she’d always considered her best friend, the one man she had always vowed she would not have sex with. And not just once had this happened, but twice now. To the point where she had endangered not only her relationship with Turner, but her job—and his, too. How had such a thing happened?
Stress, she told herself instantly as she pushed herself to sitting and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Even as she uttered the explanation to herself, though, she knew it was pretty lame. But what else could it be? People reacted to stressful situations in different ways—often in ways that were so not beneficial, and sometimes in ways that were downright self-destructive. Some people drank. Some people smoked. Some overate. Some became irritable. Some bit their nails.
Some had sex?
Was that really possible? Becca wondered as she rose from her bed and made her way toward the front door, where Turner was still pounding away. Did people actually use sex as an outlet when they were under a lot of pressure? She’d always thought that was just some lame excuse used by arrogant, promiscuous politicians who got caught sleeping around. Male politicians, at that. Women seemed to be above that sort of thing. Whenever women got stressed out, they were supposed to eat chocolate and buy shoes, not throw themselves shamelessly at the nearest warm body. Women were the ones who were supposed to be in control of their baser instincts. It was just one of the many things to feel smug about when compared to men.
But Wednesday night, she’d been stressed-out trying to put the finishing touches on the pitch. This morning, she’d been stressed out because of having to give the pitch. Maybe on both occasions she’d just been on the verge of exploding—emotionally, she meant—because of the demands of her job. And because of that, she’d needed an outlet. In both situations she’d been unable to light up a cigarette because both times, she’d been in the office. And when her usual calming ritual had been denied her, she’d had to turn to another one. A sexual response to Turner.
In a weird way, it kind of made sense. Because Becca and Turner always smoked together, she must have decided on some subconscious level that being with him was a way to relieve tension. And since she hadn’t been able to smoke with him on those two occasions, maybe on that same subconscious level, she’d decided that having sex with him would be the next best thing.
Hey, it could happen.
Because the minute she’d hit the street after leaving the meeting this morning, she’d lit a cigarette. And she’d enjoyed another on the drive home. And by the time she’d arrived at her apartment, she’d felt a little better, a little calmer. But she’d still been turned on, she recalled, and she’d still been looking forward to Turner’s arrival. So much so that she’d taken off her work clothes and replaced them with a lacy nightie and robe set that was virtually see-through. She glanced down at the set, which she still wore, and felt herself blush. She’d actually planned on answering the door to him wearing that and nothing else, and she’d fully intended to remove them again right after he walked in. But now…
Now, she didn’t want to. Because she’d finished another cigarette when she got home, then had lain down to wait for Turner, and evidently fallen asleep. Between the cigarettes and the nap—not to mention the conclusion of the pitch to the Bluestocking people—her stress level had plummeted and the pressure had disappeared. And now that the pressure was off, so was her libido. The last thing she wanted to do at the moment was have sex with Turner.
That had to be it, she told herself again. It had to be the pressure and stress of the job. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t…
How was she going to explain that to Turner, though? she asked herself without completing that last thought. Turner, who stood on the other side of the door whose knob she was holding and was about to turn? Uh, the door’s knob, not Turner’s, since turning his knob would totally negate everything she’d just said to herself. She’d had enough trouble trying to explain away her aberrant behavior of Wednesday night. She still wasn’t sure he’d bought it. Now she’d have to do it a second time.
But then, he’d done his best to fight her off