

IN THE TWO WEEKS that followed Becca and Turner's excellent adventure, neither said another word about it. There were days, honestly, when she wondered if maybe she'd dreamed the whole thing. Some weird, oversexed fever dream unlike any she'd ever dreamed before, the result of simply going too long without the sort of basic skin-to-skin contact with another human being that every normal, red-blooded adult demanded. But then she'd remember some of the things they'd done that night, things she'd never even dreamed about before---because, quite frankly, some of it was stuff she hadn't even known was physically possible---and she'd had no choice but to admit that what had happened had been very, very real.
And very, very amazing.
And very, very surprising.
And very, very satisfying.
And very, very odd.
Which maybe was why neither of them talked about it afterward. Because it had just been so out of character for either of them, so outside the normal boundaries of their friendship. Once they'd cleared the air that morning after waking, they'd taken separate showers and dressed in separate rooms, then had walked together---but not hand-in-hand---to a nearby café where they often went for coffee. They'd seated themselves at their usual table near the window and had chatted the way they normally did, about work and people they knew and books and movies and all the other usual things. Then they'd taken in a movie and dinner, as they so often did on the weekend, and then Turner had walked her home, as he always did after such a day.
But there had been a moment of awkwardness at her front door, when neither of them seemed to know what to do or say, or what the other expected. Finally, though, Turner had smiled and bent forward to brush a kiss over Becca's cheek, something he'd never done before, but which for some reason didn't feel awkward at all. And then he'd left, and she'd gone inside, and she'd wondered if things would ever feel normal between them again.
And although things hadn't quite felt normal over the last two weeks, they hadn't been as uncomfortable as Becca had feared they might. Gradually, she and Turner had fallen back into their usual routine, both at work and when they saw each other socially, and little by little, things had started to feel, if not normal, then at least okay. Like maybe they'd be normal again eventually. Just...not yet. In any event, neither of them had said another word about...
That Night.
Oh, certainly over the two weeks that followed That Night they both thought about That Night---at least, Becca thought about it, and she was reasonably certain Turner did, too, on account of that statistic about men not being able to go longer than a nanosecond without thinking about sex, and since That Night had consisted of some of the most amazing sex Becca had ever had, and since any sex is the best sex men have ever had, then Turner must have considered the sex of That Night to have been pretty freakin' phenomenal, which, of course, the sex of That Night had been---pretty freakin' phenomenal---and not just from a physical standpoint, either, so---
Where was she?
Oh, yeah. She'd been thinking about how neither of them had talked about That Night over the past two weeks, but both had probably thought about That Night over the past two weeks. A lot.
And neither of them had tried to initiate an encore performance. They seemed to be in a constant state of anticipation, as if each was waiting for a cue from the other, but neither seemed to want to be the one to offer the other a cue. It was almost as if they were afraid to. Though whether that fear was of rejection or the consequences of a repeat performance, both of which weighed heavily on Becca's mind, she couldn't rightly say.
There had been one definitively good thing to happen since That Night, though it had nothing to do with That Night. She and Turner both had been promoted to managers, effective the first of the year, and each would move into new offices at Englund Advertising. Naturally, they were delighted by the news, but Becca, for one, knew she would miss being able to glance up from her desk and see Turner sitting scarcely ten feet away from her, behind his own desk. They'd be in two different parts of the business now, he on one side of the building, she on another. So those shared smiles and the simple pleasure of his company during the day would be a thing of the past.
The thought of being so far away from him felt weird. As did the prospect of not working closely together anymore. As managers, they'd be making more money and have more benefits, but they wouldn't participate as much in the creative side of their work, where the two of them had been so good together. And although they'd be performing the same job, they'd each oversee different projects now. They wouldn't see nearly as much of each other at work as they used to.
Still, it was good news, Becca reminded herself. Right?
Now, as she stayed late at work on a snowy Friday evening two weeks after That Night, sitting alone in the boardroom of Englund Advertising and gazing out the windows that surrounded her on two sides at the rapidly falling snow outside, she was thinking about That Night again.
