Indecent Suggestion

He thrust his hand into the popcorn bowl. “Of course it’s fair. You’re the one who set the terms of the wager. I’m just going to use them to my own ends. I’ve decided I’m not going to go to sleep tonight. Therefore, I can continue to smoke. Therefore…Four,” he concluded, “you lose the bet. I don’t have to go to see the Amazing Mesmiro with you.”

Becca narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing for a moment. Then, suddenly, her expression lightened. “Did I tell you what other movies I brought with me?” she asked.

Uh-oh…

“After Now, Voyager is Dark Victory. And then Stella Dallas. And then Imitation of Life. And then,” she said, her eyes widening, “the coup de grâce. An Affair to Remember.”

Oh, hell, Turner thought. No way could he stay awake through all that. And even if he could, he’d die of estrogen overload. His obituary would be so embarrassing he’d never live it down.

He looked at the cigarette Becca held delicately between her fingers. Then he looked at the TV. Then he looked at Becca’s smug grin. Then he looked at the cigarette.

“Gimme that,” he said as he snatched it away from her.

She chuckled as she held the lighter for him. “You won’t last till noon,” she predicted.

“Watch me,” he warned her as he blew out a thick stream of white.

“Oh, I will,” she assured him. “I’ll be watching you very closely, Turner. You can count on it.”

EVEN THOUGH TURNER WENT down for the count right about the same time Bette Davis wasn’t asking for the moon, he at least managed to sleep until almost noon, thereby lasting until noon—take that, Becca—and, even better, thereby knocking out half the day. As he squinted blearily at the jackpot clock from where he lay sprawled on the couch, he was relieved to note that there were only twelve hours, four minutes and thirty-two seconds left to go until bedtime. Thirty-one seconds. Thirty seconds. Twenty-nine…twenty-eight…twenty-seven…

Hell, maybe he’d just spend the whole day right here on the sofa, watching the seconds tick past. That might keep his mind off of just how badly he wanted a cig—

Shit.

He battled the urge to reach up onto the end table for the pack that habitually lay there. Then he remembered it wasn’t there anyway, because he had smoked the last cigarette it held hours earlier. Not long before Becca had evidently tossed a blanket over his sleeping form, he thought when he noted the cotton covering tugged up to his chest. Man, he must have slept like a rock not to have dislodged it—or himself, for that matter—from the cramped sofa.

Which meant that, at the moment, not only did he have a wicked crick in his neck, but Dishwaterblondilocks was probably still sleeping in his bed. And realizing that just made Turner crave a cigarette more. Because ever since the two of them were teenagers, he’d wanted nothing more than to find Becca in his bed. Just, you know…with him. But hey, at least he had her halfway there now, right? Because she was in his bed. Just, you know…without him. Still, she was probably all rumpled and warm and contented, the way he’d figured she would be when she was in his bed. She just wasn’t that way because he had spent the night making her all rumpled and warm and contented.

Trying not to think about the fact that the only reason Becca was in his bed in the first place was because she didn’t trust him, and with a heartfelt groan of frustration, Turner jackknifed into a sitting position on the couch. He rolled his head back and forth to relieve the tension in his stiff neck—and tried to ignore his stiffness elsewhere. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair in an effort to rouse himself.

Coffee, he thought. That was what he needed most. Well, maybe second most, he amended as he pushed himself up to standing. What he needed most was fast asleep in his bed—without him. And even if she wasn’t fast asleep, she’d still be oblivious to his feelings for her.

Automatically, he moved in the general direction of his kitchen and went about making coffee. And he tried to make as much noise as he could, so Becca would be jolted awake—hey, why should she wake up feeling good when he was going to feel like hell all day? But he never heard a sound of stirring. Obviously, she slept like a rock, too.

He inhaled a deep lungful of the coffee as it was brewing, and that fortified him enough to find his way to his bedroom. The door was standing half-open, so he peeked inside. Then he immediately wished he hadn’t. Because not only was Becca still sleeping soundly in his bed without him, she had kicked the covers down to the foot. And although what she chose to sleep in was in no way sexy—a shapeless, long-sleeved nightshirt imprinted with nauseatingly cute cats wearing nauseatingly cute nightshirts—it was bunched up around her waist, so that her sweet ass, encased in soft red cotton, was right there in plain sight, as were the delectable thighs Turner had spent many nights fantasizing about burying his head between.

