Indecent Suggestion (4 page)

“C’mon,” she taunted him. “You know you want to. Can’t you smell it?” she cooed in the sexiest siren voice she could muster. She took another step closer, until her body was almost flush with his, then pushed the cigarette even closer to his face. “Smell how
good
it smells,” she entreated him seductively.

But Turner glanced away, silently declining her offer. She frowned at the rebuff, feeling strangely rejected. So she lifted her free hand to his face, cupping his jaw in her palm until she could turn his head toward the cigarette again.

“Look at it, Turner,” she said softly.

“I don’t want to look at it,” he replied, turning his head away again.

So Becca cupped his jaw more firmly and urged his face to where she’d held it before. “Look at it,” she instructed him more forcefully, her voice sounding throatier now, though she couldn’t recall making a conscious effort to have it do that. “Look how smooth and round it is.”

He did as she told him to, glancing down at the cigarette, then hastily back up at her face. “Yeah. So?”

“Don’t you want to touch it?” she whispered, arching one brow.

He shook his head slowly, but his gaze flittered back down to the cigarette she held out to him. “No,” he told her roughly. “I don’t want to touch it.”

“Of course you want to touch it,” she said sweetly. She threaded her fingers intimately into his hair. “You want to touch it sooooo bad.”

“No, I don’t,” he declared.

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “You want to caress it, and stroke it and hold it in your hand. You want to run your fingers over it, up and down and around and around. Then you want to put it between your thumb and forefinger and roll it back and forth. It feels so good to do that, doesn’t it? I love how that feels.”

Becca lifted the cigarette to her mouth, and Turner’s gaze followed. Instead of tucking it between her lips, however, she raked the cigarette slowly across her mouth. “But
as good as it feels to touch it, there’s nothing like putting it in your mouth, is there?”

“Becca…” he said, the warning in his voice unequivocal.

“You want to feel it against your lips,” she murmured. “Taste it on your tongue. You want it in your mouth, don’t you, Turner?”

“No. I don’t.” But his words were quiet, uncertain.

“Yes. You do,” she said. “You want your mouth on it, sucking hard. Don’t fight it, Turner. Take what you want. Take it
now
.”

For a moment, she thought he would succumb, because he actually lifted his hand toward her—or, rather, toward the cigarette. His fingers hovered there for a moment, lingering…lingering…. Then he drew his hand away again and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“No,” he told her, his voice still a little shaky. “I’m just saying no. I will not submit to peer pressure.” And then, as if he wanted to physically illustrate that, he took a solid step backward, away from the cigarette, away from Becca.

Dammit. They had been so close. Though, somehow, what they had actually been close to doing wasn’t the thing she had
wanted
them to be doing. Or worse, maybe they
had
been close to doing that.

She made herself roll her eyes, as if she were as unconcerned as he. “Fine,” she conceded petulantly. Then, smiling playfully again, she placed the cigarette between her own lips and said, “Then you won’t mind if
I
smoke.”

He opened his mouth to object again, then closed it. “Feel free,” he said. “This is by no means a smoke-free environment.”

“Thanks,” she replied, her tone just as clipped as his. “Don’t mind if I do.”

But the reason Becca lit the cigarette wasn’t so much to tempt Turner by smoking in his presence as it was an effort to calm her own nerves. Because their little exchange just now had left her feeling edgy and irritable and very close to blowing her top. Or something.

It made no sense. There was no reason for her to feel edgy or irritable around Turner. Just because he wasn’t folding as quickly as she’d thought he would, and just because he obviously had more willpower than she did, and just because it looked as if she might lose this bet instead of him, that was no reason for her to get edgy and irritable.

Funny thing was, she suspected her bet with Turner had nothing to do with her current state of unrest.

Deciding not to think about any of that, she palmed her lighter and thumbed the flame to life, moving it to the tip of her cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she savored the warmth of the smoke filling her mouth and lungs, and relished the false heat that wound through her body. Nothing felt as good as smoking, she thought. She couldn’t imagine a greater physical pleasure than that soothing, pleasant sensation curling through her body.

Until she glanced up to find Turner gazing at her—or, rather, the cigarette—with unmistakable desire and unmitigated hunger. And then she began to imagine, too well, a physical pleasure that might rival, or even surpass, the one she was enjoying now.

“You’re playing dirty, Becca,” he said as he watched her enjoy herself. And without awaiting a reply—not that his comment really needed one—he spun on his heel and went back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

It was all Becca could do not to follow him. And not because she feared he might light up in secret, either. But be
cause she felt hungry and wanton herself. So she inhaled deeply on the cigarette again, waiting for the familiar sensation to calm her down.

