Pleasure With Purpose

by Lisa Renee Jones

  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 conjuring 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.

  Brad knocked on the front door of the store, then knocked again. His brows dipped. He’d seen her car in the parking lot. He knew Heather was here. Worried for her safety, he reached for the doorknob, and to his surprise, it turned. That only worried him more. If he could get into the store, then someone else could as well. He snatched his cell phone from his pocket and punched in 911, his finger one push from the "send" button.

  Fighting the urge to call out to Heather, to ensure her safety, he eased the door open, careful not to jingle the bell, or alert an intruder that he was present. The sound of a television drew his attention, and he covertly moved toward it.

  Several steps later, he froze in the entryway of the dressing room, his heart in his throat, his cock instantly thick and standing at attention. Standing before him was the Heather of his fantasies, wearing nothing but "fuck me" high-heels and two tiny strips of black lace, with her long, brunette hair draped over her shoulders. Hair that he’d imagined draped over his stomach a hundred times before.

  His eyes dropped, to the creamy white, perfectly round and high cheeks of her backside. His mouth went dry. His zipper expanded yet again. A soft muffl
ed cry slid from her lips, and he jerked his gaze upward. Their eyes collided in the mirror. She turned, and quickly crossed her arms in front of her chest, sliding them beneath her breasts, but she only managed to lift them, her nipples stretching the limits of lace until one rosy-red peak exposed itself.

  “How did you get in here?”

  He forced his attention to her face, to her red lips parted seductively in demand. Red lips he wanted on his mouth, on his body…around his cock. Damn it to hell, he was an asshole for thinking such a thing.

  This wasn’t who he was with her–the guy who desired her, the guy who wanted her. Nor was this who he could ever be with her. “The door was unlocked. You know, you really should be more careful.” There. That was who he was with her, no matter how much he wished it weren’t the case, right here, right now. No matter how much he wanted to pull her into his arms, onto that pink couch, and have his wicked way with her, once and for all.

  Chapter Three

  She’d wanted a hot man and wanted him now, and here she had him–Brad was standing in her dressing room. And for just a moment, she’d been sure he was about to become her fantasy. She’d been sure she’d seen lust and desire in his face. But then he’d opened that damnable sexy mouth of his, and reprimanded her. She wanted to take off one of her sexy shoes and throw it at him. She let her hands drop to her sides, no longer hiding herself. Doing so had been instinct born of years of suppressing her sexuality. She darn sure wasn’t going to hide anymore.

  “If you came here to act like my parent or even brother, go home, Brad.” She held her hands out to her sides, intentionally displaying her body. “As you can see, I'm all grown up, and I assure you I can take care of myself.”

  He let one brow inch up as he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, an indiscernible expression on his face. A perfect display of that cool, casual thing he did so damn well.

  As if he hadn't just been, and still was, staring at her in her underwear. “I couldn’t be more aware of just how grown-up you are.”

  That wasn’t what she’d expected. And was that simmering heat in his eyes? “What does that mean?” she asked cautiously.

  He ignored her question. “Good thing it was me and not someone else who walked through that unlocked door. You might have ended up in trouble.”

  Her nerves prickled again because again he was turning on the brother routine. Laughter, and there was no humor in the tight sound, slipped from her lips. “I can't believe you. I'm standing here in practically nothing, and you still manage to lecture me as if I were a child.”

  His eyes seemed to darken, but his voice softened. Gone was the reprimand. “I was only worried.”

  She softened as his voice had. He cared about her. She knew that. Her stomach fluttered with the reality she'd always struggled to swallow. He cared, but just not the way she had always hoped he would. “Why are you here, Brad?”

  His eyes narrowed and locked with hers. Neither spoke, but the room was far from silent. The sound of sex, compliments of Sharon Stone, wild and hot, danced through the air, seductive in its presence.

  Heather felt the warmth of awareness creeping along her skin, making her tingle all over. Her nipples puckered against the thin lace, and she was suddenly aware one of them wasn’t covered. It was all she could do not to reach up and cover herself. No. No, no, no. She would not. If this man could stand here with her damn nipple sticking out and manage not to touch her, then she would easily put this old infatuation to sleep tonight. She’d know it was never going to happen between them. Suddenly, she needed to know, she needed an answer to a question she’d not realized she’d still been asking for years.

