Lynda's Lace (2 page)

In the fantasy, she suddenly saw him burst through the door of Spy Games and come striding across the street toward her like a man possessed. Their eyes would meet through the window as she continued smoothing her palms over her bared flesh.

He would barrel through the door, making the bell clang wildly, and she’d see the unmistakable lust in his gaze just before he leapt across the counter, too impatient to walk around.

There would be no words—only action.

Rough hands. Pushing up her skirt. Ripping off her panties.

A hot, hard cock. Plunging into her. Nailing her to the wall.
Oh yes
.

As Lynda tried to feel it, feel him filling her, slamming into her, taking her the way she so deeply wanted to be taken by him, she couldn’t resist letting her fingers dip between her legs where they parted across the stool, the light fabric of her skirt falling in between.
Mmm
, nice
.

But she wanted more, wanted to touch herself, flesh to flesh. Glancing out the window, she saw that the rain still fell, keeping St. Peter Street quiet and lonely but for a few passing cars. It was still dangerous as hell to go on with this—someone could walk in at any time just like Mr. Young and Wet a little while ago—but she didn’t care. She’d been bottling up her desires for too long, and they needed to come out, even if it was a solo act.

Feeling incredibly daring and naughty, she reached one hand up under her long skirt, bringing it to rest between her legs, then pushed her fingertips beneath the elastic edge of her silk panties. A second later, she found her swollen clit, let out a gasp of pleasure, and began to rub in rhythmic circles to the image of Jordan’s hands on her ass as he pounded into her in long, hard, relentless strokes.
Yes, yes
.

Her fingers grew wet as her legs instinctively parted farther.
Fuck me, Jordan.
How she longed to purr those words into her lover’s ear.
Fuck me hard.

But in the fantasy he couldn’t have fucked her any harder than he already was—each stroke echoed through her whole body and her legs grew weak. Finally, she curled them around his thighs so that he supported her completely, bracing her back against the wall.

In time with his imagined strokes, Lynda continued to rub her clit, harder, harder. Her pelvis gyrated, lifting in short, hot motions to meet the pressure of her hand. She’d long since stopped caring if anyone saw her through the window or came in the door—she’d nearly forgotten where she was altogether.
Fuck me, Jordan. Fuck me.

Seconds later—
oh yes, yes
!—she came, the orgasm roaring through her like a locomotive
barreling
right through the French Quarter, so intense that she cried out, then clamped her teeth down on her lower lip to ride out the last surges of pleasure.

Mmm
, yes.
That had been good. Surprisingly so, given the risk element. Which apparently demonstrated just how much she yearned for what she’d been envisioning. Ah, if only it were true.

She sighed just as the phone on the counter trilled, drawing her back to the real world—seldom as perfect as a fantasy. Struggling to catch her breath, she reached to pick it up. “Cajun Lady Antiques.”

“Any progress with Mr. 007?” It was Liz, with whom Lynda had shared her woes over a recent lunch.

Still recovering from the climax, she tried to organize her thoughts, feeling Liz’s timing was uncanny. “No. But then…I haven’t actually tried to
make
progress. I think he’d be appalled.”

Liz sounded regretful. “I’m so sorry, Lynda—I thought he’d be perfect for you. When I got the idea to fix you two up, I guess I wasn’t thinking…about your wilder side.”

“He
is
perfect for me. In most ways,” she added. “And it’s nothing to be sorry for, honey. I’m nuts about the guy. I just wish…you know.”

Sadly, Liz had exactly what Lynda wished for. A fabulously hunky guy who adored her sweet side but who also knew how to get down and dirty with her behind closed doors. She supposed when Liz had suggested fixing her up with a friend of Jack’s, she’d envisioned getting the same sort of man. Ironic that when Lynda had put Liz in touch with Jack,
she’d
been the one with the wild sex life and had wanted her friend to know the same pleasures. Oh, how the tables had turned.

“I still say you should just go for it,” Liz said. “If he can’t appreciate the real you, then screw him.”

Lynda laughed. A couple of years ago, Liz would never have phrased it in that way—but her introduction to Jack had changed her whole life, made her so much more at ease with herself and the world. Lynda felt dangerously close to finding something just as transforming to
her
being, something life-altering and important and wonderful—with Jordan. But the differences in the way they approached sex were just enough to keep her from feeling
totally
connected to him. And she’d considered doing exactly what Liz had just suggested, yet… “I know you’re right, but the thing is…”

“What?”

She sighed. She didn’t like admitting this—it was
so
not her. “I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to lose him. Maybe things aren’t
quite
right between us in bed—but things are good in every
other
way. And I’m not ready to risk that. I’ve never had a guy like him before, Liz, not in my whole thirty-five years. It’s the way he treats me. And it’s also the way I feel about him. Both are so…grand. I don’t know how else to say it, because it’s just…an extraordinary event in my life.” She glanced toward the spy shop again, feeling tender and—just for a moment—not overly horny, thank God. It probably helped that she’d just come. “So if the sex is just good and not great, maybe that’s okay. Because I’m not ready to give up what I have with him for something as…
temporary
as sex.” She let out another sigh.

Liz sounded puzzled. “Sex is temporary?”

“Well…it’s only one part of a relationship, right? And by the time we’re seventy or eighty, hell, it probably won’t matter at all.”