But for the first time she could ever remember, smoking did nothing to soothe her nerves.

I
T WAS AFTER ELEVEN
that night when Turner finally gave up all pretense of being unaffected by the day’s events, and surrendered to the urge to smoke. Because even at that late hour, he knew sleep was a long way off, and he’d spent most of the day feeling half-crazy as it was. The craziness had resulted less from going smoke-free, however, than it had from watching Becca move about his life as if she belonged there.

It wasn’t that they did anything unusual together, but that was just the point. They spent the day doing the most mundane things two people—two
friends
—could do. They ate lunch together at a nearby fast-food restaurant, and they had dinner at a favorite pub near Englund Advertising where they had had dinner together a million times before. In between, they went to a home improvement store so Becca could look at paint chips and other items because she was thinking about redecorating her condo.

Normally, Turner loved home improvement stores. Normally, he could pass an entire day in one without ever marking the passage of time. Normally, he experienced an almost erotic gratification at handling power tools and light fixtures and PVC tubing. But normally, he wasn’t with Becca when he was visiting one. Throw her into the mix, and suddenly one of his favorite activities felt totally
ab
normal. Well, except for the part about experiencing erotic gratification. Because having her hovering over his shoul
der while he handled power tools and light fixtures and PVC tubing just made all of those items seem overtly sexual somehow. So by the end of the day, his nerves were frazzled to bits.

Even so, he managed to make it through the day without lighting up. Without lighting up a
cigarette,
anyway. His libido was another matter. It raged completely out of control. Especially when Becca had been bent over to inspect the color on a can of paint, and her round, firm ass brushed against his hip, and he’d wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her from behind. Still, he had survived. Even more difficult, he had kept his hands to himself.

The clincher came after they arrived back at his apartment and were settling in for another movie marathon—this time with
his
choice of cinema. Because just as he was popping a copy of
Mothra
into his DVD player, Becca exited his bedroom dressed for spending the night again, because she didn’t want to leave until morning, to witness him falling asleep, thereby proving he hadn’t lit up from the moment he awoke until the moment he fell asleep.

The problem for Turner, however, wasn’t that he had to watch Becca exiting his bedroom alone when he’d rather see her entering it with him. Still, seeing her anywhere in the vicinity of his bedroom certainly wreaked havoc with his carnal appetite. Of course, seeing her breathe today had wreaked havoc with his carnal appetite. No, the problem was, and the thing that
really
sent his carnal appetite into overdrive, demanding some kind of, ah, nutrition—and if it couldn’t be sex, then it had damn well better be nicotine—was the fact that when she emerged from his bedroom, she was wearing nothing but his old college football jersey and a pair of knee socks.

Turner had to do a double take to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. And when he realized he had actually seen what he thought he saw, he could only sit on the sofa staring openmouthed at the vision. Never mind that the jersey fell to midthigh on Becca and covered everything that needed to be covered. That was beside the point. The point was that the outfit she had on was the one she always wore in his second favorite sexual fantasy about her, the one where she got stranded at his apartment in a snowstorm, and all she had to wear was the very thing she had on now. And the realization that sexual fantasy number two was about to be played out in his very
non
sexual reality was just a little more than Turner could stand.

Sexual fantasy number one was the one where she came on to him at the office when they were working alone together late one night. In that fantasy, Becca suddenly realized she had a powerful sexual attraction to him and had for years, one that was so ferocious and demanding that, although she managed to get all of her own clothes off, most of his stayed on, and he ended up bending her forward over the big table in the Englund Advertising boardroom to take her from behind. Then, it went without saying, he took her again in her cubicle, spilling pencils off her desk and knocking over that stupid coffee mug Doug in accounting had given her as her secret Santa last Christmas, the one that said “Let’s get naughty for Christmas…it’ll be SO nice” in big red letters, and breaking it into a million pieces. Doug in accounting was such an asshole.

There were other sexual fantasies starring Becca on Turner’s list, too, of course. The one with the roller coaster at King’s Island was a favorite, as was the one where Becca bought him at a bachelor auction and then handcuffed him
to her bed for days. And then there was the one where they got jiggy in the back seat of a Rolls Royce, but fat chance that was ever going to happen since the only person Turner knew with a Rolls Royce was his employer’s father. But the football jersey/knee-socks fantasy held firm at number two, and there was Becca in his reality now, all decked out to play.

