Indecent Suggestion (17 page)

For long moments, he just watched her caress herself, becoming aroused as much by her facial expressions as by the movements of her hand. Because with each new stroke of her fingers against her pink, wet flesh, her face changed, color blooming on her cheeks, her teeth nipping at her lower lip, her tongue darting out to touch one corner of her mouth before disappearing again. And the sounds she made…

No longer able to tolerate even the small distance separating them, Turner knelt on the floor in front of her and gently pulled her hand away, kissing each fingertip in turn, sucking the middle one deep into his mouth to savor the taste of her that lingered there. She smiled as she watched him settle her hand to the side, then place both of his, palm out, against the insides of her thighs. And then he dipped his head toward the place she had just been touching, pushing her legs wider, opening his mouth against the melting core of her.

Again and again he licked her, laved her, loved her, teasing her first with the tip of his tongue, then tasting her with broad, flat strokes. Becca sighed and groaned with each new caress, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him closer still.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Turner. Don’t stop. I’m so close. Please. Don’t stop.”

He hurried the motions of his tongue then, his head nodding as he took the strokes high and low, growing more and more intoxicated on the scent and sound and taste of her. Her hips bucked against him, and he shoved his hands beneath the lower curves of her firm ass, lifting her closer to his mouth so that he could penetrate her now with his tongue. Over and over, he pleasured her that way, feeling the muscles in her buttocks tightening and straining as her need for satisfaction grew more intolerable. And then, suddenly, with a cry of outrageous exhilaration, she pushed herself upward one final time, her orgasm complete.

Turner moved his mouth to the insides of her thighs, kissing the hot, silky flesh there, dragging his tongue down to her knee and back again. The fingers tangled in his hair relaxed some, but her breathing came in ragged, irregular gasps for some moments more. Then she moved her hands to his shoulders, pulling him forward, a silent invitation to join her on the couch.

Just as he sat beside her, though, she dropped down to the floor, situating herself between his legs. She reached for his stiff rod, closing her fingers over the base of him, and bent her head to draw him toward her mouth. Just the sight of her slight fingers over his aroused flesh made him want to topple her flat on the floor and bury himself inside her. Before he had the chance, though, she touched the head of his shaft to her lower lip and darted her tongue out to taste him, and he stilled.

She was tentative at first, circling the head of his cock with the flat of her tongue, her fingers scooting up and down his shaft as if she wanted to explore every inch of him. Then she ducked her head lower, drawing him com
pletely into her mouth, sucking him as she circled the sensitive hood with her tongue again.

“Oh, Becca,” he half said, half groaned. “Oh, yeah…”

Emboldened by his reaction, she moved her fingers up and down him again, a delicious sort of friction that sent shock waves through his entire system. She bobbed her head slowly up and down, consuming more of him with each motion, until he felt the head of his shaft pressed hotly against the roof of her mouth. The pressure of her suction was agonizingly sweet, and her fingers wreaked havoc as they dipped between his legs to cup the rest of him in her palm. When she pulled his rod slowly from her mouth, he started to object, but the words were halted when she nipped the head lightly with her teeth, then laved the scant wound with her tongue.

She repeated the action a dozen more times, and each time, Turner cried out at the keen sensations that knifed through him. Finally, when he knew he was close to coming, he threaded his fingers into her hair and gently pulled her head away. And when she looked up at him, puzzled, her eyes so dark, so full of passion, he was very nearly overcome.

“I want to be inside you,” he told her. “I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.”

She nodded silently and rose, but where he had been ready to move from the sofa and lay her on her back, she instead hooked one leg over both of his, straddling him. Gripping his shoulders, she moved herself over his straining shaft, then eased down slowly until he was deep inside her. Her position brought her breasts conveniently to the level of his face, and he eagerly leaned forward, sucking one rosy nipple deep into his mouth.

