Violet In Lace Read online

  Violet in Lace

  Vivienne Hunt

  This is a work of fiction and does not in any way advocate irresponsible behavior. Any resemblance to people, places, and settings in real life is entirely coincidental. This book contains content that is not suitable for readers 17 and under. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  Copyright © 2017 by Vivienne Hunt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any printed, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without permission except in the case of quotations embodied in the articles and reviews about the book. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Edited by Bethany Pennypacker

  Cover Design by Black Quill Enterprises LLC

  www.viviennehunt-romance.com

  Published by:

  Black Quill Enterprises LLC

  3760 Sixes Road Suite 126-218

  Canton, GA 30114

  Digital Edition

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016958698

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  OTHER WORKS BY VIVIENNE HUNT

  Chapter One

  Violet

  “Breathe, Violet, you can do this.” Wrapped in a fluffy, blue terry cloth towel, Violet Smoke stood in front of her closet, frowning at her limited choices. Her skin was a rosy pink from the shower, and her wet, brunette hair dripped down her back. She couldn’t believe it had been over a decade since she had last interviewed for a new job. Well, technically she already had the new job, thanks to one of her best pals. Russell Scott was a lead designer for a sexy, new lingerie boutique in Buckhead, Georgia, called Chenille. When Violet had fallen on hard times, Russell had stepped up, throwing her a lifeline when she needed one the most.

  Hard times. Ha! Violet thought.

  It was the understatement of the year, or more accurately, two years. She was still recovering from an unexpected layoff at work that coupled with twenty-four months’ worth of a messy, expensive, drawn-out divorce, and her bank account was looking as tired as she felt. All she had to do was make it through these last thirty days, and then the town house that she was currently standing in would be hers. Chadwick would be nothing but a bad memory.

  Chadwick Milton Hedges. Even just thinking his name twisted her stomach into knots.

  “One foot in front of the other, stop thinking about him.” She was talking out loud to herself again. It was a habit that she had developed over the past two years, which were largely spent in and out of mitigation or in endless meetings with lawyers who were delighted to squeeze her for every billable hour they could.

  She tucked the towel tighter around her voluptuous breasts before it threatened to fall to the bedroom floor - not that there was anyone there to appreciate her figure. Chad had lost interest years before he had asked — no, demanded — that they get a divorce. He was a lawyer, and an outstanding one at that, who spent all of this time at his firm in Midtown. Violet had had suspicions that he was banging one of his paralegals for some time now, but she had long run out of money to hire a PI to prove it. The town house was all she had left. Violet desperately wanted to keep it, hoping that someday she would date the right man who would come home with her, fuck her silly in every room of the house, and maybe, just maybe, she could learn to love again.

  Absently she caressed her ample cleavage.

  Damn it, she was horny.

  Sex with Chad had never been mind-blowing. Hell, it had barely bordered on great. Okay, it had been mediocre at best, but there were only so many lonely nights that her Ms. Bunny vibrator could handle before even its batteries had had enough. She missed the hot, hard body of male flesh, the wet kisses, the little bites. . .

  Violet squeezed her thighs together. “Focus,” she reprimanded her closet of clothes as if they were responsible for her present predicament.

  Her cell rang on the nightstand; the screen read Russell Scott, and she grinned while swiping at the answer button.

  “Good morning, darling!” Russell gushed from the other side before she could get a word out.

  “Mornin’, Russell,” Violet replied, less than chipper.

  “How’s my gal today? All ready to meet the boss man?” Russell sang out, sounding way too energetic.

  “Uhm . . . well . . . I’m . . .” Violet stammered.

  “Girl, do not even tell me you haven’t dressed yet!”

  “I was working on it!” she mocked offense.

  “Missy, you have exactly one hour to squeeze that fine booty of yours into something fabulous. Dylan’s meeting us for coffee before work, and traffic is going to get nasty if you don’t get a move on!”

  “Okay! Okay! I’m on it. I will see you in an hour.” Violet laughed at Russell’s punctuated admonishment.

  “Mmm hmm . . . and remember to put on something fine, girl; I have a reputation to uphold!” Russell made kissy noises into the phone before hanging up.

  Violet did the same before tossing it onto the bed. Stripping off her towel, she vigorously dried her hair, wondering what she owned that constituted “fine and fabulous” without coming off completely slutty yet still could be considered sexy.

  “That’s it!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers.

  Perusing over of her clothes, she settled on a deep-red, Ashley Graham, lace, corset bra with matching panties, a silky, black blouse with a white belt, and a flared baby-doll skirt. Black stockings and her favorite pair of Coach Smith pumps completed her look.

  Violet pulled her hair up into a twist and started working on her makeup all the while humming to herself. Russell always knew how to put her in the right mood no matter what.

  Once finished, she grabbed her favorite red lipstick, which was appropriately labeled “Smoke,” and ran it over her lips.

  “Fine and fabulous.” She admired her reflection, hoping that her sudden burst of confidence would last through the morning.

