Deluxe Cinderella Chronicles 3 Story Box Set

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “I can’t believe you’ve never had an orgasm,” Brenda said, pulling Heather back into the present.

  Heather pursed her lips, indignation in her tone. “Of course I’ve had an orgasm. Just not a manmade one.”

  “That’s the only kind that counts, honey.”

  “Yeah well,” Heather admitted reluctantly, “don’t knock a good electric rabbit. They don’t judge you.” The joke barely made it from mouth, before her chest tightened, another confession unexpectedly bursting from her lips. “I’m beginning to think something’s wrong with me in that area. The men I date want to, um, shall we say, please me. I just can’t seem to…”

  “Find satisfaction?”

  “Exactly,” Heather sighed. There was no reason to fight the truth, considering how "out there" she was already.

  “Good grief, woman. We have to fix this and fast. You’re going to lose your twenties to battery-operated pleasure if you don’t get with it. And that is just too, too sad.”

  “Thank you for that positive feedback,” Heather said grumpily. “And in my defense, a few bad attempts at satisfaction that turned horribly wrong can make a girl pretty uptight.”

  Brenda snorted. “Those stuffed shirts you date would make any girl feel uptight.”

  “I think you just insulted me.”

  “No. Just your choice in men.”

  “What’s wrong with my choices?” Heather demanded. “I date respectable men. Joseph was an attorney with a large firm. And Robert was a CPA.”

  “Who fit the geeky accountant persona to perfection,” she said. “A little more suave hotness might just get you moaning in all the right ways.”

  Heather pressed her hand to her face. “How did I get into this conversation?” She dropped her hand back to her leg. “Will you stop already? Just forget I ever said the word ‘orgasm.’”

  “You know what your problem is?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Heather encouraged with a grimace, though Brenda didn’t ever need any encouragement to share her opinions.

  “You’re inhibited. You’re inhibited and I know why.” Brenda jumped to her feet, grabbed Heather’s hand and pulled her to her feet as well. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” Heather demanded suspiciously, digging in her heels. As a chef for a popular Dallas restaurant, Brenda was always cooking up trouble, both in and out of the kitchen.

  “Rome,” she said sarcastically. “Seriously, woman. It’s not like I’m taking you to Brad’s bed or something.” Heather’s jaw dropped at the too-close-to-home comment, at the same moment that Brenda tugged her forward. They stopped in the entryway hall, in front of the hallway mirror, so that they stood side by side.

  “Now tell me what you see,” Brenda ordered.

  Heather surveyed Brenda–her friend’s pale skin, perfect even without makeup, her faded jeans and a tee, somehow as perfect as the fiery mass of red curly hair.

  “Don’t look at me,” Brenda chided. “Look at you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Heather mumbled, glaring critically at her own image. Now, she had breasts at least. That was something. She guessed. Not that Brad seemed to notice. When she was younger, she’d been convinced a pair of breasts was all she needed for that man to stand at attention. And, damn it, she wanted to scream. Why, why, why did it always come back to Brad?

  Brenda slipped behind Heather and rested her chin on Heather’s shoulder. “You know what I see?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “I see a gorgeous brunette who’d make any man drool and any female envious. I know I sure am.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “No need to lay on the compliments. I already told you I’d go to the Barry Manilow concert no matter how old it makes me feel.”

  “I’m serious, damn it,” Brenda chided. “What do you see?”

  If she were honest with herself, she’d refused to put on makeup today, knowing she might see Brad, as a refusal to make him important. Which was really pathetic, because the very fact that he’d been considered at all, defied her denial. She grimaced at Brenda. “You’re infuriatingly insistent when you want something, so fine, I see a ‘Trailer Park Heather.’ My hair is in a ponytail, my makeup non-existent, and–”

  Brenda turned Heather to face her. “You are not ‘Boney Knees’ anymore. Looking good is your well-deserved revenge for all those years of being teased, so, damn it, enjoy it.”

  Heather’s heart warmed. Brenda was always there for her–outrageously, wonderfully, her best friend. “And I didn’t even pay you to say all that.”

