Indecent Suggestion

3

IT TOOK A MOMENT for Turner’s question to register with Becca, because she was way too busy being bewitched, bothered and befuddled to try and figure out what the hell he was yammering about. All she could do was wonder about the weird, wanton wistfulness winding through her, and how her body temperature had been rising ever since she’d awoken to find him gazing at her from the bedroom door.

God, he was sexy in the morning. In all their years as friends, she’d never spent the night with him, so she’d never seen him like this, all tousled and sleepy-eyed and unshaven. His jaw was dark and rough and uncivil looking, and his black hair hung over his forehead in a way that made her want to lift a hand to brush it back. In fact, she wanted to thread her fingers repeatedly through those silky locks, then skim her palm back over the crown of his head, until she could curl her fingers around his warm nape and pull his head down to hers, and take his mouth in a hungry kiss that just went on and on and on. Then push his head lower, down over her breasts and belly, then lower still, between her legs and—

And what the hell was she thinking? she wondered when she realized where her thoughts—and Turner’s mouth—were going. Obviously, she hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. But that was what happened when you stayed up late watching old movies and then stayed up even later watching your best friend sleep because you’d never realized before how sexy he was when he did that. And now here Turner was, crowding her space, looking all hot and smelling all earthy and sounding all seductive, and gosh, would he think her untoward if she just sucked on his lower lip a little bit, just for a minute, and then maybe moved her own head lower, over his chest and torso, and then lower still, between his legs to suck some more, this time on his—

And what the hell was she thinking? Turner was her friend, she reminded herself ruthlessly. He was her bestest buddy in the whole wide world. You weren’t supposed to suck the, um, lower lip of your best friend, not even for a minute. Everybody knew that. It was like rule number two of friendship, right after “You should never fool around with your best friend’s boyfriend.” Which actually didn’t even apply with Turner, so the, um, lower-lip-sucking rule would be numero uno for them. She’d told Turner things she’d never tell someone whose, um, lower lip she wanted to suck. So why would she even be thinking about sucking his, um, lower lip? And why would thinking about that make her feel so freaking hot?

Man, she needed a cigarette. Bad. But how unfair would that be, to smoke in front of Turner, when he had to go the whole day without? Then again, why did she care? He wasn’t exactly being fair, either, looming over her looking all sexy and sounding all sexy and smelling all sexy and being all sexy and making her want to suck his, um, lower lip.

She expelled a long, unsteady breath she hadn’t even been aware of holding, and took a minute to let her heart stop racing. But when she realized it was going to be awhile before her heart stopped doing that, she gave up. Trying not to sound as breathless as she felt, she replied, “Sure, I’d love some coffee.”

He smiled in a way that made her think he knew what she really wanted—and it wasn’t coffee—and she couldn’t help wondering if he suspected her of that, um, lower-lip-sucking business. Nah, she immediately reassured herself. Turner only thought of her as a friend. As his bestest buddy in the whole wide world. Dammit. He couldn’t possibly suspect her of wanting to suck his, um, lower lip.

And she didn’t want to suck his, um, lower lip, anyway, she reminded herself. She didn’t. She’d just woken up feeling horny, like ninety percent of women in her demographic—that demographic being single, twentysomething, professional females who had gone date-free for way too long. And since Turner was the only human being in the vicinity with a Y chromosome, it was only natural she’d want his, um, lower lip. Simple chemistry. No, she quickly corrected herself. Simple biology. She and Turner didn’t have any chemistry together. Well, not since their junior year in high school. And the kind of chemistry she was talking about now didn’t involve beakers and Bunsen burners. Well, not in the way they were supposed to be used, anyway.

Oh, stop it, she told herself. Thinking that way was only going to make this day longer than it already promised to be. Turner was her friend. Period. And she wasn’t about to let anything change that. Friends, good friends, the kind you could trust no matter what happened, were too hard to come by in this life. What she and Turner had was too special to mess with. She needed to wake up a little more, that was all. The day was going to be just fine.