  “One mighty caramel doppio, double whip, coming up!” the tiny barista girl behind the espresso machine at Seven O’Clock Roast called out.

  “Make that two, sweetie,” Russell said, coming up next to Violet. “Let me see you! Let me see you!” he exclaimed, twirling Violet around at the counter, much to her embarrassment.

  Russell whistled with approval. “You are a vision, simply a vision!”

  Violet laughed, trying not to draw any more attention. “Russell, I am not a vision. I’m forty. There is no vision here.”

  The barista handed them their coffees, which Russell paid for before Violet had a chance to protest.

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course, darling, and, yes, you’re still a vision! Forty is the new thirty these days.” He steered her in the direction of a corner table where Dylan, Russell’s boyfriend, had already snagged them seats.

  Dylan stood up and kissed Violet on both cheeks. “Marvelous. You we
nt with a Samoon blouse, an excellent choice. Let me guess, Navabi?” Dylan winked at her.

  Violet grinned out of the side of her mouth while taking sips of her coffee. Navabi was a global clothing company of top designers that catered to curvy women. Samoon blouses were some of her favorites. For a five-foot-three, voluptuous size 16W with an ample double D rack, Navabi was one of the few online sites on which Violet could shop and feel like the clothes were tailored just for her.

  Chad had joked once that her body was a shorter, wider, brunette, version of Jessica Rabbit from the movie Who Framed Roger Rabbit — which stopped turning him on just a few years into their marriage.

  “Darling? Violet, are you still with us?” Russell was snapping his fingers in front of her face. His handsome, chiseled features were overshadowed with concern.

  “Oh, sorry, guys, I’m just so distracted this morning. It’s just nerves,” Violet replied, hoping that sounded believable.

  “Uh-uh,” Dylan observed, lowering his thick lashes. When he gazed at her like that, he reminded her of a young Oscar Isaac. “You were thinking about Chad again.”

  “No, no, no.” Russell held up his index finger, waving it back and forth at Violet. “No ‘Chad-thinking,’ no ‘divorce-talking.’ No. Today is all about you, darling, and getting your life back. Now, say it with me, ‘I am fabulous!’”

  Violet groaned.

  “We are not leaving this table until you say it with me,” Russell punctuated his words again. “I. Am. Fabulous!”

  Violet shook her head “no” while Dylan closed his eyes and started to breath like some “Zen yoga master.”

  “I am fabulous,” Violet squeaked out. She sounded like a mouse.

  Dylan popped one eye open. “That was terrible.”

  “I am fabulous!” Russell said louder, and a few patrons of Seven O’Clock turned, staring at him.

  “I am fabulous!” Violet said a bit louder.

  “Nope, I’m not convinced,” Dylan replied.

  “Okay, fine!” Violet finally gave in. “I am fabulous!” Violet yelled louder than she meant to. This time, half the coffee shop turned their way.

  “Well done! Bravo!” Dylan clapped while Russell nodded his head in approval.

  An older gentleman in his sixties caught Violet’s eye. He raised his cardboard coffee cup in salute, winking at her.

  Violet blushed. “Now can we get going?”

  Russell finished the last of his coffee, setting his cup down dramatically. “It’s time to meet the boss man!” He turned, giving Dylan a peck on the cheek. “Curry chicken tonight, babe?”

  Dylan, who worked as a consummate private chef, nonchalantly waved his boyfriend away and said, “If I must, I will make you your curry chicken.” He stood up and kissed Violet again on both cheeks. “You are just going to love boss man.”

  Violet picked up her purse, cocking her head to the side. “Oh? And why is that?”

  Dylan grinned. “He is hot as shit, straight as an arrow, and has this ‘kinky thang’ for women’s lingerie.”

  Russell gave Dylan a playful wink and asked, “Honey, why are the good ones are always straight?”

  “I know, honey, it’s a tragedy really.” Dylan sighed. “Now be gone with you!” He shooed them from the table.

  Linking arms, Violet and Russell left the coffee shop. Violet felt her stomach somersault again, but this time it felt more like butterflies than dread. It was finally time to meet boss man. The first of many steps towards reclaiming her life.

  Chapter Two

  Justin

  Justin Avery stood on the second floor of Chenille, overlooking the showroom of his lingerie boutique. Chenille — the word just rolled right off the tongue. The name had actually been his mother’s idea. The Avery family was synonymous with the word fashion. Chenille was the beginning of another successful Avery endeavor that his mother had thoroughly endorsed. Joanna Avery was the Joanna of Avery Handbags, an upscale line out of New York. Women with means were clamoring to be on a waiting list to purchase one of her latest designs. His father, Austin Avery, however, thought the boutique’s name was a bit frilly; but then, what did he know about merchandising to women? Men’s sportswear, specifically for pro golfers, was where he had made his millions. His clothes were what half the men on the PGA Tour chose to be outfitted in. It was already the first week of March, and the Masters was roughly a month away. Austin couldn’t even be bothered with his son’s premiere at Atlanta’s Fashion Week, with a mere seven days between that and the first tee off, but Joanna was thrilled that her son had followed in the family’s footsteps of couture and design. Presently though, her exuberance was wearing Justin out, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning.

