Indecent Suggestion

And when he realized he was seeing what he thought he saw, he could only sit staring openmouthed at the vision.

Becca had emerged from his bedroom wearing nothing but his old college football jersey and a pair of kneesocks.

Never mind that the jersey fell to midthigh on her and covered everything that needed to be covered. That was beside the point. The point was that the outfit his best friend had on was the one she always wore in his second-favorite sexual fantasy about her, the one where she got stranded at his apartment in a snowstorm, and all she had to wear was the very thing she had on now.

“I hope you don’t mind me borrowing some clothes,” Becca said. “This is the only thing you have that’s big enough to cover my, um…my assets,” she added with a sheepish grin.

The minute she said it, Turner was helpless to do anything but look at her…assets. And as his gaze roved over her from the top of the silky hair he longed to run his fingers through to the tips of the kneesock-clad toes he wanted to suck, he was nearly overcome with a sexual urge unlike any he had ever experienced before.

Dear Reader,

I once overheard two women talking (oh, all right, I was
eavesdropping
on them) and one said to the other, “I was making love with him, and all of a sudden I wanted to burst out laughing. I was horrified!” To which I responded by thinking,
You’re not supposed to laugh while you’re having sex? Uh-oh…
I just don’t see why sex and laughter have to be mutually exclusive.

So with
Indecent Suggestion,
I tried to show how much
fun
sexual attractions can be. Yeah, there’s steam and heat and all that stuff when that certain someone revs your motor, but there should be laughter, too.

I hope Turner and Becca bring you a chuckle as you read about them (and a little steam and heat, too).

Have fun!

Elizabeth Bevarly

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

“W
E HAVE TO STOP THIS
,
Turner.”

Becca Mercer whispered the warning inside the dark storage closet where she and her co-worker had escaped from the drudgery of their jobs to enjoy their dirty little secret in private. But even as they basked in the afterglow of their illicit act, she knew what she was saying was pointless. It wouldn’t be long before their sordid desires roared to life again. Those desires—nay, those
needs
—seemed to have lives of their own. For now, though, she lay back and relaxed, closing her eyes to better enjoy the pure satisfaction that curled through her.

She wouldn’t trade anything for these stolen moments with Turner. And she was so lucky to have someone like him, someone whose appetite for such forbidden behavior were as relentless as her own. With his blue, blue eyes and unruly black hair, he was wanted by many women. Leisurely, sensuously, she ran a hand through her own shoulder-length, tawny tresses, loving how the scent of their recent act still lingered there.

They often met in the tiny, cramped closet at the end of the hall, whenever the pull of their shared passion was too much to resist. Out of nowhere, the two of them would glance up from their cubicles opposite each other in the of
fices of Englund Advertising, and their gazes would meet, and they’d know they had to get in a quickie
now
. Sometimes, especially if they were working under the strains of a deadline, they’d have to escape to this closet three, four, even five times a day. That was how desperate they became.

“We have to stop sneaking around this way,” she added softly, knowing it was true, even if she dreaded putting a halt to their workday trysts. “What if someone catches us? What if someone finds out what we’ve been doing?”

“What if someone does?” Turner whispered in reply. “I’m tired of hiding it, anyway. We’re consenting adults, Becca. We’re responding to a natural impulse, that’s all.”

“It’s not natural,” she countered. “Not when it’s as strong as this. And we’re not responding to it, we’re…we’re
succumbing
to it. What happens to us is way too powerful to be a simple response.”

He murmured a satisfied sound and nudged her knowingly. “Yeah, and that’s just the way I like it, baby.”

“But we have to
stop,
” she insisted again. “It could cost us our jobs. And it could hurt us both in our personal lives. It’s getting dangerous.”

“It may be getting dangerous,” he agreed, “but you can’t stop any more than I can. We’ve tried, Becca. You know we have. But we always end up doing it again. It’s consumed us ever since that first time when we were teenagers. There’s no way we can stop. We’re both insatiable.”

True enough, she thought. Because she knew Turner McCloud as well as she knew herself. They’d become friends in first grade, when their shared last initial had landed them close together in classroom seating arrangements. And they’d discovered an immediate connection when both brought peanut butter and banana samwidges
in their identical
Star Wars
lunch boxes. Year after year, thanks to the popularity and convenience of alphabetization, they’d ended up together, and over the years, their friendship grew.