But when she inhaled another breath to steady herself, Becca pulled the musky, masculine scent of Turner—mixed with the aroma of forbidden tar and nicotine—deep into her body with it. And even as he leaned away from her and rose from the bed, she noted again how his T-shirt stretched taut across his brawny chest and muscular arms, and how his rough, dark jaw gave him a feral look, and how his blue eyes seemed to be sizing her up for…something.

And she started thinking that maybe, just maybe, the temptation offered by cigarettes wasn’t going to be the biggest obstacle she faced today. Maybe, just maybe, the toughest thing she was going to have to battle would be her own wayward thoughts.

BECCA HAD JUST FINISHED making Turner’s bed when she heard the water shut off in the bathroom. He’d magnanimously offered to let her shower and dress first, so she’d figured the least she could do was change his sheets for him—especially since she’d probably drooled all over them during that odd little morning interlude that had so confused her at the time.

Of course, now that she was dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a cropped red sweater, and now that she was fortified by coffee and Cap’n Crunch—honestly, did men ever eat anything healthy for breakfast?—she was confident she knew exactly what had been behind that odd little… That unusual little… That strange little… That weird little… That mysterious little… That bizarre little…thing. Now she was confident that what had passed between the two of them earlier had simply resulted from a lack of sleep and nothing more.

There was a reason why some governments used sleep deprivation as a form of torture. It made a person crazy. Crazy enough to do and say things they would normally never say or do. Like drool on their best friend’s pillow because their best friend suddenly seemed kind of sexy, where he would never seem sexy if one had gotten enough sleep and was in one’s right mind.

That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

Unfortunately, her adhesive must have collected some lint or something while she was changing the bed, because Becca became decidedly less stuck to that story when the door to the bathroom just outside the bedroom flew open, and Turner emerged in a puff of steam, completely naked, and she found herself wanting to be stuck to him in the most basic, most wanton way two people could be stuck together.

Oh, no, wait, he wasn’t quite naked, Becca was relieved—sort of—to realize. He had a towel slung around his midsection—sort of. So he was decent—sort of. Of course, the thoughts that popped into her head just then, not to mention the feelings that went zinging through her bloodstream, were anything but decent. Because as sexy as Turner had been that morning all rough-jawed and sleep-rumpled, he was ten times more so all wet-skinned and steamy.

Lack of sleep, she reminded herself, closing her eyes against the sight. Note to self: Must be in bed at a decent hour tonight so Turner will get laid. Ah, that is to say, so that all errant thoughts of Turner will be laid to rest.

Right.

“Oh, sorry,” he muttered as he backed into the bathroom and pushed the door half-closed in front of himself. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she hastily told him, heading for the bedroom door. Which meant she also was headed toward the bathroom door. And Turner. And Turner’s towel. Among Turner’s other things.

“I thought you’d be longer in the shower,” she added as she made herself race through the bedroom door and into the living room.

“Longer?” he echoed as he poked his head back out to look at her. “All I had to do was get clean. What else would I be doing in here?”

Don’t answer, she told herself. Don’t even think about an answer.

Oh, damn. Too late…

“Uh…” she began as she turned her back on Turner to give him some privacy and herself some sanity. “I’ll just be out here in the living room, ’kay?”

Out in the living room trying not to think about you all naked and steamy, with water streaming down over your skin, and you pushing the soap across your chest and over your abs and stomach, the frothy foam oozing between your fingers and over taut muscle, and then your hand moving lower, over your lean thighs and toward your, um, uh…lower lip?

She cleared her throat indelicately. “I’ll be out here in the living room,” she repeated, striving for lightness in her tone, but thinking she probably only succeeded with lewdness instead.

She wasn’t sure, but she thought Turner mumbled something in response. She was too busy not thinking about him to ask him to repeat himself. Though she was pretty sure she heard the words crazy lunatic female somewhere in the mix. She also thought she heard the sound of a towel being whipped from a wet, steamy, hard body, but that could have just been her imagination. Wishful thinking. Whatever.

Oh, where had she put her cigarettes?