  Brenda slid a loose lock of Heather’s hair behind her ear. “You know what you need? Besides an obvious dose of confidence and a hot man in your bed, that is. What you need is to ‘fake it 'til you make it.' ”

  Heather grimaced at the familiar "Mary Kay Cosmetics" saying they’d jokingly used since college, when they’d both tried to be sales reps and failed miserably. “You had to go there, didn’t you?”

  She grinned. “You bet I did. And you have all the resources to ‘Fake it 'til you make it’ right there in your boutique. Dress up in some of that sexy lingerie you sell in your store, drink some wine, and strut around your store in front of all those fancy mirrors inside, until you’re comfortable in your own skin. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll go find you a hot man you can seduce–a stranger. Someone you know you will never see again, and therefore, you won’t have to worry about the morning after. Then you’ll have your confidence, and you’ll have your orgasms.”

  “I’m not going to play dress-up, Brenda. I’m not. And I’m not going to go pick up some stranger. That’s not me and you know it.”

  “Ah!” Brenda said, holding up a finger. “I know the perfect mood movie.” She darted down the hall toward the living room, as if she’d never heard Heather’s objection.

  “Brenda,” she said, bringing her friend into view just as she held up a DVD from the shelf by the large-screen television. “Watch and learn. Basic Instincts and Sharon Stone–the Femme Fatale at her best.”

  “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “Sexy mood makers are never silly. I’m serious here, Heather. Dress up in some lingerie and watch this movie, or whatever movie you like. Heck, read a steamy romance novel. I have a shelfful I can share. Oh and you know what? We have Rebecca’s wedding in two weeks. What a perfect place to find a hot man.”

  Heather opened her mouth to reject the idea, but just thinking of their friend Rebecca’s hot architect husband-to-be gave her pause. Not only were the two of them wildly in love, Rebecca had shared far too much information about the creative places they found to make love. The memory was more fuel for Heather’s fast-growing orgasm envy.

  And damn it, she was tired of envy. “Yes,” she said firmly. “Let’s do it.”

  “Do what?”

  The deep masculine rumble of Brad’s voice shot through Heather like a match under a chocolate fondue, melting her in all those female places she’d otherwise swear weren’t…well–meltable.

  Brenda grinned and turned toward the Master bedroom off the living area. “Heather and I are talking man-hunting.”

  “Brenda!” Heather exclaimed, whirling around and then almost swallowing her tongue. Brad leaned against the doorway of his bedroom looking deliciously edible in a tight white T-shirt, and soft, faded jeans with one knee torn. All he needed was the leather jacket somewhere in his closet to be perfect. The one he wore when he rode his Harley.

  Brad arched a brow at Heather. “Anyone I know?”

  “What?” Heather asked. She couldn’t think. What was he asking her? “Know? Anyone you know for what?”

  “He means the man you’re hunting,” Brenda said to Heather and then to Brad, “We aren’t talking about men we know, Bradley.”

  Only his sister and his parents could call Brad, ‘Bradley.' ” Brenda and Bradley Carrington…the two B’s–constantly aggravating each other, and always, always, there for each other. Just as they had been for her.


  Brenda continued, snapping Heather out of the past and back to the very real, very embarrassing present. “We’re talking about the adventure of being with someone new and hot and…Would you believe Heather’s never—”

  “Stop!” Heather shouted, pointing a finger at Brenda. “Don’t you dare say another word.”

  Brenda laughed, her eyes sparkling mischievously. Brad opened his mouth to speak, and Heather could see the brotherly reprimand in his expression. She couldn’t take it. She just couldn’t take it. “And don’t you even say whatever you plan on saying. The last thing I need is a lecture from you, ‘Mr. Double Standard,’ Barbie-chasing errrr…” Okay maybe she was going too far. “Just don’t lecture me.” She whirled around to Brenda. “I’m leaving. This discussion is over.” Heather grabbed her purse from the floor by the chair and started walking. Unfortunately, she had to pass Brad’s doorway to get to the doorway she needed.

