home, he’d told her he was too tired to come over, and that they could talk in the morning.
And still she wanted him.
Acutely.
Completely.
Desperately.
She punched her pillow with much frustration and flopped over to her other side. Although a light snow had been falling when she arrived home, she’d worn only her panties and a cropped undershirt to bed because she’d been so hot. Now, the covers were kicked into a heap at the foot, and the ceiling fan rotated laconically above her, its chilly breeze washing over her heated skin, cooling her not at all.Around her, her bedroom was silent and semidark, the night-light in the bathroom providing just enough illumination for her to see the white French provincial furnishings and floral wallpaper and accessories. Suddenly, it all looked so sickeningly sweet and girlie-girl, and she couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to go with such a decorating scheme.
No wonder she’d never been able to lure Turner into her bed, she thought. What man in his right mind would feel aroused in an environment like this? Maybe, in addition to all the other redecorating she planned to do on the condo, she’d redo this room, too. Maybe in red. Deep, dark, intense red. The color of passion. Yeah. With dark, heavy Mediterranean furnishings. That would make it more masculine. And wrought-iron accessories. Like torches. And chains. And maybe some manacles affixed to one wall, to give it that certain je ne sais quoi.
Yeah, that could work….
Unbidden, she enjoyed a very graphic mental image of what, exactly, that je ne sais quoi would involve. Notably, Turner manacled to her wall, naked, with firelight bathing his muscular form while she knelt before him, her hands curved over his taut, firm ass, his cock rigid and full as she sucked it, hard and deep. Only when he was on the verge of coming would she stop, and then she would stand and push her body against his, curl one leg around his waist and rub her wet clit against his hard shaft, driving them both to orgasm.
Oh, Turner…
Grabbing the pillow from the opposite side of the bed, Becca thrust it between her legs, bucking her hips against it. But it was a lousy substitute for the man.
6
B Y S ATURDAY MORNING , when Becca and Turner were supposed to present their pitch to the Bluestocking Lingerie people, Becca was still reeling from what had happened Wednesday night. She couldn’t begin to explain why she’d behaved the way she had with Turner, though God knew she’d tried. What was weird—well, one thing that was weird among the many weird things that night—was that she hadn’t even remembered what happened until she’d arrived at work Thursday morning and saw Turner sitting in his cubicle, staring at her cubicle, waiting for her to show up. One look at him, though, and she’d been flooded by the memory of what had happened the night before.
And that wasn’t all she’d been flooded with.
As insane and inexplicable as her behavior had been, she also remembered how she’d enjoyed herself so much . That didn’t, however, excuse what had happened.
All she knew was that one minute she’d been sorting through a collection of racy lingerie, and the next, she’d been unbelievably aroused. It was the strangest thing. She’d never been the sort of woman to heat up quickly, had always liked a little playful, naughty flirting with her partner first, then lots and lots of physical foreplay—preferably oral—before the main event. Wednesday evening, however…
All she’d wanted was to feel Turner’s hands all over her naked body— now . And she’d wanted him buried deep inside her— now . Forget flirting. Forget foreplay. She’d wanted out-and-out sex, as raw and as forceful and as fast as it could be. Thank God they’d been interrupted by Englund or who knew how far they would have gone? And even more important, thank God Turner had had the good sense to try and dissuade her from what she’d wanted to do, or they may
And still she wanted him.
Acutely.
Completely.
Desperately.
She punched her pillow with much frustration and flopped over to her other side. Although a light snow had been falling when she arrived home, she’d worn only her panties and a cropped undershirt to bed because she’d been so hot. Now, the covers were kicked into a heap at the foot, and the ceiling fan rotated laconically above her, its chilly breeze washing over her heated skin, cooling her not at all.Around her, her bedroom was silent and semidark, the night-light in the bathroom providing just enough illumination for her to see the white French provincial furnishings and floral wallpaper and accessories. Suddenly, it all looked so sickeningly sweet and girlie-girl, and she couldn’t imagine what had possessed her to go with such a decorating scheme.
No wonder she’d never been able to lure Turner into her bed, she thought. What man in his right mind would feel aroused in an environment like this? Maybe, in addition to all the other redecorating she planned to do on the condo, she’d redo this room, too. Maybe in red. Deep, dark, intense red. The color of passion. Yeah. With dark, heavy Mediterranean furnishings. That would make it more masculine. And wrought-iron accessories. Like torches. And chains. And maybe some manacles affixed to one wall, to give it that certain je ne sais quoi.
Yeah, that could work….
Unbidden, she enjoyed a very graphic mental image of what, exactly, that je ne sais quoi would involve. Notably, Turner manacled to her wall, naked, with firelight bathing his muscular form while she knelt before him, her hands curved over his taut, firm ass, his cock rigid and full as she sucked it, hard and deep. Only when he was on the verge of coming would she stop, and then she would stand and push her body against his, curl one leg around his waist and rub her wet clit against his hard shaft, driving them both to orgasm.
Oh, Turner…
Grabbing the pillow from the opposite side of the bed, Becca thrust it between her legs, bucking her hips against it. But it was a lousy substitute for the man.
6
B Y S ATURDAY MORNING , when Becca and Turner were supposed to present their pitch to the Bluestocking Lingerie people, Becca was still reeling from what had happened Wednesday night. She couldn’t begin to explain why she’d behaved the way she had with Turner, though God knew she’d tried. What was weird—well, one thing that was weird among the many weird things that night—was that she hadn’t even remembered what happened until she’d arrived at work Thursday morning and saw Turner sitting in his cubicle, staring at her cubicle, waiting for her to show up. One look at him, though, and she’d been flooded by the memory of what had happened the night before.
And that wasn’t all she’d been flooded with.
As insane and inexplicable as her behavior had been, she also remembered how she’d enjoyed herself so much . That didn’t, however, excuse what had happened.
All she knew was that one minute she’d been sorting through a collection of racy lingerie, and the next, she’d been unbelievably aroused. It was the strangest thing. She’d never been the sort of woman to heat up quickly, had always liked a little playful, naughty flirting with her partner first, then lots and lots of physical foreplay—preferably oral—before the main event. Wednesday evening, however…
All she’d wanted was to feel Turner’s hands all over her naked body— now . And she’d wanted him buried deep inside her— now . Forget flirting. Forget foreplay. She’d wanted out-and-out sex, as raw and as forceful and as fast as it could be. Thank God they’d been interrupted by Englund or who knew how far they would have gone? And even more important, thank God Turner had had the good sense to try and dissuade her from what she’d wanted to do, or they may
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