And she still didn't quite know what to make of it.
She should be working on the Bluestocking account, she told herself. Turner had offered to stay late with her, but she'd made him promise to go home. There was no reason they both needed to be here. She was just going over sales figures and projections that he'd already gone over himself, and tomorrow they were going to compare notes on the company's demographics and how they seemed to be affected from one area of the country to another. It was a one-person job, for the person who hadn't done it yet, and that person was Becca.
Besides, she'd kind of looked forward to being here by herself after hours. She was perfectly safe in the office this time of night, not to mention the place was quiet and peaceful and all hers. And the weather outside was frightful. The roads would be clear enough to travel later, when she was ready to go home, after the salt trucks had made their rounds, and she didn't relish driving while the snow was falling so thickly. As beautiful as it was out there, she'd just as soon wait until the storm had passed.
Still, she sighed with something akin to longing as she looked out the windows at the high-rise across the way, its offices lit up here and there from one floor to the next with the late-burning lamps of other late-working people. All around her, the Indianapolis skyline sparkled amid the fat, furiously falling flakes, as if some snow fairy jacked up on Ritalin had cast down fistfuls of diamonds along with the frantic flurries. Becca might as well have been the only human being allowed into this magical winter wonderland.
Suddenly, for no reason she could name, she felt very, very lonely.
She pushed the strange sensation away and went back to the figures that lay before her on the table. She wasn't sure how long she'd sat there studying them when she heard the buzzer that heralded the arrival of someone in the outer office. She wasn't alarmed by the sound, however, since the only people who had access this time of night were the security guards and a handful of other employees who had keys to the place. But when she heard Turner's voice greeting her softly from the boardroom door behind her, she smiled.
"Hi," she said as she turned in her chair.
He still wore his work clothes of earlier in the day, but they were rumpled and disarrayed, his white shirttail spilling free from the waistband of his dark blue corduroys, his necktie completely undone and hanging unfettered from a collar unbuttoned to the third button. But then, Becca's work clothes weren't any tidier than his were. Her slim, tobacco-colored skirt was wrinkled, her cream-colored blouse was unbuttoned at the cuffs and neck, not to mention untucked. She'd also discarded her jacket a long time ago and kicked off her shoes, as well, to get more comfortable.
Turner looked comfortable, too, she thought. And also pretty sexy.
And he was holding a bottle of scotch in one hand, two highball glasses in the other. Since she recognized the cobalt color of the latter from the bar on the first floor of the building they frequented, she assumed he'd acquired the scotch there, too. Which was some feat, since the bar didn't have a package license. He must have sweet-talked one of the bartenders into turning a blind eye.
Probably that bottle blonde named Jessica, Becca thought uncharitably. That tramp. She'd always made it clear she'd do anything for Turner. That tramp. She'd even crashed the office Christmas party last year with a sprig of mistletoe, Becca remembered, and she'd deliberately sought out Turner to corner him with it. That tramp.
Had she mentioned Jessica was a tramp?
But then, Turner wasn't with Jessica right now, was he? Becca reminded herself smugly. No, he was here with her.
"Thought you might like a nightcap, since you're going to be working late," he said. But he remained framed by the doorway, as if he were hesitant about entering the boardroom without her okay.
She smiled. "That would be great. Thank you."
With that, he smiled back, but his entry still seemed a little tentative. Nevertheless, he set the bottle and glasses down on the table and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair at the end.
"You always seem able to read my mind," Becca said as she watched him complete the action. "I was just thinking I should have taken this stuff home with me, so that I could at least relax in my jammies with a drink while I went over everything."
"And why didn't you take it home?" he asked as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured a generous two fingers of the amber liquid into each glass.
She shrugged. "I didn't think I'd really go over them at home. I thought I'd probably turn on the TV or open a book instead. And I really need to get this stuff studied."
"Yes, you do," Turner agreed. "But there's no reason why you can't take a little break."
She nodded. "You're right. I've earned it."