She began to move then, so he settled his hands on her waist to help her along, thrusting deeply into her, filling his mouth with her breast. As their pace quickened, so did Becca’s cries, until with one final outburst, she settled herself hard in his lap. At the same time, Turner exploded inside her, filling her with his hot response as she spilled her own over him.

But their satisfaction was short-lived, because less than an hour later, Becca was at the center of the bed again, positioned on all fours at Turner’s request, and he was kneeling behind her.

“Spread your legs more,” he said roughly.

Becca did as he instructed, planting her knees farther apart on the bed, glancing back to watch him as he knelt between her legs.

“That’s good,” he said as he leaned over her.

He pressed his mouth to her ass, brushing his parted lips over the sensitive flesh, palming her, squeezing her, nipping her gently with his teeth. He cupped both hands over the breasts swinging beneath her, lifting them, separating them, squeezing them. Then he dipped his head between her legs and tongued her wet flesh, tracing with his finger the line bisecting her ass from where it began at the small of her back, down to that part of her that was so wet and ready for him.

Oh, Becca thought as he completed the action. Oh, it felt so good. The slow circular motion of his tongue against her clitoris was exquisite. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the languid, liquid sensations pouring through her, held her body completely still to let Turner go wherever he wanted to go next.

Where he wanted to go was inside her. Because he slid
his tongue into the damp, heated opening between her legs and pushed it inside her, moving it in and out in a slow, methodical fashion that left her feeling anything but slow or methodical.

“Oh,” she said aloud this time. “Oh, that feels so good….”

“It’s about to get better,” he told her.

And before she could ask why, he was working his body under hers, positioning it in the opposite direction, so that his head was still between her legs, and her head…

Oh, my. What a prize she saw beneath her, situated perfectly for her to enjoy. Still bracing herself on all fours, she dipped her head down and covered Turner’s shaft with her mouth, circling its tip with her tongue, exerting varying amounts of pressure as she drew him in and out. Vaguely, she heard him groan, the sound vibrating his tongue against her overly sensitized flesh, something that made her moan in response, inadvertently increasing his pleasure, too.

For long moments, they pleasured each other that way, their bodies jerking in time with their mouths, their passion rising with each new touch. But when Becca felt close to coming, she lifted her head from him and scooted forward, straddling Turner’s middle, positioning herself over his thrusting rod. Her back to him, she lowered herself over him just as he settled his hands on her hips, and he filled her so full, he nearly split her in two. She bent forward a little to ease the pressure some, then decided she liked the pressure and straightened her body again. His hands on her hips clenched tighter and he bucked his hips upward, embedding himself even deeper inside her. Becca cried out, moving her hands to the twin spheres between his legs, something that made him buck upward again.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered. “Do that again.”

With great enthusiasm, he did as she told him, jerking his body upward again and again. Never in her life had Becca felt so complete. Never had she joined herself so completely to a man. In that moment, she could almost believe that she and Turner had fused into one being and that they would never be separated again. And then that keen, familiar sensation of pleasure began to coil tighter inside her, and she ceased thinking at all. After that, she could only feel. Turner inside her. Turner beneath her. Turner filling her hands, her body, her heart, and so much more.

With one final upward thrust, he felt as if he was deeper inside her than he had ever been before—physically, emotionally, in every way he could be—and he filled her up as he came. But after a moment, she felt him relax, and he withdrew from her—physically, at least. She turned and collapsed alongside him, opening her hand on his chest, loving the way his ragged heartbeat buffeted her palm.

She wanted to tell him something very important, but a deep, narcotic fatigue was trying to overtake her. It was right there at the very fringe of her brain, though, what she wanted to say, right there at the edge of her soul, pushing out of her heart. She wanted, no, needed, for him to know it. It was absolutely essential that he know how she felt.

“Turner…” she began softly. But her eyelids fluttered closed, and she gave in to the liquid, languid satisfaction purling through her body.

“What?” she heard him say, as if from a very great distance.