She let out a short laugh and Liz did, too, but Lynda wasn’t really amused by her own desperate attempts to make herself believe sex wasn’t important to her. It
was
important, damn it.

Yet so was Jordan, so she’d just have to learn, once and for all, to be the type of refined lady who befitted a man of his nature. If she wanted him, she had no other choice.

She supposed that made it official.

The Sex Queen was dead.

Except maybe in her own mind.

* * * * *

Linda peered at her reflection in a cheval mirror in the apartment above her shop. Up until recently, she’d rented the place to a nice gay couple, but they’d chosen to leave the city after recent devastating storms. The same storms had made it a sensible time to have some renovations and repairs done on her house, so she was staying here for a month or so until they were done, at which point she’d put the apartment back up for rent. The mirror was a gorgeous antique she’d decided to “borrow” from the shop temporarily, both for practical purposes and to add a little character to the apartment while she was here.

She couldn’t decide what she thought of the way she looked tonight, wearing a dress of dark lilac lace. It wasn’t that the dress didn’t look lovely—it did, and it complemented her green eyes and the long blonde hair currently pulled back into a chignon. But Lynda never wore lace—
never, never, never
. She might wear silk or satin, denim or spandex—hell, she wore everything from cotton to leather. And it so happened that leather was definitely her fabric of choice in the bedroom. But when it came to lace…well, she thought the feminine material lovely on more
demure
women, but it had never been for her.

Until now, that was—until
Jordan
. The guy loved the stuff. So far, he’d given her a pink lace teddy, a lacy bra and panty set in baby blue, another pair of peach lace panties with sequins and rhinestones sewn in—and now this lovely-but-not-really-Lynda dress.

She had to wear it, of course. It was probably more expensive than anything else in her closet, and when she’d opened the lavishly wrapped gift box, she’d been able to tell he’d taken great care picking it out. The truth was, he had wonderful taste—not surprising given how suave and stylish he was himself.

She had to wear it because—besides not wanting to hurt his feelings—she didn’t really want to admit to him that she saw herself as being too rough and raw of a woman for lace. If Jordan thought she was a lace kind of girl…well, it was just like the sex—she didn’t want to dispel his notions of her, didn’t want to tip him off in any way that maybe she wasn’t the perfect woman for him. If his perfect woman wore lace, she’d wear it.

You’re being untrue to yourself.

Damn it, what was with all the little voices in her head today? This one she just blatantly chose to ignore. People could change. And besides wanting Jordan Ellis more than she wanted to breathe, she also wanted to be
worthy
of Jordan Ellis. She wanted to be his ideal lady, in every way.

Just then, a knock came on the door and—following a last-second impulse—Lynda tugged the dress’s lace cups down a little, plumping up her cleavage. Hell, if she was going to wear lace, she’d at least wear it a little bit audaciously. Staring at the
cami
-type bodice in the mirror, she couldn’t deny that he
had
chosen a rather
sexy
lace dress, and that even if it didn’t exactly suit her, she still looked pretty damn good in it.

A few seconds later, she whisked open the door to find her lover standing before her, looking impeccably handsome in twill trousers and a tailored jacket, his shirt open at the throat. His dark eyes honed in on her as a predictably charming smile unfurled across his lightly
stubbled
face. “Hey, precious.” She loved the endearment—it made her feel so very treasured. “You look good enough to eat.”

She instinctively lowered her chin and flashed her sexiest look. “That can be arranged. Would you like me now or later?”

He let out a soft laugh. “I’ll try to hold off until after dinner.”

She smiled prettily. “I hope you don’t get too full.”

“Too full for a taste of
you
?” He gave his head a short, certain shake. “Not possible.”

Lynda practically felt her breasts swelling within the snug confines of the lace as she accepted the small pink box he held out to her, wrapped with a matching satin ribbon.

“Something lovely for my lady,” he said.

More lace—she’d bet the store on it.

Gently pulling at the ribbon, she let it fall to the floor between them as she lifted the box’s lid. Inside pink tissue paper lay a baby doll
nightie
with lace cups, in a soft, spring yellow.

It was beautiful—for someone like Liz, maybe. But a baby doll
nightie
—for
her
? She held in her sigh. Why, oh why, couldn’t it have been a slick black vinyl corset or a nice little flogger they could play with?

“It’s lovely, just as you promised,” she managed. She smiled up at him, thankful she’d always been a decent actress.

“For later,” he told her. Then he reached in the box and plucked out the matching lace panties, tossing them toward one corner of the room. “Except we won’t need these.” He leaned closer, spoke lower. “Why hide that pretty pussy when I’ll be ready to feast on it the second I see you in this?”

Lynda pulled in her breath at the naughty promise and felt utterly guilty for privately shunning his thoughtful, sexy gift. Jordan was by no means a prude—most women would consider him a fabulous lover, and she was incredibly fortunate to have him. She just wished she didn’t have such
extreme
tastes.

And as she shut the door and walked carefully down the steps in her heels, with Jordan’s strong hand steady at the small of her back, she thought she had a lot of nerve complaining about him, even to herself. After all, she had a hot, sexy man who was going to take her out to a fabulous dinner, then bring her back here and use his skilled tongue to lick her to orgasm.

She could wear a little lace for that. And hell—she could even live without the animal sex.

No, you can’t.

Shit—it was that damn little voice again.

Shut up
, she replied.