  Brad glanced at the television at the same time she did. Michael Douglas laced his fingers into Sharon Stone's hair, kissing her with a passion born of lust and need. Dampness pooled between her legs at the sexy scene, at the reality of being next to naked, with Brad a few feet away. With thoughts of Brad touching and kissing her in the most intimate of ways.

  Again, their eyes moved in unison, toward each other, catching mid-air, electricity darn near weakening her knees. And that was when she knew, when she had the answer to her question. He wanted her, too.

  Oh, yeah, this was different than anything she’d ever seen in his stare, this was a look of pure, unadulterated lust that he’d been hiding behind a big brother routine. No more. No more hiding. Before she could talk herself out of it, Heather walked toward the couch and directly toward Brad, slowly allowing her hips to sway, loving the empowered feeling of being a woman.

  His eyes followed her, his expression tightening, his body stiffening with uncontrollable tension–desire, hunger. He cleared his throat, almost nervously. “Maybe you should put on some clothes before we get into my reason for being here.”

  “I’m not in the mood for clothes,” she said, sitting down on the couch, crossing her legs. Spreading her arms wide as she rested them on the back of the couch, with one tingling nipple still right there, right in plain view, and begging for this man to look, and touch, and taste.

  Long seconds passed, before he finally said, “We need to talk, Heather.”

  “You have my full attention,” she assured him, the proof of the statement in the ache between her thighs. “So talk.”

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Get dressed, Heather.” He grabbed a robe hanging on a nearby rack and tossed it to her. “Put that on.”

  She set the robe aside. “No.”

  Their eyes met and held, smoldering sexual tension charging the air. She wasn't going to put on the robe and he knew it. Her message was spelled out clearly in her actions, or lack thereof.

  Checkmate.

  Your move, Brad.

  Chapter Four

  What in the hell was Heather trying to do to him?

  Never mind. He'd figure it out later. After she got dressed. She needed to put clothes on her way-too-tempting body. Now. “Put the damn robe on.”

  Her expression darkened and she pushed to her feet, breasts bouncing with the movement, that damnable deliciously sexy nipple poking out of her bra. And he looked. He couldn't help it. He was a man, pure and simple. A man she was freaking killing.

  Eyes blazing with the heat of anger, she said, “Don't order me around, Brad.” Her well-manicured finger pointed at him. His gaze fixed on her delicate little hands, trying to focus on something safe, something other than her nearly naked body. Instead, he thought of those hands on his body, around his cock.

  In a swift move forward, a last, desperate effort to do what was right, he grabbed a robe on the back of the couch and shoved it toward her, arm outstretched. Distance being the objective. Reaching for a calm, unaffected voice, he said, “Put the damn robe on.”

  She stared at the robe a moment, then finally yanked the piece of silk from his hand, and a silent thank you whispered in his head. Giving himself an imaginary pat on the back, he prepared to reel in his body, to move back to proper neutral ground. Then, the robe pooled at their feet. He sucked in a slow, calming breath that failed miserably to be calming. “Heather..."

  She turned on her heels with a flip of her hair, in a very uncharacteristically diva-like manner he saw as all show, as a way to hide her anger, her nerves. It also gave him a view of her very round, very perfect butt. Heat rushed through him, heat quickly turning to a raging fire. Battling for self-control and complete lust, he clenched his teeth.

  After several steps, she turned, stumbling slightly. Instinctively, he moved forward, reaching for her as she wobbled precariously on her too-high heels.

  She tripped and grabbed his shirt. Brad's hands slid around her waist, pulling her upwards, trying to stop her from breaking an ankle.

  “Ohhh,” she said, as she steadied herself, her voice frustrated. “Damn these shoes.” Then, her eyes lifted to his, and they stared at one another.

  He could feel her soft curves pressing against his body, and his hands begged to move, to slide down her waist and cup that perfect pert little butt
of hers. His eyes went to her mouth. God, he wanted to kiss her.

  Slowly, her fingers eased on his shirt, her palms flattening on his chest. Her body seemed to inch closer.

  He started leaning toward her. Not consciously. Instinctively. His mouth inched toward hers, eyes half-closing with the anticipation of the first brush of lips.

  “Brad.”

  It was the soft purr of her voice, the reminder that this was Heather, that shook him to his senses. He pulled back, hands going to her arms, still aware enough to steady her.