Indecent Suggestion (14 page)

She fumbled with his belt and fly, then tucked her hand inside his pants to take his hot, naked shaft in her hand. She palmed the damp head, her actions made easier by the dampness of his early response, then curled her fingers completely around his arrogant staff. Leisurely, methodically, she pumped her hand up and down.

He went still as she slid her fingers along his cock, bracing himself on his elbows, which he’d anchored on each side of her head. He threw his own head back as she increased her pace, his eyes shut tight, his lips parting slightly as he struggled to take one ragged breath after another. So overwhelmed was she by his barely restrained passion that Becca lifted herself up from the mattress to press a frantic kiss against his throat. And then suddenly, without warning, Turner reached between their bodies to clamp his hand over her wrist to halt her.

“That was way too close,” he growled before she could
even ask him why he’d done it. “And you haven’t had your turn yet.”

That’s what he thought.

“Lie still, Becca,” he said, before she could assure him otherwise.

Well, no need to be hasty,
she thought as he moved away from her.

“If you can…” he further challenged with a knowing smile as he knelt on the floor beside the bed…and between her legs.

Well, gee, that sounded promising….

Happy to accommodate his request, she lay back on the bed, arcing her arms over her head in silent challenge. Turner grinned as he dipped his head between her legs, curving his hands over the insides of her thighs to push her legs apart. He skimmed his hands down to the undersides of her knees, folding them until her legs were bent and her feet were planted firmly on the edge of the bed. Then he pushed his hands under her bare bottom and lifted her up, moving her to his waiting mouth.

Becca gasped at the first flick of his tongue against her, a keen shot of heat firing through her at the contact. With soft, butterfly strokes, he enflamed her, flicking the tip of his tongue over her sensitive flesh, tasting, teasing, tempting, drawing slow circles around her clitoris before lapping the flat of his tongue gently over it. Gradually, though, his hunger mounted, and the wispy touches became eager, insatiable tastes of her. And then the eager tastes grew bolder, and he slipped a long finger inside her as he ate. Writhing and groaning, on the brink of orgasm, Becca tangled the fingers of both hands tightly in his hair, begging him by turns to end his voracious onslaught and to promise that it would never, ever stop.

And it didn’t stop for a very long time. Turner, she soon realized, was a very hungry man. And he took his time feeding that hunger.

Eventually, though, he did satisfy himself—leaving Becca feeling decidedly less so—because he pulled his head back and climbed up alongside her in bed again. By then she was only half-coherent, on the brink of her third orgasm. He smiled at her with what she could only liken to smugness, then shifted his body over hers once more. And then he kissed her, long and slow and deep, and she savored the taste of herself on his tongue and the play of his hands as they explored every inch of her body.

As he kissed her, he curved his fingers over one breast, rolling his thumb insistently over the sensitive nipple before catching it in the V of his index and middle fingers. Then his mouth was where his hand had been, his tongue laving her, loving her, circling her nipple before tracing first the underside of her breast and then the top. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, flicking the tip of his tongue against it, again and again and again. Then he moved his hand and sucked her breast deep into his mouth, the hot, wet pressure sparking heat through her entire body.

And as he sucked her, Becca went back to work on his trousers, pushing the garment down to bare his taut buttocks, and gripping them with both hands. He finally got the message and moved away from her long enough to shed them and his boxers and socks, then returned to her, nestling his pelvis against hers and bracing himself on arms he folded onto the mattress on each side of her head. She felt him start to push inside her, and she bent her knees again, bracing them on the bed once more to facilitate his entry, because he was more man than she was accustomed to.

But she was so ready for him after everything they’d already done that he slipped inside fairly easily. He filled her to the brink, though, in a way she’d never felt full before, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight at the sense of completion that flooded her. Having Turner inside her made her feel whole in a way she hadn’t felt before. His body fit hers so perfectly, as if the two of them had been one all along, two pieces of a whole that had somehow been split apart. Now they were back together again. And she found herself wishing they’d never be apart again.

And then they were moving as one, Turner withdrawing from her and ramming forward again, Becca launching her body up to greet him every time. With every penetration they joined more completely, until one final, hurtling thrust incited their completion.

