Read Lynda's Lace Online

Authors: Lacey Alexander

Tags: #General Fiction

Lynda's Lace

An Ellora’s Cave



Lynda’s Lace


ISBN # 1-4199-0683-6


Lynda’s Lace Copyright© 2006

Edited by Heather Osborn.

Cover art by Syneca.


Electronic book Publication: July 2006



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.


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 authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.




The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers.
This story
has been rated E–
c by a minimum of three independent reviewers.


Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of
™ reading entertainment: S (S-
), E (E-
), and X (X-


love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.


love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated
titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.


titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline
execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

City Heat:

Lynda’s Lace

Lacey Alexander



The City Heat series is dedicated to my editor, Heather Osborn, and all the great people at Ellora’s Cave!




Trademarks Acknowledgement


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

James Bond:
, LLC.


Chapter One


Lynda Phelps stood behind the counter of her French Quarter shop, Cajun Lady Antiques, on a quiet Wednesday afternoon. Bad weather had run the tourists indoors, and she found herself peering out the window into the dreary rain, just wishing.

Wishing for fun.

Wishing for sex.

She knew rain made some people sleepy, but it only made
bored, and despite herself, she found herself longing for the wild, hedonistic kind of sex she’d been merrily indulging in ever since her divorce twelve years ago.

At the tender age of twenty-one, Lynda had rushed into marriage with Charlie the Loser, a
salesman type who’d found a lot of time for
on his so-called business trips. When she’d called Charlie on his cheating ways two long years into their marriage, he’d shown no remorse, offered no apology, made no excuses. He’d simply said, “Baby, the way I see it, you go around once in this life. I figure you
grab all the fun you can, so I’ve been grabbing it.”

She’d swiftly left him, but had also learned a valuable lesson from her smarmy ex. She didn’t approve of his methods, but he was right. You only lived once. So ever since the day Lynda had signed her divorce papers, she’d been living. As in bedding anyone she took a notion to.

In between sexual encounters, she’d also worked hard to keep her store afloat, and she took care of the large Garden District house she’d gotten in the divorce settlement—all of which added up to a busy but satisfying life. One thing about Charlie—he was a pig, but a high-income pig, so she’d come out of the marriage with a valuable home and enough money to start her own business. Thus she’d always thought perhaps the whole thing was meant to be. For all his faults, Charlie had helped her achieve a life full of things she loved—her home, her shop…and a sex life to be envied.

And as for the sex, she’d never hesitated to take it to extremes. She’d had sex with men and sex with women. Sometimes she had sex with both of them at the same time. Once, she’d taken part in a full-blown orgy, the kind where she hadn’t been quite sure who she was touching or who was touching her—she’d only known it felt good. Having convinced herself she didn’t care about silly emotions like love or commitment, the sex had been…gloriously freeing.

Lynda now considered herself a veritable connoisseur of fucking. She knew what she liked and she knew what most
people liked, too. Friends and acquaintances even came to her for advice on their sex lives. She’d come to fancy herself the Sex Queen of New Orleans. And even if, in a city like The Big Easy, there was a lot of competition for such a title, she didn’t know anyone who dabbled in, experimented with, or just plain enjoyed sex as much as she did.

As Lynda’s pussy rippled with memories and a lusty bit of nostalgia over some of her more satisfying conquests, the bell above the door jingled. And like an answer to a sinful prayer, a totally hot and sexy younger man walked in off St. Peter Street, his sandy locks darkened and curling from the rain.

“Hi,” he said, and she immediately felt his eyes dancing over the low-cut V of her gauzy, fitted top, belted at her hips.

She smiled. “Wet out there.”
And in here, too,
she thought, the crux of her thighs going moist.

“Hope you don’t mind if I step in to dry off for a minute. It’s really coming down.” Indeed, what had before been a drizzle had just progressed to a downpour, cocooning them in the static sound of hard rain.

“No problem,” she said with a look she knew radiated heat.

