Indecent Suggestion (7 page)

He wanted so badly to free his dick from his trousers and ram it inside her to the hilt, right here, right now. Her breath against his temple was as fiery and steamy as the rest of her, coming in ragged, irregular gulps every time he stroked her.

“Again, Turner,” she gasped against his ear. “Finger me again. Harder. Faster. And then I want your cock inside me.”

“Oh, Becca,” he said. But even as he ground out her name, he knew there was no way he could take her here like this. They were at work, for God’s sake. And it wasn’t long after office hours. There could still be a couple of people around. He didn’t know why she suddenly wanted to have sex with him, and he figured he probably shouldn’t question it. But he wanted their first time together to be someplace where they could spend more time exploring and satisfying each other. He didn’t want it to be a quickie on her desk, when they weren’t even completely undressed.

Although he had no idea where he found the strength to do it, he moved his head back from her breast and jerked his hand from between her legs, fighting her efforts to pull him back to both places.

“No, Becca,” he said, amazed to hear himself say it. “We can’t. Not here. Not now. Not like this.”

Her disappointment was almost palpable. “Yes, we can,” she insisted breathlessly, crowding against him again. “Please, Turner. I need you. I want you. I want your cock inside me.
Now
.”

She moved her hand between his legs this time, finding his dick and rubbing it hard. He cried out at the fire that shot through him, but somehow managed to grasp her wrist and pull her hand away.

Her eyes, still dark with her passion, clouded over. “Please,” she whispered again.

He shook his head. And told her again, “No, Becca. Not like this.”

“But—”

“McCloud! Mercer!”

“Oh, shit,” Turner said when he heard the booming voice of their employer.

Without thinking, he jumped up from his chair, taking Becca with him. She nearly fell to the floor, but he caught her and set her upright, his fingers curled around her bare arms, her naked breasts shuddering. Before he had a chance to say another word, she pushed herself up on tiptoe and covered his mouth with hers, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him close.

She still wanted to do it, even with their boss within shouting distance. What the hell had gotten into her?

Through no small effort, Turner disentangled himself from her half-naked body and set her at arm’s length, holding her there firmly when she obviously wanted to lunge forward again.

“It’s Englund, Becca,” he hissed, as loudly as he dared. “Our boss, remember? Get dressed. I’ll stall him.”

She didn’t seem to have heard a word he said, because
she reached for him again. “I don’t care who it is, Turner, I want you. Now.”

“Get dressed,” he told her again, more forcefully this time. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“McCloud! Mercer!”

Englund’s voice was closer now, and still Becca made no move to do as Turner had instructed.

“Do you promise we’ll talk later?” she asked.

“Yes,” he told her.

“And then we can make love?”

Good God, what was going on? “If you still want to, yes,” he told her. Though at that point, he would have said anything to get Becca to cooperate.

“It better not be too much later,” she muttered.

“Get dressed,” he said for the last time. And without even waiting to see if she followed his instructions, he turned and headed out of her cubicle, calling, “Right here, Mr. Englund! Sorry! We were working so hard on the Bluestocking pitch, we didn’t even know you were here….”

T
URNER WAS A TEASE
.

A tempter.

A breaker of promises.

A liar.

Yet, still, she wanted him.

Needed him.

Hungered for him.

Burned for him.

As Becca lay awake in her bed—alone—tossing and turning and practically on fire with her unsatisfied desires and her unfulfilled needs… Or would they be unfulfilled desires and unsatisfied needs? she wondered vaguely. Oh,
well. No matter. ’Cause she had
all
of ’em, honey, and it was no picnic, that was for sure, and if she didn’t get some relief soon, she was going to…to…to…

Where was she?

Oh, yeah. As she lay awake in bed—and had she mentioned she was alone?—tossing and turning and practically on fire with her unfulfilled and unsatisfied…stuff, all she could think about was Turner. About how incredibly sexy Turner had been this evening. About how much she’d wanted Turner. About how much she’d
needed
Turner. About how incredible it had felt to be in Turner’s arms. About how exquisitely Turner had touched her and tasted her. About how awful and horrible and despicable and nasty and evil it had been that she’d been prevented from having Turner right there in her cubicle because Englund had decided to work late, too, to supervise their progress on their pitch. About how Englund had walked down to the parking garage with both of them so that they’d had to leave in their separate cars without making any plans to meet later.

About how, when Becca had called Turner to invite him over as soon as she’d arrived home, he’d told her he was too tired to come over, and that they could talk in the morning.

And
still
she wanted him.

Acutely.

