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  Lust, Lace & Lingerie

  Brandi Evans

  I love managing the sexy Dallas boutique Red Light Lingerie—talking to people about sex, toys and bedroom wear. One of my favorite erotic benefits? My boss, Maxwell Penn, is a Matthew McConaughey lookalike—

  but with a hot British accent. Okay, he can be domineering and I spend most of my time on the clock fluctuating between “I want to bed him” and “I want to strangle him.” But still… yum.

  Tonight, however, everything will change.

  An old friend of Max’s from Britain, a lingerie designer, has flown in to show Max a couple of possible pieces for our new Risqué line of bedroom wear—but their model canceled. Can you see where this is going?

  Yep. I go from manager to model, and before I can say G-string, this spur-of-the-moment modeling gig ignites in passion and little ol’ me finds herself sandwiched between Max and his dark-n-sexy best friend.

  I’d be in heaven if it wasn’t for the guilt swirling in Max’s blue eyes. But guilt for what?

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Lust, Lace & Lingerie

  ISBN 9781419933738

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Lust, Lace & Lingerie Copyright © 2011 Brandi Evans Edited by Grace Bradley

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication April 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

  1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  LUST, LACE & LINGERIE

  Brandi Evans

  Dedication

  To Olivia Starke for her kickin’ critique.

  And as always, to my editor for being the embodiment of awesome.

  Trademark A cknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Ford Fusion: Ford Motor Company

  Jack Rabbit: California Exotic Novelties, LLC

  Jaguar: Jaguar Cars Limited Corporation Levi’s: Levi Strauss & Co.

  Michelob Ultra: Anheuser-Busch, Incorporated Perrier: Nestle Waters Ltd Liab

  Premium Lube: California Exotic Novelties, LLC

  Starbucks: Starbucks U.S. Brands

  Velcro: Velcro Industries B.V. Limited Liability Company

  Chapter One

  Sex on the beach sounded really good right now.

  Either the drink or the act, I wasn’t picky.

  Red Light Lingerie—the sexy boutique I managed for my even sexier British boss—had been jumping today. Damn Maxwell Penn for insisting on this two-for-one lingerie sale. The day before Valentine’s! My feet hurt.

  My legs hurt. My back hurt. Hell, even my nipples hurt, but that was what I got for wearing a negligee to work in February.

  I leaned against the checkout counter and surveyed the damage. Ugh, the place looked as if a family of tornadoes had dropped by for a fitting. Merchandise hung mismatched on racks. Bottles of lube littered the shelving along the left wall, and don’t even get me started on the table of couples’ toys in the back—damn overexcited bride-to-be just about gave me a concussion when she “accidentally” pushed me into the display on her way to the last size-eight red bustier in the store.

  “It’ll probably take most of the weekend to get this mess cleaned up,” I said, turning to Aimee, the Latino bombshell beside me. “Remind me to castrate Chad the next time he leaves us high and dry like this.”

  The bastard had called in sick today with a sudden case of “stomach flu”. More like he’d picked up a hot twink last night at the bar, which was the real reason he was stuck in bed.

  Aimee laughed, the bosom of her yellow nightie straining against her DDs. How those babies stayed in place was a testament to maximum-strength breast-lift tape. “You’ll have to wait in line for that particular honor, mi amiga. I’m ready to strangle the boy myself.”

  “Amen!”

  Chad was Red Light Lingerie’s only male employee, except for Max of course. A little testosterone to balance out all the estrogen, although I probably had more testosterone than Chad.

  “What do you say we get out of here, Aimee, and save cleanup for tomorrow morning? I’m beat.

  Besides… ” I stepped close and lowered my voice to a conspirator’s level. “I have a date tonight.”

  “A date?” A way-to-go-girl smile tugged at the corners of my Cuban compadre’s lips. “With Señor Sexy from the coffee shop?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nice.”

  Every afternoon Aimee and I indulged in a java-and-gossip ritual at the Starbucks across the street. Then last week, the beanery hired a new barista who was desire wrapped in yum. If he looked half as good naked as he did with his clothes on…

  Heaven help my under-ravaged pussy.

  Tonight’s stud would more than do for a round or two of wild sex. And who knew. If I was lucky, maybe I could get a full twelve rounds out of him. The young man wasn’t as sexy as Max. Then again, who was?

  Maxwell Penn was equal parts sex-god and domineering asshole. Sexy as sin and twice as tempting. I spent most of my time on the clock either wanting to strangle him or fuck him. Sometimes both at the same time.

  Huh, who knew I was such a masochist?

  I hated to admit it, but I’d been totally smitten with the man since he hired me two years ago—if smitten was even the right word considering I wanted to get seriously naked with him and bear his love child. Yeah, I didn’t think so either. The sexy, tempting English son of a bitch.