Becca cried out at the intensity of her orgasm, her entire body shuddering as Turner spilled himself hotly inside her. His exclamation was equally savage, and his body went rigid against hers for the long moment it took him to empty himself. With a ragged groan, he collapsed beside her and gathered her close, burying his face in the tender curve where her shoulder met her neck. She felt his warm breath dampen her flesh, registered the wild beating of his heart against her own.

And she knew things between them would never be the same again.

B
ECCA AWOKE SLOWLY
,
gradually registering the things she usually did upon waking on this, her favorite day of the week. She loved, loved, loved Sunday mornings, because they heralded such a lazy, obligation and stress-free day. She sighed with satisfaction as, still half-asleep, she luxuriated in her surroundings.

Her bed was warm and cozy, the sheets piled around her smelling like a tropical breeze, courtesy of her tropical breeze scented—new and improved fragrance!—laundry detergent. Soft classical music drifted from the clock radio beside her bed, a lovely, lilting piano piece, the composer of which she couldn’t possibly identify, but she’d bet good money he was Italian. When she opened her eyes to half-mast she saw that gauzy, golden, late morning sunlight filtered through the closed blinds, striping the flowered walls and hardwood floor beneath. Outside that window, she could just make out the sounds of birds singing, children laughing and a soft breeze tinkling the wind chimes on her deck.

What a glorious morning,
she thought, smiling as her eyes fluttered lazily shut again. Outside, the weather was sunny and clear. Inside, her bed was snug and toasty. Her entire day lay before her, blissfully agenda-free, and, at the moment, she felt as if she had all the time in the world to
enjoy the lack of a schedule. Everything in her world was perfect. The Earth was spinning in its orbit, the planets were aligned, all was well in the universe and—

And she’d had relentless sex with Turner,
all night long
.

Her eyes snapped open when she remembered what had happened only hours before. Then they closed again when those memories became clearer. And more graphic. And more erotic. And more arousing.

Oh, Turner…

As if she’d spoken that last thought aloud, she felt him stirring beside her in the bed, and only then did she finally register the nearness of his body. He was spooned behind her, his broad—naked—chest pressed to her own—naked—back, his powerful—naked—thighs resting against her own—naked—thighs. One of his—naked—arms was slung up over her head, and the other—naked—arm was folded over her—naked—waist. Most obvious, though, in more ways than one, was how his full, rock-hard—and had she mentioned he was naked? And so was she?—erection was pushing against her fanny.

Her eyes fluttered closed again at the realization that he was waking up so ready for her, and she went wet, just like that, at the recognition of her own readiness for him. The hand at her waist crept higher, closing over her breast, and he nuzzled her neck from behind. Instinctively, Becca turned her head on the pillow to grant him freer access, and he brought his mouth into the action, dragging soft butterfly kisses along her throat and shoulder and back. Reaching behind herself, she tangled her fingers in his hair, her other hand covering the one splayed open now over her belly.

She felt him shift behind her, and without preliminaries, he slipped easily into her from behind. He pushed his hips
forward slowly, languidly, so much less fiercely than he had during the night. This was obviously meant to be a slow, leisurely, good-morning coupling, and she couldn’t help thinking it was a much better way to ease into her Sunday.

His hand massaged her breast while the other pressed into her belly, and he gently nipped her shoulder as he bucked his hips less gently against her. Becca pushed herself back to greet him as he thrust deeper inside her, and he dropped his hand from her breast to anchor it to her waist. Holding her still with both hands, he jerked his hips forward, slamming against her ass. Becca moved her own hand between her legs to seek the wet, stiff little button of her clitoris. She gasped when she found it, then drew little circles on it with the pad of her middle finger, keeping time with Turner’s thrusting, until she felt the first waves of her climax rising.

He came more quickly than he had during the night, as did she, both of them crying out softly as the ongoing tremors of their orgasms shuddered through them. Launching his body into hers one final time, Turner spent himself inside her, then collapsed against her, burying his face in her hair.

Becca lay still as she waited for her body to calm, loving how the heat and dampness of Turner’s skin mingled with her own. For long moments the two of them rested in silence, their bodies still joined as one, their respiration united in uneven, irregular breaths. Eventually, she found herself wondering if their thoughts, too, were shared. Somehow, though, she suspected that their thinking might be the only place they
weren’t
currently connected.