He gave his head a short shake to rid his hair of moisture as droplets trailed down his jacket. “So, are you the Cajun lady?” he asked, motioning toward the gold lettering on the opposite side of the old glass door. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and his smile held instant flirtation.

Her nipples tightened on the spot, puckering her thin bra and top as she gave her stock reply to such inquiries, particularly when they came from good-looking men. “Well, I’m not really Cajun, and as for whether I’m a lady, that depends upon your definition.” Then she winked, just before provocatively lowering her chin and flashing a small but inviting smile.

A sparkle lit his green eyes. “Well, whether or not you’re a lady, I bet you’re a hell of a good time.”

She grinned, confident and sensual. “Honey, you have no idea.” This was exactly what she’d been thinking about, wishing for so wistfully.

He tilted his head, the move tossing slightly scruffy hair away from his face to reveal an expression brimming with interest. “Maybe you should show me.”

Everything inside Lynda trembled in anticipation. She needed this—so, so bad. An encounter with a hot stranger, a release of her inhibitions. Inhibitions she’d been holding inside lately.

But—God, what was she doing?

You’re being your old self, that’s all.

Because she’d forgotten for a moment. Or maybe she’d just
to forget. Just for a naughty and very tempting minute. But the reality was—the Sex Queen of New Orleans was currently on hiatus.

Three months ago, she would have set up a rendezvous with Mr. Young, Cute and Wet for later, after the shop closed—or she simply would have drawn him into the back room, lifted the long peasant skirt she wore, and indeed, shown him. Her whole body ached for the feel of his masculine hands on her breasts and his stiff cock between her thighs.

Yet, working hard to push back the waves of desire threatening to engulf her, Lynda replied, “I wish I could. I’d take you on a ride you’d never forget. But…I can’t.”

He narrowed his eyes in disappointment. “Husband?”

“Yeah,” she lied. Because it was simpler that way. Simpler than explaining that she’d recently started dating the most handsome, debonair man on the planet and his only flaw was not quite being wild enough for her in bed, but that she still didn’t want to cheat on him because she really thought she cared for the guy.

Five minutes later, after she’d let the delicious young man walk back out into the rain, she found herself glancing again out the plate-glass window, this time toward a storefront across St. Peter and up a few doors. The sign hanging from the awning read Spy Games and the shop belonged to her lover, Jordan Ellis III.

She’d never expected to date a man with a number behind his name. And even if he sold spy gadgets for a living, he was easily the most sophisticated guy to ever cross her romantic path. A James Bond of retail. She smiled a little at the silly thought—but then her breasts resumed aching and her pussy
slightly from thinking of
, not the blonde cutie from a few minutes ago. And it made
more sense to want Jordan. He was a man, not a boy. And he treated her so wonderfully.

She bit her lip and focused more closely, imagining her dark-haired Adonis inside, perhaps tinkering with some high-tech mini-camera concealed in a lighter or some microscopic listening device nearly invisible to the human eye. She thought of his broad chest, his sweeping smile that burned all through her. She thought of his enormous cock—and at nine solid inches by her estimations, it actually went a long way toward making up for what she was missing in the bedroom.

God, I want you.

Of course, she’d
him—many times. Only, as time passed, she wanted him in a different way. An
way. She wanted him up against the wall, or spread on the floor, clothes askew. She was the Sex Queen, after all.

But it’s a
, she reminded herself.
And you knew that going into this.
It just wasn’t possible to get animal sex and such high-sheen class in the same package—life didn’t work that way. Moreover, you couldn’t get animal sex and tight leather and sex toys along with something warm and comforting and meaningful. And somewhere along life’s path, the latter was what Lynda had decided she really wanted.

Oh sure, she told her friends she’d sworn off relationships in lieu of hot sex. But then her thirty-fifth birthday had recently rolled around and something had changed—she’d realized she didn’t want to grow old alone. She wanted a companion, a
. Her nasty divorce all those years ago had made her think love wasn’t for her and never would be, but as she’d blown out all those candles she’d realized that she was finally starting to change her mind.