She didn't mention that, so far tonight, she'd spent the bulk of her time staring out the window at the snow and thinking about him instead. A break was a break.
Turner extended a glass toward her, which she took gratefully, sipping the potent spirits carefully. She didn't usually drink her scotch straight up, so wasn't used to the heat of the liquor as it warmed her mouth and tongue and throat. She liked it, though. It reminded her of Turner's heat, when he'd set her on fire That Night. Which made it an even more welcome diversion.
"How come you're not at home?" she asked him.
He lifted one shoulder and let it drop, then gazed at the scotch as he swirled it around in his glass. "It was snowing when I got downstairs, so I went into the bar to have a drink and wait for it to ease up some. It never did, so I ordered something to eat, to wait for it to ease up some." He looked up at her and smiled. "It never did."
"I know," she told him. "I've been watching it for the last hour and a half, and it hasn't let up once."
Turner sipped his drink and lowered the glass to the table. "I knew you were still up here, so I thought, since we were both probably going to wait it out, we might as well wait together."
"Thanks," she told him. And she hoped he realized she was thanking him for a lot more than just the scotch and the company.
"You're welcome," he told her. "How much more do you have to go?" he asked, dipping his head toward the paperwork before her.
She sighed heavily. "Not too much," she hedged. She'd gone through more than half of it. "It's just not organized very well. Bluestocking should hire a new company to do their next demographic analysis."
"I thought it was a mess, too," he said. "So I broke it down myself, according to each product group."
Becca arrowed her eyebrows down in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked.
He set his glass on the table and stood to move behind her, reaching past her to fan the papers out and rearrange them. And as he did, Becca became more aware of him, of his physical presence and the effect it had on her. As he moved in a thoroughly benign, completely nonsexual way, she couldn't help but be reminded of how he'd moved That Night---in an aggressive, totally sexual way. And something inside her kindled at the memory, the flames flickering higher with each passing second. She started noticing more about Turner---how he smelled and sounded---and when his arm accidentally brushed her shoulder, the heat inside her leaped higher.
"Here," he said as he finally finished his reorganization of the papers. He pointed at the first one, an action that left his chest pressing against her shoulder, and she swallowed hard as the heat inside her multiplied. "This is a list of all of Bluestocking's product categories," he continued, his voice and posture nothing but professional, his effect on Becca anything but. "Hosiery, bras, panties, yada yada yada."
He dropped his hand from the paper and straightened, which moved his body away from hers. But her awareness of him remained just as acute. She could still smell him and hear him and sense him, and she found herself wanting to reach behind herself to grab his hand and pull him forward again, so that his body was pressed to hers once more.
That she wanted him closer, she realized then, told her a lot. Maybe she did know how things stood between them. Or, at least, she knew how things stood with her. And maybe it was time for her to start thinking about that. To start focusing on what she wanted. Maybe she should stop fighting this thing and just do what she wanted to do. Right now. In this moment. And what she wanted to do, right now, in this moment, was stand up, turn around and drape her arms over Turner's shoulders, then cover his mouth with hers and see what developed. She'd worry about the rest of it later.
Without a word, she pushed her chair back from the table, an action that made Turner step backward to make room. Then she stood and pivoted, and silently met his gaze. He gazed back at her, his expression reflecting confusion mixed with...something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or anticipation. Or hopefulness. She wasn't sure.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "Am I not explaining this well? Am I not making it clear?"
Well, no, actually, Becca thought, he wasn't being clear. But then, she hadn't been clear on too many things herself lately. Now, however, she had a chance to set that to rights.
Before she could say anything, though, Turner pointed to the papers he had taken such care to arrange, and continued as if she'd never moved.
"What I was going to add," he said, "and this will help it all make sense, I think, is that Bluestocking could have made it a lot easier on themselves and us if they'd just grouped all those foundation products together and headed it 'underwear' or something."