Finally, Turner rolled onto his back, bringing Becca with him. She landed with her head on his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the dark hair spanning his chest. He
looped an arm around her shoulders and held her close, capturing a strand of her hair and wrapping it idly around his index finger as he gazed up at the ceiling.

And Becca couldn’t help noting that not only had neither of them said a word to the other, but also they couldn’t seem to look each other in the eye.

She surprised herself by being the one to break what threatened to become an awkward silence. “Gee, I guess that sort of answers my first question,” she said as she snuggled closer to him and opened her hand over his heart. She took comfort in the way his heartbeat buffeted her palm. She wasn’t positive, but she thought his heart rate was in sync with her own. So maybe there was hope they could be in sync with other things that mattered more.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything and, she sensed, continued to gaze up at the ceiling. Then he turned his head toward hers—not looking her in the eye, she couldn’t help noticing—and murmured against her hair, “What question?” He punctuated the query by brushing his lips lightly over her temple, but he still didn’t look at her.

Quietly, she said, “Last night did we really do what I thought we did, or was it just a dream?”

He chuckled low and nuzzled her hair affectionately again. “Ain’t no way that was a dream,” he told her. “Because whenever I have dreams like that, they always end way before I’m satisfied.”

As strange as Becca felt, she couldn’t help but smile at that. “Judging by what just happened, you still weren’t satisfied by what happened last night.” Less happily, she added, “So maybe it was a dream, after all.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” he repeated. “And believe me, Becca, I am satisfied.”

He rolled to his side and bent his head to kiss her, and when he finally pulled back, he met her gaze. Better than that, he smiled at her. “At least I am for a little while.”

Somehow, she was able to smile, too, but it didn’t quite feel genuine. Turner seemed to realize it, because his own smile faded.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice edged with concern.

She nodded, but said nothing.

Now his smile disappeared completely. But he didn’t withdraw from her, only skimmed her cheek with his thumb and then turned his hand to repeat the action with the back of his knuckles. “’Cause, you know, Becca, as nice as last night was, right now, you kind of look like you’re having second thoughts about what happened.”

“No, I’m not,” she lied.

He said nothing for a moment, his fingers still caressing her cheek. Then, very quietly, he said, “Yeah, I think you are.”

She sighed softly. “Okay, maybe I am. But not the way you think.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I’m not having second thoughts about what we did last night.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, for the first time feeling certain about her reply. And about her feelings, too. “I’m not sorry we made love,” she told him. “I’m just not sure I understand how it happened, that’s all.”

His smile was back, but there was something melancholy about it this time. “That makes two of us,” he told her.

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I know I’m the
one who started things last night. And the other times, too. And I know that, before last night, I was always the one to stop them before we had a chance to finish.”

“But last night you didn’t,” he added unnecessarily.

“I know,” she said. “That’s what has me so confused.”

“You don’t understand why you didn’t put a stop to things last night?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t understand why I
did
put a stop to them
before
.”

He propped himself up on one elbow to look at her, clearly very interested in what she was saying. “So then why was last night different from the other times?”

Becca thought about that before answering. She hadn’t felt any different, she realized. Last night her feelings had been identical to the first two times she’d wanted to have sex with Turner. But the first two times, those feelings had subsided. Last night, they’d just kept growing fiercer and fiercer. And last night, she couldn’t put her reaction down to stress or pressure. Because last night, the two of them hadn’t been under any stress or pressure. And even if they had, she could have eased the tension by going outside to smoke a cigarette, the way so many other people were. Instead, she’d bypassed the smoking area and had gone straight into the shadows with Turner. Because she hadn’t wanted a cigarette. She’d wanted him. Powerfully. Intensely. Immediately.

But why had last night been different? she asked herself. Why had she finally gone through with it, and taken what she so desperately wanted? And why had she denied herself what she so desperately wanted before last night?

“I don’t know,” she finally said, not just in reply to Turner’s questions, but to her own, as well.

He said nothing for several moments, his expression offering not a clue about his thoughts. Ultimately—and, she had to admit, surprisingly—he seemed okay with her answer.