  “Wait!” Brenda yelled. “Don’t forget the DVD.”

  Heather and Brad were almost side by side when Heather stopped, the scent of freshly showered male flaring in her nostrils, his deep blue eyes boring into hers for all the wrong reasons–not because he wanted her, but because he wanted to lecture her.

  “If you need to talk, I’m around,” he said softly.

  “Talk?” she asked, suddenly angry, and she wasn’t sure why. “You hear the word sex attached to my name, and you think about talking? Like somehow me and sex means there’s a problem that must be discussed?”

  “I wasn’t aware the word ‘sex’ was ever mentioned?”

  “Then I guess we should have defined ‘man-hunting’ for you,” she said, pining for a reaction from him for reasons she was sure she wouldn’t like when later analyzed, but she charged onward. “Wine, flowers, and romantic walks in the park are part of the process. Sex is. Just sex–good sex–and lots of it.” Heather turned back to Brenda and accepted the DVD. “We’re on for that wedding,” she said, barely glancing at her friend.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Brad asked, as Heather’s gaze collided with his again.

  Exactly her point! She thought. What was wrong with her? Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t any of his business, and she was going to fix it and fast. “I simply want what all women want,” she replied coolly. “And that isn’t wrong. It’s actually right.”

  One dark brow darted upward. “Which is what–exactly?”

  She was feeling more daring with each passing second. “I’m sure your imagination can figure that one out pretty darn easily.”

  Behind her, Brenda laughed at Heather’s uncharacteristically risqué twist on words. Feeling quite empowered, Heather stepped forward and reached for the door. She had needs, she had wants. Okay, so she had some fears too. But darn it! She was done letting those fears get in the way of the wants and needs. Hello orgasm. Goodbye fear. And she was feeling pretty good about that decision until she heard Brenda shout, “No more bunny ears! Take out the batteries.”

  Heather cringed at the reference to her vibrator that she was certain would be discussed in way too vivid detail with Brad, who, as of today, had no place in either her fantasies, or near her bunny's drawer.

  She fled to the hallway, vowing to find a replacement for her Brad fantasies in the immediate future. And darn it, until then–she was keeping the bunny and the batteries.

  Chapter Two

  Monday evening, the day after her Brad encounter, Heather turned the sign in her shop window to "Closed," and dimmed the store lights. A small smile played on her lips as she scurried toward what she called her circle of play. Six dressing rooms framed a lounge area where women often pranced around in lingerie, drank wine, and, in general, had a good time. It was a place Heather had created to make her store more than a shopping place. Many of her repeat customers would spend hours here, trying on lingerie, planning their fun interlude with some man, and then buying lots of products.

  This was to be the first time Heather was going to use the room for her own fun, which said a lot. She’d created this world, but never dared to use it for herself? That spoke of a sensual side dying to get out, suppressed, only allowed to flourish vicariously through others. No more, not tonight, and not from now on.

  Underneath her conservative black suit was a silky, sexy, itsy-bitsy, black lace bra and panty set she had never indulged in, never felt quite right in. And just knowing she had the sexy lingerie had made her feel just a little more sexy throughout the day. A feminine sway had somehow worked its way into her walk, and the mirror had somehow grabbed her attention, when she usually ignored her reflection.

  She’d also put on sexier, higher heels, but those weren’t going quite as well as the lingerie. Her feet hurt. She hoped the heels and a sexy sway became less painful as she became more experienced. Because if practice didn’t equal pleasure, rather than pain, she might not be up for the task of being sexy. Heather walked toward the back of the store and paused in a mirror to survey said aching feet in said sexy shoes. Okay, so her legs looked sexy, compliments of sexy shoes. Maybe they were worth a little long-term pain.

  She reached for a black silk robe on a nearby rack on the way to her playroom, where she quickly disposed of her clothes, leaving only her lingerie and high heels. She tossed the robe on a stool, refusing her first instinct—to hide beneath it.

