Indecent Suggestion - By Elizabeth Bevarly Page 0,10

to ignore his stiffness elsewhere. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair in an effort to rouse himself.

Coffee, he thought. That was what he needed most. Well, maybe second most, he amended as he pushed himself up to standing. What he needed most was fast asleep in his bed—without him. And even if she wasn’t fast asleep, she’d still be oblivious to his feelings for her.

Automatically, he moved in the general direction of his kitchen and went about making coffee. And he tried to make as much noise as he could, so Becca would be jolted awake—hey, why should she wake up feeling good when he was going to feel like hell all day? But he never heard a sound of stirring. Obviously, she slept like a rock, too.

He inhaled a deep lungful of the coffee as it was brewing, and that fortified him enough to find his way to his bedroom. The door was standing half-open, so he peeked inside. Then he immediately wished he hadn’t. Because not only was Becca still sleeping soundly in his bed without him, she had kicked the covers down to the foot. And although what she chose to sleep in was in no way sexy—a shapeless, long-sleeved nightshirt imprinted with nauseatingly cute cats wearing nauseatingly cute nightshirts—it was bunched up around her waist, so that her sweet ass, encased in soft red cotton, was right there in plain sight, as were the delectable thighs Turner had spent many nights fantasizing about burying his head between.

His libido launched into the lambada just looking at those loins.

And it actively annoyed him how he was always alliterative when aroused.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight to block out Becca’s bodacious butt, something that only made the image more graphic. Probably because closing his eyes enabled him to start fantasizing. And since the object of his fantasies was right smack in the middle of his reality, not to mention oblivious to the fact that she was frequently front and center—especially her front and center—in his fantasies, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. So he opened his eyes again, just in time to see the object of his fantasies—and her bodacious butt—beginning to stir.

He told himself to duck out before she caught him staring at her like a lovesick teenager. But he couldn’t make himself move away from the door. Mostly because Becca chose that moment to roll over onto her back and propel herself into a full-body stretch, something that made her nightshirt ride up even higher. It also had her gripping the wooden spools of his headboard with both fists as she spread her legs toward the lower corners of the mattress.

And oh, God, did that make him want to do things he knew he shouldn’t want to do. Not with his best friend who didn’t return his feelings. Call him crazy, but Becca might be a little alarmed if he hurtled himself onto the bed, pulled down her panties, buried his head between her legs and ate his fill of her while penetrating her with his fingers.

Of course, he pondered further, that would probably go a long way toward finally waking her up….

He must have made some sound that reflected his yearning, because she suddenly stopped stretching and looked toward the bedroom door. “Good morning,” she said with a sleepy smile.

“Afternoon, you mean,” he corrected her. That much, at least, he would concede. It was afternoon. It just wasn’t necessarily good. Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he smiled back and added lightly, “I see England, I see France.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in confusion. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite as awake as she seemed.

“I see Becca’s underpants,” he added for clarification.

She glanced down, then hastily back up at Turner. And for one delirious second, he thought—hoped—that instead of rearranging her clothes, she was going to ask him in a silky, seductive voice why didn’t he come on over there to see even more of Europe. There was just something in her eyes—okay, so obviously she was still half-asleep—that made him think she was as hot and bothered at the moment as he was. Then whatever had sizzled between them was gone—if it had ever been there to begin with—and she began to tug her nightshirt back down, over England, over France, over her sweet ass.

“Uh…sorry,” she said as she awkwardly completed the action.

Not me, Turner wanted to reply. But he said nothing, not trusting what he might say—among