“Maybe it really doesn’t matter why,” he told her. “Maybe we shouldn’t question it. Maybe it’s something really simple that we’re just trying to make too complicated.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s like in the song.”

“What song?” she asked.

He smiled. “You know. It’s that crazy little thing called—”

Love,
she finished silently for him when he stopped himself before saying the word out loud. And also when his expression changed from one of fond affection to one of stark-raving terror.

“Lust,” he finished then. “That crazy little thing called lust.”

Becca nodded. In a way, she even believed it. For some reason, though, she didn’t much like it.

But what else could it be but lust? she asked herself. What they’d done last night certainly hadn’t been generated by love. It had been too powerful, too hot, too raw, too extreme. It had been much too intense to be anything but a purely physical response to a purely physical feeling. Love was founded on the emotional, not the physical. Love was tender. Love was gentle. Love was sweet. What she and Turner had done last night had been—

Well. Something she wasn’t likely to find with anyone else, that was for sure. But it hadn’t been love. It couldn’t have been. It had been way too potent for that.

“Lust,” she repeated, thinking maybe it made sense, after all. Certainly more sense than that other
L
-word.

“Lust,” he echoed.

She nodded, still thinking about it. “We have both been a long time without dates,” she pointed out.

“Too long,” he said.

“Maybe we both just had an itch we needed to scratch,” she offered further, warming now to the idea.

“You got that right,” he agreed.

“And since there wasn’t anyone else available, we turned to each other,” she finished.

“That has to be it,” he stated.

“Has to be,” she concurred.

When she looked at Turner’s face again, though, he didn’t seem to be buying it, either. Still, it was the only explanation that made any sense.

“So then, now that we’ve scratched that itch,” she said slowly, still trying to work things out in her brain, “do you think we’ll do this again?”

He eyed her intently. “Do you want to do this again?”

She thought about that before answering. What had happened last night had been amazing. Incredible. Phenomenal. She’d never had a sexual encounter that even came close to how it had been with Turner. And this morning, they were still speaking to each other, and although she felt a little weird, there was none of the awkwardness or embarrassment she might have thought would result from such a thing. She had slept with her best friend last night, something she’d always sworn she would never do.
Slept?
she repeated dubiously to herself. Hah. They’d done a lot more than sleeping. They’d explored every sexual avenue they could think of during the long night.

But did she want to do it again? she asked herself.

Her baser self, the part that was spontaneous and irre
sponsible and hedonistic, replied with a resounding “You bet your ass I want to do it again!”

But her more lucid self, the part that was honest and rational and far-thinking, piped up with a “Not so fast there, girlfriend…”

It had been wonderful with Turner, she thought. But how long would it stay wonderful?

Ultimately, the only answer that came to her was the one she’d had to accept for so many other things this morning. “I don’t know,” she told him.

And she watched Turner’s face carefully as she replied, trying to discern even the smallest clue as to what he might be thinking, how he was reacting. But his face changed not at all, and his gaze remained steady and unwavering.

So Becca said, “Let’s just take this one step at a time for now, okay? Because I just…” She sighed heavily and met his eyes again. “I don’t know, Turner. I just don’t know.”

And what bothered her more than anything was that she was being honest again. Even after everything that had happened last night, she truly didn’t know how she felt about Turner this morning.

T
URNER STOOD NAKED
under the hot spray of Becca’s shower, letting the water blast his face full-force, and hoping it would pound some sense into his idiot brain.

Lust,
he repeated to himself distastefully. That crazy little thing called lust. Why the hell had he said that? Why couldn’t he have just called it what it was? Why couldn’t he have told Becca how he felt about her? That he loved her? That the reason last night had happened—at least on his side of things—was because of the way he felt about her? Emotionally as well as physically? He’d had the per
fect opportunity. Instead he’d forced himself to retreat before he could make himself get the word out. Because he’d watched her face carefully as she’d sorted out her thoughts and feelings, and he’d noted the confusion and the uncertainty and the fear that had been so unmistakable. And he’d stopped himself from saying that one little word that would have changed everything. Because he’d known then that, even after last night, Becca still didn’t feel the same way about him that he felt about her. And he hadn’t wanted to bare himself—well, not
that
part of himself—to her unless he could be certain she loved him, too. But she didn’t.