“Turner…” She tried again. “I think I…”

But that was as far as she got. She never quite made the
words leave her mouth, never quite said them aloud. So she never quite told him she was pretty sure she’d fallen in love with him.

A
S
T
URNER EXITED THE
jeweler’s shop on Main Street, he was clutching a little red bag that held a ring of which he was confident Becca would approve. He had looked at it before—several times, in fact—and had fantasized often about coming back to buy it for her. Now, like so many of his other fantasies of late, this one was a reality, too.

The ring was perfect for her. A single, flawless, square-cut white diamond—one carat, since she would consider anything larger than that too ostentatious—nestled in a filigreed white-gold setting. It was at once modern and old-fashioned, splashy and elegant, familiar and extraordinary. Just like Becca. Turner was thinking as he left the shop how much she was going to love the ring.

And he was thinking, too, about how much he loved Becca.

He had left her sleeping in his bed an hour ago, had snuck out without waking her, because he didn’t want her to know where he was going. He’d stolen a moment to watch her sleep, and to think about how much—and how often—they’d enjoyed each other in the week following The Great Boardroom Caper. And even before that. The other times they’d made love, when they’d been so uncertain about the way their relationship had changed.

And even before
that
. Back before they’d become sexually involved. When they’d still been friends—but not. Because thinking back, Turner realized they’d always been a bit more than friends, even if they hadn’t quite been lovers. They’d meant more to each other than most friends did, even friends who’d grown up together. They had a connection unlike any other, and it spanned decades.

Love, he realized now. That was what it was. That was what it had always been. Because he did love Becca. He had always loved Becca. He’d probably fallen in love with her in the first grade, before he’d even really understood what love was. Then again, maybe at that age kids had an even better understanding of love than grown-ups did—it was something pure and simple, something given without conditions or limits, something that would last forever. That would explain a lot about why Turner had never been able to love anyone except Becca.

But it was different now. It had changed in the last few weeks. Because now he understood that Becca loved him, too.

Oh, maybe neither one of them had said those three little words to each other yet. But they’d shown each other how they felt in infinite ways over the past month, many times. Nobody could make love with the abandon and abundance that they did unless there were some serious feelings involved. And nobody could enjoy it as much as they had unless the feelings involved were love. On both sides. Given and received. And last night, as she’d fallen asleep in his arms, she’d started to tell him something, something she’d seemed to be trying very hard to get out. And somehow Turner knew—he wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he
knew
—she had been about to tell him she loved him.

Everything was perfect now. Everything was exactly as it should be. Or, at least, it would be. Today. After he got home. After he asked her what he wanted to ask her. And after she said yes.

He couldn’t wait to tell her—and
show
her—how much he loved her. And he couldn’t wait for them to start planning the rest of their lives together.

A consummate, absolute happiness wound through him as he thought about that. And so warm did his thoughts make him that he barely noticed the wicked wintry day into which he had walked. In response to the cold wind that whipped around him, he only jerked up the collar of his black wool coat and tugged on his black leather gloves. Below-freezing temperatures were nothing to him in his current state. He had thoughts of Becca and the life he wanted to build with her to keep him nice and toasty. He even smiled at the big, fat, furiously falling snowflakes, and silently bade them to continue, until they piled so high in the city that he and Becca would have an excuse to blow off work next week and spend it together in bed.

Naked, save for the square-cut, one-carat, filigreed-set diamond on her left ring finger.

Tonight, he thought. He would pop the question tonight. First he’d cook for her. Steaks, since he did those better than anyone in Indianapolis. Filet mignon, yeah. And he had a really nice bottle of pinot noir he’d been hoarding for a while now, waiting for a special occasion. What could be more special than asking the woman you loved to join her life to yours forever and ever and ever?

Man, he’d turned into a romantic sap over the last month, he thought, his smile feeling goofy as it curled his lips. And damned if he wasn’t enjoying every minute of it.