Enter Liz, her ex-
and friend. Lynda had introduced Liz to her yummy P.I. husband Jack—sort of—so Liz had decided to do some reverse matchmaking herself. Jordan was a friend of Jack’s, not surprising since they were both in the business of spying on people, and Liz had invited Lynda and Jordan to dinner at the apartment she shared with Jack on Bourbon Street.

A man could look at you with enough sin in his eyes to make your pussy quiver, and that’s exactly what had happened when Lynda had met Jordan. At thirty-eight, he was dark and handsome, olive-skinned, sporting just a hint of
around the edges of raven hair. His warm brown eyes had taken possession of her on sight. In that moment, she’d have sworn they’d end up hot and sweaty together before the night was through.

Only then he’d kissed her hand. And pulled out her chair.

He’d asked about her business, talking only briefly of his.

He’d complimented her perfume, as well as her necklace—an antique piece from her grandmother, sporting small rubies.

And as the night had worn on, she’d felt herself falling a little bit in love with him. Lust, too, but she’d quickly discerned that despite the fiery heat she’d witnessed in his gaze, Jordan was the consummate man of style and sophistication, not a guy who ripped off a woman’s clothes in the heat of passion.

She’d instantly been torn between loving that measure of class she’d never had in a man before and hating what she’d almost immediately known the relationship would lack. For Jordan Ellis III clearly needed a prim, sophisticated lady on his arm, and despite herself, Lynda wanted to be that woman.

Even if there was no animal sex.

And there hadn’t been.

Instead there’d been fancy dinners, and lovely gifts, and sweet, romantic kisses that had led to sweet, romantic lovemaking. Sweet…and vanilla.

Of course, to be fair, they did moan and groan together, sometimes even talking a little bit dirty, and Jordan knew exactly how to touch her to get her off—he had great hands and knew how to use them. The
wasn’t boring. Hell, the man made her come—what more did she want?

Animal sex
, a quiet little voice whispered inside her.

She wanted whips and chains and leather.

Screaming and begging and commanding.

Sweat and clenched teeth and spanking. God, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten a good spanking—or given one, either.

But when she’d met Jordan, she’d figured she’d sown enough wild oats and could give all that up now. And the deeper truth was—no matter how tempting Mr. Young and Wet had been a few minutes ago, over the past year or so she’d actually started finding her particular brand of sex a little meaningless, experiencing the urge to look into her lover’s eyes afterward and know they had truly
something, something relevant and vital. Which was exactly what she’d found with Jordan. So it had made perfect sense to change her ways and invite this new, staid sort of lover into her life. After all, he was everything a woman could want.

Except for the animal sex part.

But it’s worth it.
She reminded herself of that frequently during these mental flip-flopping sessions. Even if she had to clench her teeth—and her vagina—to make herself send a sexy young guy away,
it was worth it
. Even if her vibrators were getting a workout lately because she couldn’t help fantasizing about all the stuff she
wanted to do with Jordan,
it was worth it

Jordan had recently told her that sometimes if he was demonstrating the power of one of the tiny spy cameras he sold, he would point it at her store, enabling him to see her very clearly and close-up through the window. Now, she suffered the sudden urge to do something wild and crazy like lift her top over her breasts and flash him in true French Quarter style—just in case he was watching.

But if he was watching, that probably meant
were watching, too—and besides possibly costing him a sale, he’d think she was the most barbaric,
, tacky woman he’d ever met.

Oh, if only I could show you the real me, baby.

Easing back onto the tall stool behind her, she envisioned herself slowly, slowly easing her top up, taking her filmy bra with it, putting her breasts on display for him through some tiny camera three doors down. She imagined running her hands over them, slowly squeezing, massaging, twirling the taut nipples that now rubbed against the fabric of her bra every time she moved. She wanted to feel his eyes on her while she touched herself for him. Were there people on the street? No, not today—too rainy. But it didn’t matter either way in a fantasy.

Lynda thought of Jordan watching, getting rock hard for her. She imagined him wanting—
needed. Rough, urgent sex.

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