His libido launched into the lambada just looking at those loins.

And it actively annoyed him how he was always alliterative when aroused.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight to block out Becca’s bodacious butt, something that only made the image more graphic. Probably because closing his eyes enabled him to start fantasizing. And since the object of his fantasies was right smack in the middle of his reality, not to mention oblivious to the fact that she was frequently front and center—especially her front and center—in his fantasies, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. So he opened his eyes again, just in time to see the object of his fantasies—and her bodacious butt—beginning to stir.

He told himself to duck out before she caught him staring at her like a lovesick teenager. But he couldn’t make himself move away from the door. Mostly because Becca chose that moment to roll over onto her back and propel herself into a full-body stretch, something that made her nightshirt ride up even higher. It also had her gripping the wooden spools of his headboard with both fists as she spread her legs toward the lower corners of the mattress.

And oh, God, did that make him want to do things he knew he shouldn’t want to do. Not with his best friend who didn’t return his feelings. Call him crazy, but Becca might be a little alarmed if he hurtled himself onto the bed, pulled down her panties, buried his head between her legs and ate his fill of her while penetrating her with his fingers.

Of course, he pondered further, that would probably go a long way toward finally waking her up….

He must have made some sound that reflected his yearning, because she suddenly stopped stretching and looked toward the bedroom door. “Good morning,” she said with a sleepy smile.

“Afternoon, you mean,” he corrected her. That much, at least, he would concede. It was afternoon. It just wasn’t necessarily good. Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he smiled back and added lightly, “I see England, I see France.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in confusion. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite as awake as she seemed.

“I see Becca’s underpants,” he added for clarification.

She glanced down, then hastily back up at Turner. And for one delirious second, he thought—hoped—that instead of rearranging her clothes, she was going to ask him in a silky, seductive voice why didn’t he come on over there to see even more of Europe. There was just something in her eyes—okay, so obviously she was still half-asleep—that made him think she was as hot and bothered at the moment as he was. Then whatever had sizzled between them was gone—if it had ever been there to begin with—and she began to tug her nightshirt back down, over England, over France, over her sweet ass.

“Uh…sorry,” she said as she awkwardly completed the action.

Not me, Turner wanted to reply. But he said nothing, not trusting what he might say—among other things—at the moment.

Unable to help himself—probably because he was a glutton for punishment, or maybe because he hadn’t had enough sleep, or maybe because he felt edgy not being able to smoke, or maybe all of the above—he strode into the bedroom, until he was standing only a couple of feet from the bed. Then he sat right next to her and arced his arm over her body, to brace it on the mattress on her other side.

Yet she said nothing, only gazed at him with huge brown eyes that were filled with something he told himself he’d be better off not pondering. Mostly because he was afraid if he pondered it, he’d figure out what it was, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, because as long as he didn’t know, he could still harbor a hope, however crazy, that maybe someday she’d be in his bed, with him, not just because she trusted him implicitly, but because he made her hot as hell.

So instead of pondering, Turner leaned forward, closing what little space was left between them, until his face was scarcely inches from her own. She really was rumpled and warm from sleep, he couldn’t help noticing, her face flushed and her breathing shallow from that early morning sort of breathlessness. Somehow, though, he kept himself from reaching out to her, from skimming his fingertips over her fine skin and silky hair.

He couldn’t avoid the scent of her, however, because it rose up to encircle him, entice him, enchant him. She smelled like summer soap and springtime laundry, a fragrance made all the more poignant because the weather outside was cold and gray, heralding the onset of winter, and it would be a long time before he encountered such warmth and sunshine again. Better than that, though, she smelled like cigarettes, something he wanted almost as badly as he wanted Becca, which made her doubly desirable.

Her eyes, like polished onyx, had grown larger, darker, as he’d drawn nearer, and they searched his face, so close to her own now, as if she were seeking the answers to the mysteries of the universe there. Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of the pillowcase on each side of her head, almost as if she were trying to keep herself from reaching out to touch him, too. More than anything he had ever wanted in his life, he wanted to loosen those fingers and see where she would put them.

And he wanted, too, to kiss her. For starters. So he leaned in a little closer, his mouth hovering now scant millimeters above her own. And then very, very softly, and very, very seductively…

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

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.