Recalling that she had smoked the last of them before going to bed, she gave herself a good mental shake and told herself to calm down. It wouldn’t be fair, anyway, to smoke in front of Turner when she’d bet him he couldn’t go all day without. She could go without, too. She’d just have to keep her thoughts focused, that was all.

Yeah, focus, she reiterated to herself. That’s the ticket.

Unfortunately, when Turner emerged a few minutes later from his bedroom, wearing snug, faded jeans and an even more faded denim work shirt that he hadn’t bothered yet to button up, Becca’s focus flew immediately to his person. To be more specific, her focus flew to that part of his person that was currently uncovered. And then her focus focused way too well. The rich scattering of dark hair that peeked out from his open shirt spanned his chest from shoulder to shoulder, she knew, because she’d seen him shirtless on more than one occasion.

But somehow, seeing him this way now felt different from the way it had on those other occasions. Before, when Turner had been shirtless around her, it had been in some public venue. Because they were swimming or he was working out in his parents’ yard or playing basketball or something else equally harmless. Now his state of dishabille seemed anything but harmless. Here, in the privacy of his apartment, when it was just the two of them, alone, it seemed more intimate somehow.

Lack of sleep, she reminded herself again. Yeah. That was for sure why she suddenly felt so restless around him.

“So what do you want to do today while you’re not trusting me to light up in secret?” he asked as he began to button his shirt. “Besides pretend we both don’t want a cigarette, I mean.”

Becca shrugged. “I don’t know. We could see a movie.”

He gazed at her through narrowed eyes. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Had enough, have you?”

“Let’s just say that when it’s my time to go to that big disease-of-the-week in the sky, I’ll know all the right things to say about moons and stars and no regrets.”

“Mmm.”

She watched as he finished buttoning himself up, and continued to watch as he rolled back his sleeves over strong forearms, and continued to watch as he dragged both hands through his still-damp hair, slicking it straight back from his face. And then she continued to watch some more as he gazed back at her.

“What?” he asked.

“What, what?” she replied.

“Why are you looking at me? Do I have toothpaste on my lip or something?”

Oh, she really didn’t want to talk about his lip right now. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

Probably a little too quickly, because he narrowed his eyes even more. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Why do you think something is wrong?”

“I don’t know. You’re looking at me kind of funny.”

“Well, I don’t know why. I don’t feel funny.”

“How do you feel?”

Oooh, not a question she wanted to answer right now. She needed a diversion. Quick. So she strode across the room to where she had slung her purse over the back of a chair, rummaged through it until she found what she was looking for, then shamelessly withdrew a limp, bent, God-only-knows-how-long-it’s-been-in-there cigarette, plus her lighter, and strode back over to Turner.

“Hey,” he objected. “You can’t smoke today.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have a bet, that’s why.”

“I didn’t make any bet,” she pointed out as she tucked the cigarette between her lips. “You did. I can smoke if I want to.”

He gaped at her. “But that’s not fair!”

She smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

“But…but…but…”

She withdrew the cigarette from her mouth and extended it toward him. “Would you rather have it yourself?” she asked sweetly.

For some reason, it suddenly seemed imperative that she get him to smoke. Not just because she needed him to lose the bet in order to accompany her to the hypnotherapist, but because the sooner he lit up, the sooner she could win the bet and vacate the premises. Then, in the privacy and safety of her own home, she could wonder just why the hell she suddenly felt so weird around Turner. So she moved the cigarette closer, rolling it between her fingers in an effort to free the sweet aroma of unsmoked tobacco, a fragrance she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

“C’mon,” she taunted him. “You know you want to. Can’t you smell it?” she cooed in the sexiest siren voice she could muster. She took another step closer, until her body was almost flush with his, then pushed the cigarette even closer to his face. “Smell how good it smells,” she entreated him seductively.

But Turner glanced away, silently declining her offer. She frowned at the rebuff, feeling strangely rejected. So she lifted her free hand to his face, cupping his jaw in her palm until she could turn his head toward the cigarette again.

“Look at it, Turner,” she said softly.

“I don’t want to look at it,” he replied, turning his head away again.