The fire that had been sizzling inside Becca suddenly exploded, heating her entire body, creating a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt before. Oh, no. Wait. She had felt it before. It was just like it had been That Night two weeks ago. And again at the meeting with the Bluestocking people before that. And again that night in her cubicle with Turner, when she'd suddenly wanted him---needed him---as she never had before.
"Kiss me," she told him. "Forget about the account and just..." She expelled a restless, needy sound. "I want you so bad, Turner. Right here. Right now. I'm tired of fighting it. Let's do it right here."
His eyes went wide. "Here?" he echoed. "Now?"
She nodded, curling the fingers of both hands over his shoulders, then added, "Fast. Hard."
He hesitated, opening his mouth as if he wanted to tell her something, then closed it again. Evidently making up his mind, though, he looped one arm around her waist to jerk her body against his, and cupped his other hand under her jaw, splaying his fingers wide. His forcefulness surprised her for a moment, sending a thrill of something dangerous and exciting shuddering through her. Then she smiled when she realized she felt kind of forceful, too. Gripping the front of his shirt with both hands, she yanked the fabric hard enough to tear the garment open wide. Then she buried her fingers in the dark hair on his chest, raking her nails lightly down his muscular torso.
The fierceness of her response surprised him, too, she saw, but he grinned. "What if someone sees us?" he murmured as he dipped his head to press his forehead to hers. He dragged his fingers through her hair, anchoring his hands at the back of her head. "We're surrounded by windows on two sides. And there are still lights on in some of the offices across the street. There's still a light on in here."
"It's snowing too heavily," Becca countered, feeling a little breathless. "No one can see us through the windows."
"How do you know?" he challenged. "What if they can?"
She dropped her hand to his already hardening cock, rubbing her fingers shamelessly along the heavy length of him. "Then they're about to get a real show," she said.
And why did that make her feel even more aroused? she wondered. Ah, well. No matter. She had other things on her mind right now.
Turner evidently did, too, because he placed both of his hands on her shoulders and spun her slowly around, to face those very windows he had said he was so concerned about. Then he moved his hand to the back zipper of her skirt and tugged it slowly, slowly, oh, too slowly, down. As she flattened her palms against the big table that bisected the boardroom, she felt her skirt slide down over her hips and realized Turner wanted to move things along even faster than she did. When the tiny garment pooled at her feet, she kicked it aside, only to feel him press his entire body against hers. He snaked his arms around her waist and moved his hands to the buttons of her blouse, unfastening each in another leisurely, maddeningly slow motion. She shrugged her shoulders to discard it even as he was tugging it down her arms. Her bra disappeared next, then his hands were on her breasts, palming her sensitive flesh, cupping, weighing, squeezing, kneading, flicking the pads of his thumbs over her swollen nipples.
His hands moved lower, and he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her panties, urging them down, and baring her ass completely. But he left the scrap of silk at her knees in a way that made her feel almost bound by it. When he began to rake his hands over the smooth skin of her bottom, Becca leaned forward, bending at the waist, gasping when her hot breasts came into contact with the cool surface of the table beneath her. She gasped again when Turner moved his thumbs to the elegant line bisecting her ass. Grasping her firmly in both hands, he opened her, then penetrated her shallowly with one thumb before scooting his other hand to her front to dip it between her legs. He furrowed one finger into the damp folds of flesh there, drawing a few slow circles before inserting his middle finger deep inside her. Then he pushed his body forward again, pressing his pelvis to her bottom, rubbing himself against her as he drove his thumb deeper inside her, too.
Becca cried out at the exquisiteness of the double penetration, instinctively pushing herself backward as she pressed against the table. She stretched her arms across its slick surface, reaching toward the other side, hoping to find purchase that would help her hang on. But she couldn't quite reach the edge, so she stretched her arms wide on each side, closing her eyes to enhance the sensation of Turner moving his finger and thumb inside her, and the friction of the table against her agitated breasts.