Next thing you know,
he thought,
she’ll be doing just like in the fantasy and telling me how sorry she is that she has to wear my clothes, but she spilled something all over herself, and this was the only thing she could find to wear.

“I’m sorry to have to borrow your stuff,” she said as she took a few steps into the room, tugging on the hem of the jersey and looking way more nervous than she should, seeing as how they were just friends and shouldn’t have any reason to feel nervous around each other. “But when I went to pour milk on my cereal this morning,” she continued, “I dropped the carton, and it spilled all over my nightshirt. This was all I could find to sleep in.”

Uh-oh…

“I hope you don’t mind,” she added, sounding nervous, too. “This is the only thing you have that’s big enough to cover my, um…my assets,” she added with a sheepish grin.

The minute she said it, Turner was helpless to do anything but look at her…assets. And as his gaze roved over her from the top of the silky hair he longed to run his fingers through to the tips of the knee-sock-clad toes he wanted to suck, he was damn near overcome with a sexual urge unlike any he had ever experienced before.

And then all he could do was reach for the pack of cig
arettes she’d tossed onto the end table earlier, shake one free and say, “So. What time is this appointment with the Amazing Mesmiro? And do you want to drive, or shall I?”

T
HE NAME ON THE OUTER
office door, Becca noted when she and Turner arrived for their Tuesday morning appointment, said not the Amazing Mesmiro, but rather Dorcas Upton, RN, BSN, LHT. And then, below that, to make matters clearer, Licensed Hypnotherapist.

“Registered Nurse,” Becca said brightly to Turner, pointing to the first two letters that followed Dorcas Upton’s name. “That’s good. That shows she’s not a flake.”

“Doesn’t prove she never played Vegas,” he replied grudgingly. “What’s BSN stand for?” he asked. “And LHT?”

“Licensed hypnotherapist,” Becca guessed for the latter. Especially since it was spelled out right there. Duh. For the former, however, she hadn’t a clue. “I’m not sure about the other letters, though,” she said.

Turner considered the sign for a moment himself before declaring, “I’m guessing BSN stands for Blatant Staggering Nutcase.”

“I doubt it,” Becca replied through gritted teeth.

“Big Simpering Neurotic?” he suggested further.

“Um, no,” she replied as patiently as she could. “Just a shot in the dark, but…I’m thinking not.”

“Blithering Schizoid Nitwit?”

“Turner…”

“Brilliant Scholar Not?”

“Turner.”

“I know. Bunch of Stupid Nonsense.”

“Turner, stop it,” she finally hissed under her breath. And then it hit her. The RN designation ultimately gave it away. “Bachelor of Sciences, Nursing!” she said triumphantly. “That
really
shows she’s not a flake if she has a bachelor’s degree.”

Turner said nothing in response to that. And just to show what a good sport Becca was about such things, she didn’t even grin smugly and lean in close and tell him—

Oh, who was she kidding?

“Told you so,” she said with a smug grin, leaning in close.

He growled something under his breath and made a big show of checking his wristwatch. “We’re more than half an hour early,” he said.

Becca glanced at her own wristwatch. He was being generous. They were closer to forty-five minutes early. She’d made the appointment for ten o’clock, and it was just past nine-fifteen now. “I thought traffic would be a lot worse,” she said lamely. “I wanted to get an early start.”

The real reason she’d wanted to get an early start was because she’d figured Turner would put up more of a fight about coming, so she’d shown up at his place extra early to allow time for the argument. But he’d been surprisingly cooperative about everything. He’d also been pretty yummy-looking in his faded blue jeans and a navy-blue sweater that made his blue eyes seem even bluer somehow, especially when he pulled a disreputable-looking denim jacket on over it. Becca, too, had opted for blue jeans today, pairing hers with a white, scooped-neck T-shirt and black blazer.

The day outside the downtown office building where Dorcas Upton and all the letters following her name had sited their office was coolish but sunny, the perfect weather, Becca couldn’t help thinking, for a good hypnotizing. She and Turner had both taken a personal day off from work, feeling not one bit guilty about it since they had to be present for a big meeting at the office on Saturday morning. Robert Englund hadn’t complained, and besides, they were doing this as much for him as they were for themselves.

Well, okay, maybe that was pushing it. But tomorrow, Becca and Turner would put the finishing touches on their pitch for a big new account Englund Advertising was trying to land—an account that could bring in loads of money, not to mention a nice, fat promotion for Becca and Turner both—and the meeting Saturday would herald the big reveal. It made sense that the two of them would want to be at their best for the rest of the week.