So Becca cupped his jaw more firmly and urged his face to where she’d held it before. “Look at it,” she instructed him more forcefully, her voice sounding throatier now, though she couldn’t recall making a conscious effort to have it do that. “Look how smooth and round it is.”

He did as she told him to, glancing down at the cigarette, then hastily back up at her face. “Yeah. So?”

“Don’t you want to touch it?” she whispered, arching one brow.

He shook his head slowly, but his gaze flittered back down to the cigarette she held out to him. “No,” he told her roughly. “I don’t want to touch it.”

“Of course you want to touch it,” she said sweetly. She threaded her fingers intimately into his hair. “You want to touch it sooooo bad.”

“No, I don’t,” he declared.

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “You want to caress it, and stroke it and hold it in your hand. You want to run your fingers over it, up and down and around and around. Then you want to put it between your thumb and forefinger and roll it back and forth. It feels so good to do that, doesn’t it? I love how that feels.”

Becca lifted the cigarette to her mouth, and Turner’s gaze followed. Instead of tucking it between her lips, however, she raked the cigarette slowly across her mouth. “But as good as it feels to touch it, there’s nothing like putting it in your mouth, is there?”

“Becca…” he said, the warning in his voice unequivocal.

“You want to feel it against your lips,” she murmured. “Taste it on your tongue. You want it in your mouth, don’t you, Turner?”

“No. I don’t.” But his words were quiet, uncertain.

“Yes. You do,” she said. “You want your mouth on it, sucking hard. Don’t fight it, Turner. Take what you want. Take it now.”

For a moment, she thought he would succumb, because he actually lifted his hand toward her—or, rather, toward the cigarette. His fingers hovered there for a moment, lingering…lingering…. Then he drew his hand away again and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“No,” he told her, his voice still a little shaky. “I’m just saying no. I will not submit to peer pressure.” And then, as if he wanted to physically illustrate that, he took a solid step backward, away from the cigarette, away from Becca.

Dammit. They had been so close. Though, somehow, what they had actually been close to doing wasn’t the thing she had wanted them to be doing. Or worse, maybe they had been close to doing that.

She made herself roll her eyes, as if she were as unconcerned as he. “Fine,” she conceded petulantly. Then, smiling playfully again, she placed the cigarette between her own lips and said, “Then you won’t mind if I smoke.”

He opened his mouth to object again, then closed it. “Feel free,” he said. “This is by no means a smoke-free environment.”

“Thanks,” she replied, her tone just as clipped as his. “Don’t mind if I do.”

But the reason Becca lit the cigarette wasn’t so much to tempt Turner by smoking in his presence as it was an effort to calm her own nerves. Because their little exchange just now had left her feeling edgy and irritable and very close to blowing her top. Or something.

It made no sense. There was no reason for her to feel edgy or irritable around Turner. Just because he wasn’t folding as quickly as she’d thought he would, and just because he obviously had more willpower than she did, and just because it looked as if she might lose this bet instead of him, that was no reason for her to get edgy and irritable.

Funny thing was, she suspected her bet with Turner had nothing to do with her current state of unrest.

Deciding not to think about any of that, she palmed her lighter and thumbed the flame to life, moving it to the tip of her cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she savored the warmth of the smoke filling her mouth and lungs, and relished the false heat that wound through her body. Nothing felt as good as smoking, she thought. She couldn’t imagine a greater physical pleasure than that soothing, pleasant sensation curling through her body.

Until she glanced up to find Turner gazing at her—or, rather, the cigarette—with unmistakable desire and unmitigated hunger. And then she began to imagine, too well, a physical pleasure that might rival, or even surpass, the one she was enjoying now.

“You’re playing dirty, Becca,” he said as he watched her enjoy herself. And without awaiting a reply—not that his comment really needed one—he spun on his heel and went back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

It was all Becca could do not to follow him. And not because she feared he might light up in secret, either. But because she felt hungry and wanton herself. So she inhaled deeply on the cigarette again, waiting for the familiar sensation to calm her down.