Completely.

Desperately.

She punched her pillow with much frustration and flopped over to her other side. Although a light snow had been falling when she arrived home, she’d worn only her panties and a cropped undershirt to bed because she’d been so hot. Now, the covers were kicked into a heap at the foot, and the ceiling fan rotated laconically above her, its chilly breeze washing over her heated skin, cooling her not at all.
Around her, her bedroom was silent and semidark, the night-light in the bathroom providing just enough illumination for her to see the white French provincial furnishings and floral wallpaper and accessories. Suddenly, it all looked so sickeningly sweet and girlie-girl, and she couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to go with such a decorating scheme.

No wonder she’d never been able to lure Turner into her bed, she thought. What man in his right mind would feel aroused in an environment like this? Maybe, in addition to all the other redecorating she planned to do on the condo, she’d redo this room, too. Maybe in red. Deep, dark, intense red. The color of passion. Yeah. With dark, heavy Mediterranean furnishings. That would make it more masculine. And wrought-iron accessories. Like torches. And chains. And maybe some manacles affixed to one wall, to give it that certain je ne sais quoi.

Yeah, that could work….

Unbidden, she enjoyed a very graphic mental image of what, exactly, that je ne sais quoi would involve. Notably, Turner manacled to her wall, naked, with firelight bathing his muscular form while she knelt before him, her hands curved over his taut, firm ass, his cock rigid and full as she sucked it, hard and deep. Only when he was on the verge of coming would she stop, and then she would stand and push her body against his, curl one leg around his waist and rub her wet clit against his hard shaft, driving them both to orgasm.

Oh, Turner…

Grabbing the pillow from the opposite side of the bed, Becca thrust it between her legs, bucking her hips against it. But it was a lousy substitute for the man.

B
Y
S
ATURDAY MORNING
,
when Becca and Turner were supposed to present their pitch to the Bluestocking Lingerie people, Becca was still reeling from what had happened Wednesday night. She couldn’t begin to explain why she’d behaved the way she had with Turner, though God knew she’d tried. What was weird—well, one thing that was weird among the many weird things that night—was that she hadn’t even remembered what happened until she’d arrived at work Thursday morning and saw Turner sitting in his cubicle, staring at her cubicle, waiting for her to show up. One look at him, though, and she’d been flooded by the memory of what had happened the night before.

And that wasn’t all she’d been flooded with.

As insane and inexplicable as her behavior had been, she also remembered how she’d enjoyed herself
so much
. That didn’t, however, excuse what had happened.

All she knew was that one minute she’d been sorting through a collection of racy lingerie, and the next, she’d been unbelievably aroused. It was the strangest thing. She’d never been the sort of woman to heat up quickly, had always liked a little playful, naughty flirting with her partner first, then lots and lots of physical foreplay—preferably oral—before the main event. Wednesday evening, however…

All she’d wanted was to feel Turner’s hands all over her naked body—
now
. And she’d wanted him buried deep inside her—
now
. Forget flirting. Forget foreplay. She’d wanted out-and-out sex, as raw and as forceful and as fast as it could be. Thank God they’d been interrupted by Englund or who knew how far they would have gone? And even more important, thank God Turner had had the good sense to try and dissuade her from what she’d wanted to do, or they may have been too far-gone by the time they
were
interrupted even to notice the fact. And if Englund didn’t want them smoking in the workplace, she could only imagine how he’d feel about them
smoking
in the workplace.

But even after going home that night, she’d still been thinking about Turner. About Turner naked. About Turner naked in manacles while she gave him a blow job, for God’s sake. And then about Turner naked in bed with her. Beside her. And on top of her. And underneath her. And behind her. And in just about every other position the two of them could manage. And some they probably
couldn’t
manage, at least not outside her delirious fantasies. After a good night’s sleep, though, she’d felt like her old self again. To the point that she’d even forgotten about what had happened until the sight of Turner had reminded her. Graphically. But even then, overpowering her arousal was the fact that she’d been horrified to remember what had happened the evening before.

She’d tried to tell herself—and Turner, too—that it must have happened because of the nature of the campaign they were working on, that all the racy lingerie had just put ideas into her head.

But that didn’t make any sense. If anyone was turned
on by the Bluestocking products, it should have been Turner. The items the company had sent as samples weren’t that much different from what Becca wore under her clothing every day of the week. Why would
she
suddenly be turned on by
women’s
underwear? That was silly.