And their best, Becca had decided, would be smoke-free. That way, they could work on the campaign with one hundred percent of their focus, instead of always being distracted by when they might be able to sneak away for a cigarette.

“Maybe Ms. Upton can take us early,” she said now as she reached for the knob and opened the door. “I didn’t have any problem making the appointment yesterday. That makes me think she can’t be booked solid all the time.”

“It makes me think she’s a quack,” Turner muttered.

Becca shushed him, but had to admit he had a point. And that point was made even finer when they entered the hypnotherapist’s office to find it completely empty. Although there was a little frosted window pushed open over a counter where a receptionist might normally be seated, there wasn’t a receptionist sitting there now.

Still, it was a very nicely appointed office, with wallpaper in a pale yellow stripe, plush, plum-colored seating, soft lighting and lots of ferns. And someone must be around, because there was soft classical music playing, and somewhere on the other side of that frosted window, down a hall or in another room, someone was talking on the phone.

“Place doesn’t seem to be hopping,” Turner said. “I bet she could take us early.”

Becca nodded. “If she’s here…”

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a door on the other side of the room opened and a slight, wiry woman came striding through. When she saw Becca and Turner, she seemed to be as surprised as they were, but she quickly recovered and smiled. “Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Dorcas Upton. Can I help you?”

Becca wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when it came to hypnotherapists, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t this. Dorcas Upton had more in common with Mother Goose than she did with the Amazing Mesmiro. Probably around sixty years old, she had her gray hair fixed atop her head in a tidy bun, and beaded black half-glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Slender to the point of being almost angular, she stood a good three or four inches shy of Becca’s own five-six, even though she was wearing sensible black pumps with a one-inch heel. Her outfit, too, was mostly black; a plain, straight skirt that fell to midcalf and a black, pearl buttoned sweater open over an ivory blouse.

No white coat after all, Becca mused. For some reason, that made her feel better, though. Dorcas Upton looked like a school librarian, her dark eyes reflecting intelligence, proficiency and good humor. Becca liked that in a hypnotherapist.

“I know we’re not on time for our appointment,” Becca said by way of a greeting, not quite able to quell the anxiety she could hear lacing her voice. Probably because she couldn’t quite quell the anxiety coursing through her brain and body, too. “But is there any chance we could still see you?”

“Certainly,” Ms. Upton said. She smiled as she tilted her head toward the empty waiting room. “As you can see, I’ve no one else waiting at the moment. If you’ll just follow me?”

She swept her hand toward the open door behind her, and Becca turned to look at Turner. He was studying the hypnotherapist through slitted eyes, but he seemed resigned to going through with it. Becca tried to smile at him reassuringly, then reached out and took his hand. Though she honestly couldn’t have said whether she did that for his benefit or for her own. It just felt better holding his hand.

“Come on,” she said softly, tugging gently. “In a little while, it’ll all be over. And then we’ll have the rest of the day off from work to celebrate our new commitment.”

Turner smiled back, a little halfheartedly, but he nodded. “This better work,” he told her. “That’s all I can say. Because we’re both going to be frustrated in the extreme if it doesn’t.”

D
ORCAS
U
PTON SMILED
at the couple, deciding immediately that she would forgive them for being twenty minutes late for their appointment. And not just because they were the cutest couple she’d ever seen, either, single
or
married, and obviously perfect for each other. But also because she had just hung out her shingle two months ago, and she wasn’t exactly overrun with clients yet.

Starting a new business wasn’t easy. And she hadn’t been a hypnotherapist for very long. Dorcas was still working the bugs out both her method
and
her office. So even if Mr. and Mrs. Feder were late for their nine o’clock appointment, she’d see them. And she’d take care of their problem for them. And then, as Mrs. Feder had just said, they could go home and celebrate their new commitment. To each other, and to a happily wedded way of life. Once Dorcas was finished with them, they wouldn’t be frustrated anymore.

Because she was confident she could help the shy newlyweds iron out their little problem. And a delicate little problem it was, too. She wasn’t surprised they’d arrived late for their appointment. If their extreme shyness and inhibitions were keeping the two of them from making love, then certainly it might result in the sort of nervousness and hesitation that would make them late for an appointment to remedy the problem.

“Won’t you come into my office?” she asked the Feders, smiling with as much encouragement as she could. Didn’t want the precious—though nervous—lovebirds to bolt, after all.

The couple exchanged one final, reassuring glance, then Mrs. Feder nodded. “We’re ready,” she said.

