Indecent Suggestion - By Elizabeth Bevarly Page 0,1

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.

“OKAY, TURNER, 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