Indecent Suggestion - By Elizabeth Bevarly Page 0,31

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….”

TURNER 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