  “Yes, Mother. Uh-huh. Yes, I heard you. No, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Justin answered his mother, placing a finger on his Bluetooth to turn down the volume. Joanna always raised her voice when she was excited about something. While she prattled on about airline tickets and when she would be flying in, Justin flagged down April and Chloe, his two showroom associates, who were on the floor below him. He motioned to them to prep the boutique for when the doors would open at ten. The girls were in their early twenties, eager, and curvaceous.

  “Curvaceous” was at the heart of Chenille, as Justin’s line of lingerie was all about indulging shapely, buxom women.

  “Yes, Mother. I’m still listening.” He tuned back into the conversation blaring in his ear. “Uh-huh, okay, see you at the end of the month. Love you, too. Bye-bye.” He clicked off his Bluetooth and then began drumming his fingers on the chrome railing while he watched the girls work. He checked his watch — ten minutes before his new office assistant courtesy of Russell, his lead designer, would arrive. Justin blew out a breath and then rubbed his five-day-old stubble across his chin. Maybe he should have shaved. Lately his appearance was the least of his concerns. Chenille needed a theme for Fashion Week, and he had been coming up short. Losing three assistants in the last six months had him pulling a couple of all-nighters at the boutique. He couldn’t understand it — Chenille was an upbeat, fun environment to work in; he paid his employees well and even gave them a hefty discount on any merchandise in the store. All he had asked in return was that they ate, breathed, and slept Chenille until Fashion Week was over. Two bridal magazines and one French, runway blogger were highly interested in the boutique, which could take the lingerie global with potential opportunities of landing it all over runways in Europe. Unfortunately not all of his previous employees shared his same zeal or vision.

  “Darlings! We’ve arrived!” Russell’s telltale, singsong voice bounced off the walls of the boutique.

  Justin leaned over the railing, a grin breaking out across his face. Then his eyes fixated on the woman slightly to Russell’s right. His breath caught in his throat.

  Curvaceous, buxom, and beautiful.

  Justin felt his dick harden while he drank her in.

  This can’t be my new assistant.

  He watched while the woman exchanged pleasantries with April and Chloe, who were already squealing and hugging her like they had known her all of their lives. She was well dressed, with just a hint of cleavage peeping out from her designer blouse. He thought he caught a glimpse of red lace there and casually turned away lest he be caught ogling. It had felt like a lifetime since any woman had had that kind of an effect on him. His last serious relationship was over two years ago, which even he had found pathetic, since he had just turned thirty-one in February. Certainly he had dated since then, but most of those women were either only interested in his body or the status of his last name; they had lacked content and substance. Justin turned back around in time to see that Russell and his mystery lady were climbing the steps towards him. Involuntarily Justin licked his lips. The mystery woman tempted him with every luscious step she took. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, upswept twist, and her teardrop, hazel eyes were only further enhanced by her smoky eye shadow and red lipstick. An image of
her splayed out over his desk with her blouse ripped open and her luscious tits on display while she bounced on his cock blazed through his mind.

  Get a hold of yourself, man, he thought.

  Justin cleared his throat. He felt like a drooling idiot. Fortunately, Russell spoke first, giving him a couple more seconds to compose himself.

  “Boss Man,” Russell said with his usual flourish, “I would like you to meet Violet Smoke, your new office assistant. Violet, this is the Justin Avery of Chenille, the man, the myth, and soon-to-be legend.”

  Violet laughed while she held out her hand to him, and the sound sent shockwaves straight to his dick. Even her voice was having an effect on him.

  Then an idea took hold.

  “‘Addicted to Love,’” he murmured as he took her hand, feeling an electricity pass between them.

  “I’m sorry?” Violet replied, confused.

  “Russell, you are a genius, and you, Miss Violet, just became my ‘muse’ for Fashion Week.” Justin didn’t want to let her hand go, but if he kept holding it, she was going to think he was being creepy.

  No, just wanting to tear your clothes off and lick you from head to toe. A little devil of a voice was whispering in Justin’s ear.

  Russell’s eyes got wide, and Justin knew he understood in an instant. He grinned. There was a reason why Russell was on his team.

  “Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted to Love’ — the song, the video, the women! Boss Man, you’ve got it!” Russell twirled Violet around on her heels, and she flushed a pretty, pinkish red all the way down the cleavage of her breasts. Distracted, Justin wondered if her nipples were getting hard.

  Shaking his head from his lustful thoughts, he explained. “First, Violet, it is a pleasure to meet you. Russell spoke very highly of you and your ability to multitask in a stressful environment. I am very happy and relieved to have you on my team.”

  I’ll be even happier when I get you in my bed. The devil wasn’t going away.