  I’d lost count of how many times I’d fantasized about Max throwing me over his desk and fucking me senseless—even though, in the beginning, he’d been married. I’d tried to control my lustful thoughts, but I’d failed miserably. But no harm could come from a little mental fun, right? After all, it wasn’t as if I ever acted on my fantasies.

  Despite my inappropriate contemplations, I enjoyed my job. I got paid to talk to people about ways to push the boundaries of their sexual world, the newest pleasure toys on the market and the yummiest assets every man and woman needed to complement their bedroom toy chests. What more could a girl ask for?

  Aimee rested her elbows on the glass counter. “You will let me know how the date goes, right? And by that, I mean… tell me if he’s any good in bed, if he’s hung… that sort of thing.”

  I laughed. “It’ll be my first night of sex in over six months. I’ll be shouting the details to the damn moon!”

  “But don’t forget the condoms, mi amiga! It’d be a shame if your evening came to a crashing halt because of a lack of rub
ber.”

  “Bought some last night. They’re already in my purse.”

  “Good. Now go have some fucking fun.” She draped an arm over my shoulder. “Emphasis on the fucking.”

  I gave her a playful push. “Get out of here. I’m gonna cash out the register. I’ll be out of here in twenty minutes. Thirty tops.”

  * * * * *

  When I was finished cashing out, I stored the day’s earnings in the safe then grabbed my travel bag from beneath my desk. The task had taken about five percent brain power, which was a damn good thing. My body was in countdown mode. Just under an hour until my date. Calculate two hours for dinner and small talk.

  Thirty minutes from the restaurant to my apartment. Ten to fifteen minutes to get inside and get naked.

  Ugh, I still had almost four hours to suffer before I could scratch this sexual itch. Damn. Much longer and the itch would turn into a flippin’ rash.

  But I tried not to dwell on the negatives. Tonight would be fantastic. If not fantastic, at least there’d be sex involved. Sex! A major plus for me these days. Since Max had hired me, my personal life and dodo birds had a lot in common. Neither existed anymore.

  The position had been chaotic since day one, but then Max’s wife, Gina, had passed away and things had gone from “stressed” to “frenzied”. On top of my normal duties, I now had to deal with most of Max’s day-to-day operation junk. I couldn’t get upset with him though. To lose a spouse had to be unthinkable.

  On a selfish note, I wish Gina’s death hadn’t taken my friend from me. Max and I had gotten very close in the months leading up to her death, but now we were practically strangers again. I sighed. Max was—

  My office door squeaked open.

  I jumped, my heart thudding a frantic rhythm in my chest. Adrenaline driving my actions, I spun to the door and lunged for the mace I kept in my center desk drawer.

  But Max strolled in.

  Relief tingled through my body and I clutched my hand over my heart. “Max, you scared the hell out of me!

  I thought a maniac had stuck around after I’d locked up.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Jennings.” His ultra-blue eyes looked me up and down as he spoke.

  My heart kicked up a few more notches, but fear had nothing to do with it this time. Damn he looked as sexy as ever. Tanned, muscular and topping six foot, my boss was enough to make my libido perk up and take notice.

  The stimulating tingle between my legs morphed into a high-powered shock, as if an electric cable just made contact with my clit. Yeah, not even the wonderful vibrations of my Jack Rabbit would be able to ease this ache.

  I glanced at the wall clock behind Max and wrenched in a deep breath. Four more hours to release. Only four more—

  Whoa. A man I didn’t recognize followed Max into the room and my mouth hinged open.

  He could easily be Max’s “evil twin”. Where my boss could pass as a Matthew McConaughey lookalike, the other man had dark and dangerous inked all over his body. Literally. Was even one inch of his skin tat-free?

  Judging by the tattoo sleeves covering both arms from his wrists and eventually disappearing beneath his black t-shirt, probably not. I tried to get my eyes to focus on the design, but shock kept them from cooperating. I couldn’t tell if the mass was supposed to be some sort of recognizable design or a haphazard mess.

  Raven-black hair swept away from his face and was tied at his nape, accentuating the richest chocolate-brown eyes I’d ever seen. A simple diamond stud decorated his left ear, and a day or two worth of stubble covered his cheeks, giving him a rugged bad-boy look.

  Normally bad boys didn’t set my libido afire, but on him, the look conjured image after image of him throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me off to his fuck-pad in the sky.

  Max motioned to his companion. “Ms. Jennings, this is Garrett Lanyon. He’s an old friend from Britain. He’s also one of the designers competing to design for our new Risqué line.”

  Pierced tattoo-man was a lingerie designer? No fucking way.

  Garrett held his hand toward me and I grasped it in a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Oh the pleasure is all mine, love.” Garrett’s voice resonated much lower than Max’s, with a thicker accent too. Then again Max had lived in the States for almost fifteen years, so naturally his accent had been Americanized.

  I released Garrett’s hand—he didn’t release mine. On the contrary, he tugged me closer, kissed the inside of my wrist, the middle of my lower arm. His lips were firm, possessive—as was his grip.

