Indecent Suggestion - By Elizabeth Bevarly Page 0,37

we’re finished here,” he assured her.

He thought she would turn away then and make her way toward the elevators at the end of the hall, but she hesitated, her eyes meeting his, her pupils growing dark.

“What?” he asked warily.

“I just need for you to touch me once,” she told him. “That will get me through until you get to my place.”

“Becca, there are people waiting for me,” he reminded her.

“And I’ve been waiting for you a lot longer. Please,” she begged. “Just once. Just touch me one time.”

Knowing it was the only way he’d make—dammit—her leave, Turner lifted a hand toward her face. But she lifted her own hand before he made contact, circling his wrist with sure fingers.

“Not there,” she whispered, much more softly than she had earlier in the boardroom.

And as he watched, she drew both their hands downward, past her shoulder, past her breasts, past her waist. With her free hand, she hiked up her short skirt, until he saw that titillating flash of flesh between stocking and garter again. Pink this time. She took a step to the side, opening her legs, and moved their hands between her thighs. Turner swallowed hard, but did nothing to halt or slow the movement.

“There,” she said with a sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as she pushed his fingers against her wet panties. Her mouth stayed open, even after she’d spoken the word, and her tongue came out to trace the line of her full lips. “Oh, Turner,” she gasped as she moved his fingers harder against her. “Oh, that feels so good.”

With her free hand, she pulled aside the scrap of silk and rubbed his fingers into her damp flesh, something that made Turner want to forget the job and everything else and just take her right here in the hallway, after all. But Becca withdrew his hand and shoved her skirt back down over her thighs, and the sensation ebbed. It exploded again, though, when she lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed each of the fingers that had touched her, one by leisurely one, sucking hard on his middle finger before finally releasing him. It was all Turner could do not to drop his trousers right there and turn her around and take her, up against the wall outside Englund Advertising, the rest of the world be damned.

As he visualized himself doing just that—and, ironically, trying to quell the erection pushing against his fly at the same time—Becca rose up on tiptoe again and pressed her mouth to his once, briefly, hotly, surely, long enough for him to taste a hint of her damp response on her own lips. Then she moved her mouth to his ear, murmured one word—“Hurry”—and turned toward the elevators at the end of the hall.

Turner watched her go, every nerve in his body screaming for him to follow her. But he forced himself to stay put, and thought about whatever he could to cool his aroused status. Glaciers crashing into the north Atlantic. A big bowl of slush. Hail the size of golf balls down his trousers. Salmon swimming up an icy stream. Ethel Merman in a thong bikini.

Oh, yeah. That did it.

Then he inhaled a few deep, fortifying breaths and returned to the scene of the crime.

When he arrived back in the boardroom, it was clear that the meeting was breaking up. Whatever Englund had done to mend the situation, it had worked, because Donetta Prizzi and her yes-boys were looking very happy and at ease, and there was much shaking of hands and patting on the backs going around for everyone. Even Turner’s reappearance didn’t put a damper on the mood.

His boss, however, was understandably curious about Becca’s absence. “What happened to Mercer?” he asked when Turner rejoined the group.

“I, uh, I sent her home,” he said. “She was burning up with fever, so I told her to go home and go to bed.” And he congratulated himself for telling the truth. Becca had indeed been burning up with fever. And it was precisely the kind of fever that traditionally sent people to bed. Just, you know, not alone. And not to get any rest. “She wasn’t feeling all that great this morning when she came in to work,” he added, knowing he was skirting the truth now, but not much caring. “I think that’s why she seemed a little, um, off.”

“Off?” Donetta Prizzi echoed dubiously. Then she grinned, one of those knowing, woman grins that make men want