Still thinking about Becca and the way she looked and sounded and smelled, and the way she was going to light up all over when she saw the ring, he almost didn’t hear the feminine cries of “Turner! Oh, Turner! Hello! Turner!” until he had almost stumbled right over a slender woman in a gray wool coat, with a black beret perched atop her head.

It took him a moment to identify her, so wrapped up was he in his thoughts of—and plans for—Becca. But eventually, the woman’s face registered in his muddled brain and he recognized her as the Amazing Dorcaso…uh, he meant Dorcas Upton, of course. The hypnotherapist he and Becca had seen weeks earlier.

“Oh, hi,” he said as he reached out a hand to steady her. “Dorcas, right? How are you doing?”

“I was just going to ask you the same question,” she told him.

She met Turner’s gaze levelly and smiled what he could only call a “knowing” smile. What she might know that he didn’t, however, he couldn’t have said.

“How are you and Becca doing?” she asked.

He shrugged philosophically. “Actually, Dorcas, I have to be honest with you. The session Becca and I had with you didn’t work for us at all.”

The hypnotherapist’s smile fell. “Oh, dear. The two of you still aren’t making love?”

“Oh, we’re making love,” he said enthusiastically, without thinking. “All the time, in fact. We just never quit smoking.” Then the gist of her question hit him, and he frowned. “Wait a minute. Why did you ask me that? That was a really personal question.”

She eyed him with confusion. “Turner, why did you and your wife make an appointment with me?”

“Becca’s not my wife,” he said, feeling even more puzzled.
Well, not yet, anyway,
he added to himself. But he didn’t want to break the news to anyone just yet. In spite of the humongous strides forward his relationship with Becca had made, the two of them would probably need some time to get used to the idea of being married themselves before revealing their intentions to anyone else.

Now Dorcas eyed him with something akin to horror, and Turner grew downright bewildered. He was about to ask her if there was something wrong, but she spoke again before he could put voice to the question, asking him a question of her own. But it didn’t make any more sense than the one about Becca being his wife did.

“Turner, what’s your last name?”

She should already know that, he thought. And even if she didn’t remember it, what difference did it make now? In spite of his confusion, however, he told her, “McCloud. Why?”

“And Becca’s last name?” she asked without answering.

“Mercer.”

The color went right out of Dorcas’s face then, and her eyes fluttered closed and stayed that way for a moment. Turner honestly feared she was about to faint, and was relieved when she opened her eyes again. But her color was still off, as if she were becoming gravely ill about something.

“And why did the two of you make an appointment with me?” she asked again.

Oh, now, she really ought to know that, he thought. It couldn’t have been more than a month ago that he and Becca had gone to see her. If she recognized him in a crowded street and remembered his first name, she should certainly recall the circumstances of their initial meeting.

“To quit smoking,” he told her.

Her mouth fell open, but no words emerged.

Turner’s puzzlement turned into something else then, something he didn’t want to put a name to, but something that felt very much like fear. “Why are you asking me this stuff?” he asked. “What the hell is going on?”

Instead of answering him, though, she only muttered, very softly, “Oh, dear.”

“Dorcas?” Turner prodded.

“Tell me something, Turner,” she began again, still offering him no explanation for her line of questioning.

“I’ve already told you a lot of somethings,” he pointed out, biting back his irritation. He didn’t like it when people played games with him. Especially when he didn’t know the rules they were playing by. “But you’re not telling me what
I
want to know.”

She ignored his comment. “Were you and Becca sexually involved before coming to see me?”

“No,” he answered without thinking. “We were just friends.” Well, Becca was just friends, he amended to himself. Dorcas didn’t have to know anything more about that. She didn’t have to know about any of this. None of this was her business. So why was she going on about it?

“But you are sexually involved now,” she said.

He nodded, still not sure why he was continuing with the conversation.

“And when did that begin?” she asked.