  I should have pulled back, but his eyes entranced me. Goose bumps chased across my skin and my nipples hardened beneath my lacey outfit. What would his lips feel like against my breasts? My labia? My clit?

  Excitement flooded my pussy and I clenched my legs together, as if I could control the moisture seeping from between my thighs.

  Garrett grinned. “Max said you were stunning, Ms.

  Jennings, but he didn’t say you were this stunning.”

  Wait? What? Max said I was stunning?

  I glanced at my boss. He stood with his hands fisted on his hips, his kissable lips pressed into a tight line.

  Jealousy perhaps? The thought was an aphrodisiac. Max jealous of another man touching me? That scenario would definitely go on my Max Fantasy List.

  “Garrett,” Max said, stepping between us, “we need to start this meeting. Ms. Jennings has no doubt had a long day, and I’d hate to keep her any longer than we need to.”

  Any longer than we need to?

  Oh no, not again…

  “Look, Mr. Penn, I’m sorry but I can’t stay late tonight. I have plans. I was about to leave when you—”

  “You’ll have to cancel. I need you here for this purchasing meeting.”

  And just like that, an “I want to fuck Max” moment exploded into an “I’m gonna strangle the bastard”

  moment.

  I glanced at the wall clock again. Forty-five minutes until my date. “Purchasing new lines is your department. Why do you need me—”

  “Garrett has brought some sample pieces for me to evaluate, but our model cancelled at the last moment.”

  I shook my head. I knew where this was going. “I’m not a model, Max. You’ll have to reschedule—”

  “Unacceptable. Garrett is only in Dallas for the evening. He has to be on a plane for L.A. first thing in the morning.”

  “But—”

  Garrett drew a fingertip down my arm. “You’ve got a better body for lingerie than most of the women I’ve worked with, my dear.”

  “But—”

  Max hooked his index finger under my chin and drew my gaze back to him. “Make no mistake, Bree. This isn’t a request. Either change or we’ll strip you down and dress you ourselves.”

  * * * * *

  I might as well be naked.

  The black, ultra-sheer fishnet covering me from neck to toe didn’t leave much to the imagination. The halter-style top with open back left my boobs feeling as if they were about to pop out and say hello. And I didn’t quite know what to think about the crisscrossing nylon

  “braids” looping about my body in a haphazard fashion.

  Oh, and did I mention the getup was fucking crotchless?

  As lingerie went, it was sexy but not something I felt comfortable wearing in front of my boss and his dark-n-sexy best friend. At least the red nightie I wore to work every day covered all major body parts!

  Damn you, Max. If tonight didn’t earn me a raise, nothing would. And speaking of raises…

  Max stared at me from his office sofa, his normally crystal blue eyes a torrent of emotion, and judging by the way he sat, hands folded over his lap, I appeared to be getting a nice “raise” out of him.

  His hungry gaze devoured me, leaving me feeling downright wild. Triumphant. He sat so close he could reach out and slide his fingers into the thatch of curls this getup didn’t attempt to cover.

  And if I didn’t
quit thinking like that, I’d be in serious shit.

  Hey, maybe Señor Sexy would be up for a late-night booty call. Since I was working late—again—I’d obviously had to cancel my date. Yep, no sex for me tonight, and with the way Max kept looking at me, I’d need some release by the time I left.

  I’d be lying, however, if I said the little devil on my shoulder wasn’t having fun with the fact I was turning Max on, even if nothing would come of it.

  The bastard would have to do more than kiss my ass to make up for this one. Well actually, he could start by kissing my ass, so long as that sexy-as-hell mouth of his worked its way deeper between my legs, licking and sucking me until I screamed…

  Yes, that would certainly make up for having to cancel a date that would have—without a doubt—ended with me naked and panting in the arms of a man almost five years my junior.

  Garrett stepped behind me and perched a hot hand on the flare of my hip, his heat radiating into my skin.

  Possessive. Confident. Arousing. Like his lips had been.

  Goose bumps flashed over my skin and I shivered.

  God, this would be a long night…

  “As you can see,” Garrett said to Max, “the fishnet offers the viewer a very visual picture while giving the wearer some sense of coverage.”

  Sense of coverage? I tried not to roll my eyes. My damn pubic hairs were showing.

  “And the black color,” Garrett continued, “combined with the extra-firm elasticity of the fishnet, help minimize bodily imperfections. Not that this one needs any help in that arena, hey, Max?”

  “No, not at all. She’s… breathtaking.”

  My nipples hardened at his words, and Max’s gaze zoned in on my breasts like heat-seeking missiles locking onto a target. He adjusted himself.

  “And… ” Garrett spun me around so my breasts pressed against the hard planes of his chest and swept my long hair over one shoulder, exposing my back to Max. “As you can see, the view from the back is exquisite as well. The dipping backline draws the eye and plays with the senses.”