So then she’d tried to tell herself—and Turner, too—that she’d been working too hard lately, that she and Turner were both under a lot of stress right now, feeling the pressure of coming up with a campaign for an account that could potentially result in a big promotion for each of them, not to mention a fat financial bonus they could both use.

But they’d been under stress and felt the pressure lots of other times, she’d been forced to remind herself, and neither of them had ever resorted to being physically aroused by the other. So that hadn’t really explained her behavior, either.

So
then
she’d tried to tell herself—and Turner, too—that it had just been too long since she’d had sex, and that any human being with a Y chromosome would look good to her—though she hadn’t put it
that
way to Turner. And although that explanation did sort of make sense—she
had
gone way too long without sex, and she’d definitely been feeling more than a little randy lately—it didn’t account for why her reaction to Turner had come about so suddenly and with such intensity.

Ultimately, Becca had told herself—and Turner, too—that it must have been a combination of all three factors that resulted in her behavior Wednesday night. What else could it have been? Although certainly Turner was a very attractive man, and yes, they did have a history together, however limited, of succumbing occasionally to a physical response, it hadn’t happened for years, and had only oc
curred then when they were both between partners and feeling natural, understandable, utterly human urges for physical closeness with the opposite sex.

That must have been what happened Wednesday, she told herself—and Turner, too. The combination of factors had just overwhelmed her, and she’d looked to him—her best friend in the whole wide world—to help her through a rough patch.

That was her story and she was sticking to it.

And Turner, though wary, had ultimately conceded that maybe she was right. Especially after she told him she had no desire to repeat the episode.

Since Wednesday, there had been no recurrence whatsoever of her aberrant behavior or wayward desires, so her theory—sorta—made sense. Ultimately, Turner thought so, too. Or at least he told her he thought so. At any rate, after talking Thursday morning about what had happened Wednesday evening, both of them had decided it had just been a weird, singular, out-of-character event, and had agreed it wouldn’t happen again.

And it wouldn’t, Becca knew. Because she planned to go out and find herself a man as soon as possible, to scratch whatever itch she was feeling. Donnie, she’d decided. An old boyfriend from a few years ago, from whom she had parted on good terms. She still ran into him from time to time because they both traveled in the same professional circles. She knew he was currently unattached, too. So she would contrive some way to run into him “accidentally,” and then one thing could lead to another, and then the two of them could relieve a little pressure together and go their separate ways in the morning.

First, however, Becca and Turner had to get through
their pitch for the Bluestocking Lingerie people. Which, she noted as she glanced down at her watch, was only about fifteen minutes away.

For this meeting, Becca had succumbed to Robert Englund’s dress code, and had opted for a berry-colored wool suit with a crisp white blouse beneath. The jacket was cropped, however, ending at her waist, and black velvet piping and buttons prevented the suit from being
too
straitlaced. At her throat, she’d fastened a flashy Art Deco, faux-ruby brooch, with dangly earrings to match it.

She didn’t want the Bluestocking people to think she was a dull, joyless stick-in-the-mud who had no appreciation for more sensual pleasures. Frankly, she was still surprised they’d even contacted Englund Advertising, since the company wasn’t known for being hip. Still, the pitch she and Turner had put together definitely was. If Bluestocking didn’t like the campaign, then they weren’t the chic, farsighted, with-it company they were striving hard to be.

So there.

Turner was already seated in the boardroom with their employer when Becca joined the group. Bluestocking had sent three representatives to hear the pitch, the highest-ranking being a raven-haired, red-lipsticked, fortysomething woman in a chic black suit who introduced herself as Donetta Prizzi, VP in charge of marketing. Becca thought she looked bored and difficult to please. And the two guys with her—both much younger and decidedly assigned to the roles of yes-men…or, rather, yes-boys—looked every bit as difficult to impress.

But that was okay. Because what she and Turner had in their corner was sheer dynamite. Inhaling a deep breath and
giving her jacket a good tug, she entered the boardroom with a cheery smile and got down to business.

T
URNER SIGHED SILENTLY
in relief as he took his seat beside Becca once the two of them had concluded their pitch to the Bluestocking people. It had gone even better than he’d thought it would. And they’d
loved
his new slogan, he thought smugly, which was, as Becca had suggested, short and memorable: Blue for You. Englund Advertising had even managed to secure the rights to an 80s pop song by that name to use in the TV spots, something that would hopefully make the women in Bluestocking’s desired demographic of late thirties through late forties feel young and playful—and, with luck, horny as teenagers—again. He had only to look at the expression on Donetta Prizzi’s face to know this account was in the bag.