He thought back. That first time Becca had tried to get jiggy with him had been during the week before they made their pitch to win the Bluestocking Lingerie account, he recalled. Which had also been the week they saw Dorcas. Yeah, that was right. In fact, that first time happened the
day after their session with Dorcas. Hmm. How about that? What a coinci—

No. No, no, no, no, no, he thought.
Nein. Nyet.
No way, José. The two events couldn’t possibly be related. That was just nuts.

In spite of that, he told her, “The first time happened the day after our session with you.”

She closed her eyes again, but this time color flooded her face.

“Dorcas?” Turner asked warily. “Is there something wrong?”

She sighed and opened her eyes again. “I’m afraid so.”

And there was something about a hypnotherapist one hadn’t quite trusted, but whom one had seen reluctantly anyway, telling one there was something wrong that sent a cold shiver down one’s spine.

“Dorcas,” he said softly, making himself voice the question to which he was pretty sure he didn’t want to know the answer, “did you try to help me and Becca quit smoking?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she shook her head. “No. I mistook you for an earlier appointment who I now realize never showed up. At the time, I thought my quit-smoking appointment was the no-show. Now, however, I realize that was you and Becca. You arrived early for your appointment, didn’t you?”

Wordlessly, Turner nodded.

In response, Dorcas only looked more concerned.

He eyed her warily. “And this earlier appointment you mistook us for,” he said. “What was it they wanted to be hypnotized for?”

Dorcas hesitated again, then, very softly, very slowly, she told him, “They were a newlywed couple. And they
were having problems with…” She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. “They were having problems with…consummating their marriage.”

“Meaning?” Turner asked, a sick feeling rolling into his belly.

“They were having trouble getting over their shyness and inhibitions about making love. Three weeks after their wedding, they still hadn’t had sex. They wanted me to hypnotize them and help them get over their inhibitions.”

Turner was certain he must have misunderstood. How could anyone need to be hypnotized for something so lame? “I’m sorry?” he said. “Could you say that again?”

“Although this couple had been married for weeks,” Dorcas repeated, “they weren’t able to have sex because they were both too modest and fearful about the sex act.”

Turner let that sink in for a minute, then said, “And you helped them—or, at least the people you thought were them, which were actually me and Becca—get over that modesty and fear?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And how did you do that, Dorcas?”

She inhaled another one of those deep breaths, again exhaling it slowly. “By planting a posthypnotic suggestion in both of you that every time you heard a certain word, you would be overcome with sexual desire for each other, and that you would have no fears or inhibitions about the frequency or adventurousness of sex.”

This time it was Turner’s eyes that fluttered closed, as he was hit by a barrage of realizations he really didn’t want to face. “And what word was that?” he asked.

“Underwear,” Dorcas told him.

“Underwear,” he repeated. A word that had come up
often once he and Becca had landed the Bluestocking Lingerie account. Right after seeing Dorcas Upton.

Oh, God…

“Are you telling me,” he said, amazed he could even find his voice, let alone string words together, “that the only reason Becca and I have been making love this past month is because we both keep hearing the word
underwear
?”

It was a dumb question. Turner knew the answer before Dorcas even gave it to him. Or, at least, part of the answer.
He
hadn’t been making love to Becca because of any word he heard.
He’d
been making love with Becca because he loved her. Completely and irrevocably. Till death do him part. But Becca…

He tried to remember what was going on that first time she’d come on to him with such surprising enthusiasm. It had been that evening in her cubicle, when they were working on the pitch for Bluestocking. What had he said just before she unbuttoned her blouse and dumped herself into his lap? What had they been talking about?

Think, Turner, think…

The slogan, he remembered. They’d been trying to come up with a slogan, and they hadn’t been having any luck. And he’d been tired and irritable, and he’d been about to give up. And then he’d said… What had he said…? Something about how he couldn’t believe they were going to so much trouble just to sell some dumb lingerie. No, wait. Not
dumb
. He’d used the word
stupid
. And not
lingerie
, either. He’d said he couldn’t believe they were going to so much trouble just to sell some stupid
underwear
.