For a long time, he penetrated her that way, his breathing becoming as ragged and irregular as her own. Then, with agonizing slowness, he withdrew his thumb, and she heard the soft metallic sound of his belt unbuckling. With his other hand, he continued to finger her between her legs, penetrating her with a second digit, then a third, spreading them to increase the friction. She heard the rasp of his zipper, the soft whisper of fabric, and then he moved both of his hands to her waist as he buried his stiff cock deep, deep inside her.
Again, Becca cried out at the roughness of his thrust, at the way he filled her so thoroughly from behind. She was so wet and ready for him by the time he entered her that the size of him proved no problem at all. On the contrary, the size of him only enhanced the experience, because she felt parts of herself come alive she hadn't realized could feel. He stretched so deep into her that he seemed to become one with her, until she couldn't tell where her body ended and his began.
And as he pumped inside her, he moved both hands to her ass again, kneading the tender flesh, spreading it, closing it, opening it wide once more for an even deeper exploration than before. Again and again, Turner thrust into her with both his hard rod and his tireless thumb, until Becca feared she would shatter from the exquisite sensations pounding through her. She curled her hands into fists, cried out again and again as he claimed her, wondered deliriously how long the two of them could make this last.
Not long enough, she soon discovered. Because with each new thrust, Turner brought her closer to orgasm, and when he hurried his rhythm, he hurried her response, too. As one, both of them cried out at their climax, and he spilled himself hotly inside her.
For one long moment they both stilled, waiting for the tremors of their shared orgasm to subside, both of them struggling for breath and grappling for coherent thought. Little by little, though, they remembered where they were, what they had been doing before they both succumbed to the fire burning inside them, and how they were supposed to be behaving. Becca felt Turner's hands open over her bare back, urging her to rise and turn around to face him. When she did, she found that he was only half-dressed, and that they were standing in the boardroom of their workplace, and that it was still snowing quite heavily outside.
Oh, yeah, she thought. She knew exactly how she was supposed to behave in a situation like this. Smiling, and still facing Turner, she sat down, bare-assed, on the table, gasping at the cold surface against her heated flesh. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed downward, and smart guy that he was, he knew to seat himself in the chair immediately behind him. Then he rolled it forward and curved his hands over her thighs, bending at the waist to lower his head as he settled her legs where her hands had been---on his shoulders. Without a word, without a glance, without a care, he moved his mouth to her inner thigh, to draw a long, slow, easy line there with his tongue.
Becca placed her hands behind herself on the table and threw her head backward, groaning when Turner finally, finally centered his attentions where she wanted them. Again and again he licked her wet flesh with the tip of his tongue, then flattened it for long, broad strokes of her. She felt the ripples of a second orgasm trembling low in her belly, and she closed her eyes to allow them their freedom. Turner sensed her readiness and increased his attentions, lapping her, sucking her and penetrating her as deeply as he could with his tongue. She tangled the fingers of one hand in his hair as her climax multiplied, and when he brought his hand into the action to finger her sensitive little clit, she cried out in its completion.
When she opened her eyes, she saw him watching her, smiling a salacious little smile.
"You are so sexy," he said.
She smiled back. "You make me sexy," she told him.
He shook his head. "No way. It's all from you, Becca. All of it."
"No one else has ever made me feel this way, Turner. Only you," she said. "Only you."
His expression changed at her declaration, but before Becca could identify quite how, he was reaching out to her with both hands, silently offering to help her down from the table. So she placed her hands in his and let him help her down, until her feet were on the floor again. But instead of moving to pick up her clothes, she leaned into Turner and covered his mouth with hers. He kissed her back, dropping his hands to her bottom and pushing her pelvis into his.
He was still hard as a rock, she noted. But he ended the kiss and said, "I imagine you'd like to get dressed and get back to work, otherwise we'll be here all night."
She smiled and said, "You're partly right."
He eyed her curiously. "What do you mean?"
"I'll get dressed," she told him. "But only because it's getting kind of cold in here."
"And work?" he asked.
She smiled again and tucked her hand inside his trousers, curling her fingers snugly over his staff. "What I have in mind won't be work for me at all," she told him. "And I think you're going to enjoy it a lot." She moved her hand up and down his cock, palming the ripe head with much affection. "And, although we might indeed be here all night, if you promise to help me with those Bluestocking figures," she said, "I promise I'll make it worth your while...."