“You’ve hit on exactly what we want to do with the new line of products,” she said. “We want to take the company in a whole new direction. We want to show the women of today that Bluestocking Lingerie isn’t their mothers’ underwear of yesterday.”

Turner gave himself a mental pat on the back. “I’m glad we were able to create a campaign that does that,” he said. “Naturally, Becca and I are open to suggestions if you have any. Or if we’ve overlooked anything…”

“No, it’s perfect exactly the way it is,” Donetta said. “I wouldn’t change a thing.” She glanced at the two suits who had been sitting so obsequiously and obediently—and silently—on each side of her during the presentation, then back at Turner. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d be very comfortable going with the campaign you’ve presented. Naturally, though, I can only make the recommen
dation. The final decision will rest with others. In any event, we’ll definitely get back to you early next week.”

Each of the suits nodded once, wordlessly, and Turner’s relief was complete.

Until he felt Becca’s stocking foot nudging his under the table in a way that was infinitely more affectionate than he’d ever known her to be.

No, he told himself as a puddle of heat seeped into his belly. No, no, no, no, no. Nuh-uh. No way. No how.
La. Hayir. Oh-chee.
She was
not
coming on to him again. For God’s sake, they were sitting in a room with a half-dozen other people! She was only giving him a little congratulations nudge under the table, since it was looking pretty obvious that they’d won the account. He was just jumpy because of what had happened Wednesday night. But Becca had explained all that—well, kind of—and they’d both agreed it wouldn’t happen again. Or, at least, she had. Becca was only—

Rubbing her stocking foot up the length of his calf now. Slowly. Sensuously. Seductively.

No.
Mai chai. Bu. Bukan.
There was nothing sexual in what she was doing. She was just—

Putting her hand on his knee and giving it a little squeeze.

She was only—

Inching her fingers up to his thigh.

She was just—

Moving her hand forward, between his legs.

She was—

Pushing her hand against his cock and palming it hard.

“Ms. Prizzi,” Turner said suddenly, jumping up from his chair with enough force to send it scuttling backward, slamming into the wall behind him.

Every eye in the room fell on him, and, belatedly, Turner realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. Except for maybe “Becca, get your hand off my dick,” which, just a shot in the dark here, probably wouldn’t go over too well with the clients.

“Yes, Mr. McCloud?” Ms. Prizzi asked. And right when the word
dick
was going through his head, too, wouldn’t you know it, which sorta threw Turner for a minute.

“I, um, I, uh, I’m glad you liked the presentation,” he finally managed to stammer.

Fortunately—not to mention miraculously—Donetta Prizzi didn’t even seem to notice he’d suddenly turned into a raging idiot. “Oh, I liked it very much indeed, Mr. McCloud.”

She turned her attention to Becca then, obviously wanting to include her in the praise, but when she did her smile fell some. Turner told himself to look at Becca, but he honestly feared what he would see when he did.

Forcing his gaze in her direction, he saw that she had given him her full and undivided attention, and was completely ignoring the woman who was promising to be their newest—and most important—client. Worse than that, the look on Becca’s face made clear what kind of mood she was in, and it was totally inappropriate for the workplace. Well, he amended, for any workplace that didn’t involve the oldest profession, at any rate.

“Uh…” he began eloquently.

“Turner,” Becca whispered. Loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear her. “I need to talk to you. Outside.”

He closed his eyes, stole a few seconds to pretend he was in the Bahamas with a beautiful beach bunny named Mindy, then opened them again. Without looking at Becca, he said quietly, “Can’t it wait?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. Vehemently. “No,” she told him, still whispering. Loudly. “It’s really, really important. I need you right
now
.”

“Mercer,” Robert Englund boomed, his tone of voice considerably less tolerant than Turner’s had been. In fact, it was his don’t-even-
think-
about-it voice, which no one in their right mind at Englund Advertising would mess around with. “It can wait.”

“No, it can’t,” Becca immediately replied, her tone of voice, amazingly, even more terse than their employer’s. “Excuse me, Mr. Englund, but you know, you don’t always know everything, you know. You know?”

Englund’s snowy eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline at that, but he said nothing. Probably, Turner thought, he was too busy composing Becca’s letter of dismissal in his head to be bothered with something so mundane as a reply to her suicidal comments.

She really wasn’t long for this world, never mind this job, if she didn’t shut up. So, not wanting her to risk her career any more than she already had—since, hey, it would be much better if
he
risked
both
their careers, right?— Turner murmured a hasty, “Excuse us for a minute,” grabbed Becca by the hand and hurried them both out of the boardroom.