Frustrated as teenagers by the restraints and conventions of small-town Indiana life, they’d experienced the usual adolescent flirtations with wild behavior. But one behavior in particular captured and enraptured them, and they’d enjoyed it as often as they could. Knowing they shouldn’t, they’d nevertheless been unable to resist. But they’d told no one about it, fearful others would try to make them stop. After high school, they’d attended Indiana University together and, away from parental supervision, discovered their compulsion only grew. As adults, they’d found work in Indianapolis just so they could stay together, and in an urban environment more tolerant of such things, they’d found innumerable ways and places to indulge their desires.

Unfortunately, their workplace wasn’t one of them.

However, that didn’t keep them from indulging here.

“Remember the first time?” Turner asked now, his voice slicing through the darkness the way it had that first night they’d been so overcome as teenagers. His voice became more rushed, more agitated as he added, “It was so forbidden, and we knew we shouldn’t. Everybody warned us about the dangers, told us we were too young, and we wouldn’t be able to handle it. But we more than handled it, didn’t we, Becca?” he murmured enthusiastically. “And it was so
good
that first time, we had to do it again right away. Hell, you were even more anxious to do it than I was. Remember?”

Her eyes still closed, she let the memories of that first time wash over her. They’d been juniors in high school, and
had wanted to escape the goody-two-shoes punch and cookies and pop music at the homecoming dance. After driving around for an hour, they’d parked on the banks of the Ohio River and climbed into the back seat of Turner’s red Camaro. A full moon had glistened on the water, a cool breeze had rushed through the open windows and they’d both been edgy and eager. One thing had led to another, and then, suddenly… Well, suddenly, they’d been caught in the throes of the most pleasurable sensations either had ever experienced.

“You bet I remember,” she whispered. “It
was
good, wasn’t it? Most people say that first time isn’t enjoyable. A lot of people have trouble with it. But you and me…”

She didn’t have to finish. She knew Turner would remember as well as she did. Everything had worked like a well-oiled machine that night. They’d been naturals.

“I remember when you took it out that first time and how I ran my fingers over it,” she continued reverently. “I was afraid to touch it at first, but when I took it in my hand, it felt so good to just hold it and look at it. I’d never seen one up close like that before. It was so long and smooth. So…forbidden. And then, when you told me to put it in my mouth, it was so exciting. So arousing. I
wanted
it in my mouth. I couldn’t wait to close my lips over it. And I loved it when I started sucking it. I kept sucking it harder and harder, and it tasted so good, felt so good, and I just filled my mouth with—”

“I remember,” he said thickly, cutting her off. “It was incredible that night.” He inhaled deeply, releasing the breath in a long, lusty sigh. “Again, Becca,” he said roughly. “Just one more time, before we go back to work. That’ll get me through the rest of the day. I
need
it.”

“Okay,” she immediately conceded…yielded…succumbed…whatever. “I need it, too, Turner. I need it so bad.”

“C’mon, baby,” he crooned, “light my fire.”

Becca’s heartbeat quickened as she reached toward him, a thrill of exhilaration racing through her. But just as she closed her fingers over his long, smooth rod and drew it into her mouth, just as she was indeed about to light his fire, the door to the closet was thrown open wide, and the harsh light of day—or, rather, the nasty glare of fluorescent lighting, which never did anybody’s complexion any good—poured into their cloistered little grotto.

“What the devil is going on in here?”
a booming voice exclaimed.

And not just any booming voice, either. Robert Englund’s booming voice. And not just any Robert Englund, either. The Robert Englund who’d lent his name to the company Becca and Turner worked for. And she knew that if there were three words to describe her boss, they would be
puritanical, puritanical
and
puritanical
. No way would he approve of what he’d caught them doing.

She squinted in the bright light, able to make out only her employer’s rounded silhouette. The booming voice, though—not to mention that puritanical business—went a
long
way toward letting her know just how angry he was.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he thundered. “Are you two doing it
again?
You’re going to burn down the building the way you go at it. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s
no smoking on the premises!
Now put out that cigarette.”

With that, he stalked off, leaving Becca and Turner crouched in the closet with a still unlit cigarette and a completely unquenched desire. It was just like the song said. They couldn’t get no satisfaction.

“O
KAY
, T
URNER
,
NOW
are you convinced we have to quit? Or would you rather we lose our jobs?”

Becca picked at a piece of nonexistent lint on her snug, black wool skirt, tugged down the sleeves of her claret lamb’s wool sweater and watched her friend and co-worker pace restlessly the length of the Englund Advertising boardroom. Although neither of them much cared for the dress code of their workplace, finding it a bit too conservative for their tastes, Turner was decidedly less businesslike in his business attire than she was.