They followed Dorcas into her office, which did have the bugs worked out of it, at least where the decor was concerned. In an effort to make her clients feel as comfortable as possible, she’d opted for muted earth tones with splashes of pastel blue, hoping to evoke an earth-and-water feel that might appeal to more elemental aspects of the human psyche. An electric desk fountain bubbled pleasantly atop a bookcase on the other side of the room, and the classical
music of the waiting room was replaced here by a recording of a windswept canyon in New Mexico. The atmosphere certainly made Dorcas feel relaxed and contented. Hopefully, her clients felt that way, too.

As she rounded her desk and took a seat behind it, she glanced down at her appointment book in an effort to discern the Feders’ first names. But she frowned when she realized her receptionist hadn’t written them down when she recorded the appointment, only “Feders.”

Ah, well, Dorcas thought. There was time enough to get acquainted. Although her next appointment was at ten, that would be a fairly mundane quit-smoking session. Dorcas could do those in her sleep. They didn’t take long. This one with the Feders, though…

It wasn’t every day you ran across two people who wanted to make mad, passionate love and couldn’t get over their combined inhibitions to do it. And newlyweds to boot! But that was all right. They’d be at it like rabbits when she was finished with them.

“I’m sorry about the timing,” Mrs. Feder stated as she took a seat in one of the chairs opposite Dorcas’s desk. “This was just one of those mornings when—”

“Say no more,” Dorcas interrupted gently in as soothing a voice as she could manage. “And don’t think anything of it. It isn’t a problem, honestly.”

In spite of her reassurances, Mrs. Feder seemed a little nervous about the session ahead. And Mr. Feder, who still stood at the door, looked too wary to even enter the room.

“I’m sorry,” Dorcas said, “but you’ll have to tell me your first names again. My receptionist didn’t write them down in my appointment book.”

Mrs. Feder smiled. “I’m Becca, and this is Turner.”

Dorcas smiled in return. “And you must both call me Dorcas. Well, since time is of the essence, let’s get started right away, shall we?”

Becca turned to look at her husband, who still seemed reluctant to enter. Funny, Dorcas thought, but he didn’t look like the sort of man who would have trouble consummating his marriage. On the contrary, he looked like the sort of man who would pounce on whatever female held his interest. He also seemed extremely interested in his wife, if the expression on his face when he looked at her was any indication.

He turned to Dorcas. “You’re not going to make us bark like dogs for your own amusement while we’re under, are you?” he asked.

She smiled. “Of course not.” She waited until he looked relieved before adding, “I’m going to make you flap your arms like a chicken. I find that much more entertaining.” Then she chuckled good-naturedly at his panicked expression. “I’m sorry. Couldn’t resist. Just a little hypnotherapist humor there.”

He said nothing, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not.

“It will be fine, Turner,” she said. “I run a professional, legitimate business. Hypnotherapy may not be understood by most people, but it is, without question, a viable treatment for many.” She offered him her most reassuring smile. “It may interest you to know that not all people are able to be hypnotized.”

“Really?” Becca asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of both curiosity and concern.

Dorcas nodded. “And of those who
are
able to be hypnotized, not all respond to hypnotherapy. Should that be
the case with one or both of you, I can recommend another therapist who might be able to help you with your problem through more conventional methods.”

“We’ve already tried those,” Becca said. “This is kind of a last resort for us. If you can’t help us…”

She didn’t finish the statement, only looked forlorn at the prospect of what might lie ahead, should this session fail.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Dorcas said. “Just relax, and we’ll give it our best. Truly, I think you’ll be pleased by the results. Now, then, Turner, if you’ll take your seat next to Becca, we can get started.”

As Dorcas extended her hand toward the vacant chair, Turner pushed himself away from the door and strode with obvious reluctance toward it. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a seat.

“That’s fine,” Dorcas said, still smiling. “Now let’s get you two hypnotized.”

She began the session the way she always did, with some relaxation techniques that included deep breathing and mental visualization. Little by little, Dorcas took the Feders through the steps, until she was confident that both were in a state of deep hypnosis. Only then did she give them the posthypnotic suggestions that they wouldn’t be able to remember consciously once they were brought back, but which they would hopefully act upon when confronted by the proper stimulus.

She’d given much thought to the stimulus in this case, thinking it would be best if she gave the Feders a word to respond to. But it had to be a word they would be most likely to use or hear only in the privacy of their own home. She didn’t want the two of them to be overcome with passionate desire for each other in a public place. Ultimately,
she had decided on the word
underwear,
thinking it was one that wasn’t used too often, and one they would most likely only say when they were at home together. Nevertheless, it
was
common enough that it would come up eventually.