  A smile on her lips, she poured herself a glass of the wine, as she often did for her customers. Then she settled down on the fluffy pink circular sofa in the center of the room.

  Now all she needed was a little Sharon Stone action. A flip of the remote turned on the television-DVD player combination where the femme fatale was already deposited for play.

  The screen filled with the image of Sharon Stone's bare breasts, as she rode a willing male. Heather's eyes went wide. Good gosh, she'd forgotten how shockingly erotic this movie was. She blinked and refocused, tilting her head a bit to examine the perfect breasts displayed before her...a bit intimidating, it was. They couldn't be real. Surely, they weren’t real.

  She swallowed a sip of wine, and downed it, then refilled it and took another sip, feeling warm all over and very, very "almost" sexy. She walked–no strutted–toward the huge double-glassed mirror at the far end of the lounge.

  Standing in front of it, she scrutinized herself. Her hair was still pulled in a tight conservative knot at the top of her head, which did her no favors. She reached up and released her clip. Chestnut waves fell down her shoulders, softening her look. Better, she thought. Then, with an objective eye—for the first time in years—she continued the survey of her image.

  Her hair was nice. Okay, better than nice. She had good hair—there was one positive. And her eyes were green, with little flecks of yellow she use to hate. Tonight, in a different state of mind, she wondered if different was all that bad, after all. If she was going to feel sexy, she needed to know and love what she was. She moved a bit closer to the mirror. Studying. Probing.

  Huh. Her eyes were actually a nice light green, different from Brenda's deep emerald color. Heather sighed, a smile touching her lips, as her gaze went to her double assets—the lace of her bra barely covered her nipples. Her breasts were full, high, but not too big. She was a good handful for most men. Wasn't she? Not many men had tried them out for size. Heather reached up to test the theory herself, filling her palms with her breasts. She looked down at her hands, pleased to find them unable to make the entire squeeze. Maybe she did measure up. A slow smile lifted her lips as the first true feelings of sexiness began to inch their way into her mind.

  She slid her hands down her waist, testing her form, and biting her lip. Maybe, just maybe, she really was sexy. Perhaps it was a state of mind she’d been lacking. In fact, maybe sexy wasn’t about your body at all, but about your mind. She simply had to feel sexy, to be sexy. And she really was feeling sexy right now. In fact, if a hot man walked in the door right now, she’d have her way with him. She laughed at the silly, ridiculous thoughts that had her mind conjur
ing all kinds of naughty ways she’d seduce her stranger when the moment came.

  ***

  Brad parked in front of Heather's boutique, and killed the engine of his SUV. The store lights were dim, the "Closed" sign in the window. Good. He wanted her alone. They needed to have a heart-to-heart talk. He was worried about Heather, and her little seduction plan that had played havoc on his thoughts all day. And Brenda wasn’t talking, no matter how hard he pushed her. Which meant, clearly, something was bothering Heather, and Brenda had been sworn to secrecy. A broken heart and a bad man, was Brad’s guess. And bed-hopping wasn’t going to solve the problem. He cared about her too much to let her get hurt any more than she might already be.

  Shoving open the truck door, he felt the clear edge of determination. He was here to protect her. He was…he stopped the thought and reached up and loosened his dark blue tie, his jacket long ago discarded over pages and pages of courtroom briefs. The action did nothing to stop the little truth from surfacing, the guilt he was feeling. This wasn’t all about protecting Heather, and he knew it.

  There was a part of him, the wholly male part of him, that was here for reasons he shouldn’t be. He'd always had a thing for Heather. Something he had never, and would never, share with anyone. Because there could never be a place for him in her life. Not on an intimate level, not unless he was a selfish hound dog. His family was Heather’s family. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, ever do anything to jeopardize her feeling that she had them to come to, to be her foundation, especially not now that her mother had passed away. No. He and Heather could never be. Their past had carved that in stone. But that didn’t mean that hearing her talk about seducing another man didn’t twist him in knots. His role, though, was protector, brother, friend. Not the lover he’d often fantasized about being. And protect her now, he would.