IN THE WEEK THAT FOLLOWED, what Turner came to think of as The Great Boardroom Caper, he and Becca were scarcely out of each other's sight. Their days consisted of being at work and wanting to be at home, and their nights consisted of being at home and not wanting to go to work the next day. Because what they had discovered together at night made everything else seem inconsequential. Even the Bluestocking account, which they'd been so proud of themselves for winning, took a back seat to their newly discovered passion for each other. A distant back seat. Like in another car back seat. Another car in another city back seat. Another car in another city in another country back seat.
Um, what was in the back seat?
Well, Turner and Becca, at one point. And they'd also done it in the front seat. Not to mention their closet at work. And the park between their homes. And the ladies' room at the café where they enjoyed lunch---among other things. And once, in the laundry room of Turner's apartment building, where Becca experienced the pleasures of the spin cycle while sitting on the wildly vibrating washing machine, and then provided Turner with a new meaning for the words rinse cycle. Not to mention the words permanent press. And also hand wash. And lay flat to dry.
And not once did Becca express any regrets or misgivings about what they were doing. Whatever had confused her about this new aspect of their relationship, it was gone after that night in the boardroom. Neither of them questioned it. Both of them enjoyed it. They were insatiable after that night.
It was as if some monster had been unleashed in both of them that had to rampage all over town, setting fire to everything it encountered, before being satisfied. And speaking for himself, everything caught fire, and nothing was satisfied. Turner began to think maybe he and Becca were making up for lost time, that they should have become sexually involved in college that first time they'd had the chance, and that the fierceness of their responses to each other must be due to their denying themselves for so many years.
But it wasn't just Turner's physical desire and need for Becca that grew. His love for her grew, too, every time they made love. And he couldn't help thinking her feelings for him changed, too, during that time. They must have. Because no two people could respond to each other the way he and Becca did unless there was a deep, abiding affection underneath it all. And thinking, feeling, as he did, even if he never put voice to those thoughts and feelings, only made sex with her even better.
He was never happier to see the end of a Friday workday than he was that Friday after the boardroom incident. Where he and Becca normally worked a little past their five-thirty quitting time, that day they snuck out early, so eager were they to get home to an entire weekend together. And no sooner were they through Turner's front door than they went to work on each other's clothes, their mouths desperately exploring whatever part of each other they could reach, their hands and fingers tangling together as they tried to remove their own and each other's clothing.
Finally, though, Becca fell back onto his couch, completely naked, opening her legs in silent invitation. And when Turner made no move to join her, because he was still trying to undress, she smiled that seductive little smile that had driven him mad on so many occasions. As he watched her, she moved her hand between her legs, threading her fingers through the dark blond curls at their apex, until the middle one disappeared into the soft thatch. Then she inhaled a sharp gasp as she touched herself, closing her eyes at how good she made herself feel. She moved her other hand to her breast, circling her nipple with her index finger, and it was all Turner could do not to come right there, seeing what she was doing.
For long moments, he just watched her caress herself, becoming aroused as much by her facial expressions as by the movements of her hand. Because with each new stroke of her fingers against her pink, wet flesh, her face changed, color blooming on her cheeks, her teeth nipping at her lower lip, her tongue darting out to touch one corner of her mouth before disappearing again. And the sounds she made...
No longer able to tolerate even the small distance separating them, Turner knelt on the floor in front of her and gently pulled her hand away, kissing each fingertip in turn, sucking the middle one deep into his mouth to savor the taste of her that lingered there. She smiled as she watched him settle her hand to the side, then place both of his, palm out, against the insides of her thighs. And then he dipped his head toward the place she had just been touching, pushing her legs wider, opening his mouth against the melting core of her.
Again and again he licked her, laved her, loved her, teasing her first with the tip of his tongue, then tasting her with broad, flat strokes. Becca sighed and groaned with each new caress, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him closer still.