His charcoal Dockers weren’t quite in keeping with the suits their employer demanded, especially since she’d seen his houndstooth jacket slung carelessly over the chair in his cubicle. And instead of the white dress shirts Englund dictated, Turner wore a creamy button-down oxford. He had, however, conceded to the necktie requirement. Of course, the necktie in question had a scantily clad hula dancer painted on it.

Then again, Becca’s suit jacket hung on a peg in her own cubicle, and her sweater wasn’t a dress shirt, either, so maybe she still had a bit of the rebel in her, too. Sorta. Kinda. In a way.

Outside the windows enclosed the boardroom on two sides; a light snow was sprinkling the Indianapolis skyline, even though November was barely half over and it was too early for any accumulation. Twenty minutes had passed since Englund had caught them smoking in the closet, long enough for him to summon them to this very boardroom, where he’d given them a good dressing-down.

He had said, among other things, that he intended to keep a close eye on both of them, and if he ever caught them smoking at work again, he would fire them. Period.
And Becca would just as soon not have to look for another job. She liked this one in spite of its conservative dress code and shortsighted no-smoking policy. And its unwillingness to explore brave new advertising frontiers. And its archaic mission statement. And its choke hold on creativity. And its lousy health care plan. And its abrasive receptionist. And its appallingly bad coffee.

All right, all right, so maybe she wasn’t all that crazy about her job. But she didn’t relish looking for a new one, especially with the holidays looming on the horizon.

“Turner?” she echoed when he offered no response. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah, I heard.” He reached the far side of the room and spun around to pace back again. “I just don’t like it,” he added irritably. “Becca, it’s not fair that he can make a rule like that.”

“Maybe not to you, but it’s his business,” she pointed out. “He can make all the rules he wants. And he’ll fire us if we don’t quit smoking.”

“We don’t have to quit completely,” Turner countered, halting in midpace. “We just have to quit doing it at work.”

“Oh, yeah, and that’s going to be
so
easy,” she said. “When was the last time we made it through an entire workday without lighting up two or three times at least?”

“Then we’ll just go outside to smoke,” he said, crossing his arms over his broad chest in the internationally recognized body language for “I’m right, so there.”

Becca dipped her head toward the window behind him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Turner, but we’re eighteen stories up. Englund takes up the entire floor, and the businesses beneath us are almost all smoke-free, too. We’d have to go down to the street to smoke, and half the time
it takes us ten minutes just to get there, because the elevators run so slow. Unless you think we can slip out unnoticed for a half hour here and there, going outside to smoke isn’t doable.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she quickly cut him off.

“And it’s snowing today,” she added. “If memories of third-grade science serve—which they may not, because most of what I remember from third-grade science is you grossing me out with bug statistics—that means the season of winter is upon us. And I don’t want to stand outside in the bitter cold just to have a cigarette. I’ll end up spending even more on Chap Stick than I already do on cigarettes.”

Turner expelled an impatient breath of air but said nothing.

“And we’ve got that big account we’re trying to win,” she further reminded him.

“That big account we’re
going
to win,” he corrected her.

She nodded. They would win it, she knew. Because the pitch they were working on was nothing short of brilliant. She and Turner had been at Englund for five years now, long enough to have won some small seniority as account reps, but they still weren’t in line for any major promotions. At this rate, they’d be stuck in Cubicleville until retirement. Winning this account for Englund would speed them much more quickly up the corporate ladder. They’d be headed straight to Officetown.

“And once we win the account, we’ll be stressed to the max,” she pointed out. “Whenever we have to work that hard, we smoke like a pit barbecue for a Kennedy family reunion.”

This time, in reply, Turner only studied her in silence and thrust out his lower lip like a pouty child.

Becca had to hide the smile she felt threatening. Not that she would ever tell him, of course, but there were times when Turner was just so damn cute. Sexy, even, if you went for the tall, dark and saucy type, which Becca most certainly did
not
. She’d always been drawn to the shy, tame and bookish type, and Turner was none of those things. Of course, the sex with such men had always been rather shy and tame, too—and bookish, she couldn’t help thinking, since her last boyfriend had insisted that if they were going to consult the
Kama Sutra
as Becca wanted, then it must only be from a literary standpoint, because he abhorred people who only looked at books for the pictures. So maybe she ought to alter her outlook on the opposite sex….

At any rate, she didn’t think of Turner McCloud in any way other than as a friend.