through the main doors, a scowling Aurora loping behind. She was all too accustomed to spoiled teenage girls needing taking down a peg or two. The international ones were the worst. Here they had them all: princesses, heiresses, daughters of sheiks and oil barons, and, her least personal favourite, the brats from America with famous parents. Glimpsing the girl out of the corner of her eye, she sensed this one would spell no insignificant amount of trouble.

Aurora wondered why no one was offering to take her bag. Where was the doorman? Instead she had to drag her impractical Louis Vuitton wheels behind her as they entered the hall. Grave portraits of headmistresses-past glared down at her from their frames on the wall; an enormous fireplace sat cold and unused beneath a great black hood; doors peeled off from the space, most of them closed. There was a disgusting smell like soup.

‘You’ll meet the Head this afternoon,’ said Mrs Durdon as she mounted the staircase. ‘I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’

‘Great,’ Aurora mumbled. She was tired of lugging her stuff. ‘Where’s the elevator?’ She stopped and leaned against the wide mahogany banister, folding her arms.

Mrs Durdon was revolted by the word. ‘We do not have a lift , I’m afraid. If you can’t manage, leave your things down here and you’ll have to come and collect them piecemeal.’ She eyed the suitcase, bursting at its seams. If there were drink or drugs in there, the school would soon rinse them out. ‘We’ll need to organise you a trunk. That … bag is hardly suitable.’