"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, Turner. Don't stop. I'm so close. Please. Don't stop."
He hurried the motions of his tongue then, his head nodding as he took the strokes high and low, growing more and more intoxicated on the scent and sound and taste of her. Her hips bucked against him, and he shoved his hands beneath the lower curves of her firm ass, lifting her closer to his mouth so that he could penetrate her now with his tongue. Over and over, he pleasured her that way, feeling the muscles in her buttocks tightening and straining as her need for satisfaction grew more intolerable. And then, suddenly, with a cry of outrageous exhilaration, she pushed herself upward one final time, her orgasm complete.
Turner moved his mouth to the insides of her thighs, kissing the hot, silky flesh there, dragging his tongue down to her knee and back again. The fingers tangled in his hair relaxed some, but her breathing came in ragged, irregular gasps for some moments more. Then she moved her hands to his shoulders, pulling him forward, a silent invitation to join her on the couch.
Just as he sat beside her, though, she dropped down to the floor, situating herself between his legs. She reached for his stiff rod, closing her fingers over the base of him, and bent her head to draw him toward her mouth. Just the sight of her slight fingers over his aroused flesh made him want to topple her flat on the floor and bury himself inside her. Before he had the chance, though, she touched the head of his shaft to her lower lip and darted her tongue out to taste him, and he stilled.
She was tentative at first, circling the head of his cock with the flat of her tongue, her fingers scooting up and down his shaft as if she wanted to explore every inch of him. Then she ducked her head lower, drawing him completely into her mouth, sucking him as she circled the sensitive hood with her tongue again.
"Oh, Becca," he half said, half groaned. "Oh, yeah..."
Emboldened by his reaction, she moved her fingers up and down him again, a delicious sort of friction that sent shock waves through his entire system. She bobbed her head slowly up and down, consuming more of him with each motion, until he felt the head of his shaft pressed hotly against the roof of her mouth. The pressure of her suction was agonizingly sweet, and her fingers wreaked havoc as they dipped between his legs to cup the rest of him in her palm. When she pulled his rod slowly from her mouth, he started to object, but the words were halted when she nipped the head lightly with her teeth, then laved the scant wound with her tongue.
She repeated the action a dozen more times, and each time, Turner cried out at the keen sensations that knifed through him. Finally, when he knew he was close to coming, he threaded his fingers into her hair and gently pulled her head away. And when she looked up at him, puzzled, her eyes so dark, so full of passion, he was very nearly overcome.
"I want to be inside you," he told her. "I don't think I'm going to last much longer."
She nodded silently and rose, but where he had been ready to move from the sofa and lay her on her back, she instead hooked one leg over both of his, straddling him. Gripping his shoulders, she moved herself over his straining shaft, then eased down slowly until he was deep inside her. Her position brought her breasts conveniently to the level of his face, and he eagerly leaned forward, sucking one rosy nipple deep into his mouth.
She began to move then, so he settled his hands on her waist to help her along, thrusting deeply into her, filling his mouth with her breast. As their pace quickened, so did Becca's cries, until with one final outburst, she settled herself hard in his lap. At the same time, Turner exploded inside her, filling her with his hot response as she spilled her own over him.
But their satisfaction was short-lived, because less than an hour later, Becca was at the center of the bed again, positioned on all fours at Turner's request, and he was kneeling behind her.
"Spread your legs more," he said roughly.
Becca did as he instructed, planting her knees farther apart on the bed, glancing back to watch him as he knelt between her legs.
"That's good," he said as he leaned over her.
He pressed his mouth to her ass, brushing his parted lips over the sensitive flesh, palming her, squeezing her, nipping her gently with his teeth. He cupped both hands over the breasts swinging beneath her, lifting them, separating them, squeezing them. Then he dipped his head between her legs and tongued her wet flesh, tracing with his finger the line bisecting her ass from where it began at the small of her back, down to that part of her that was so wet and ready for him.
Oh, Becca thought as he completed the action. Oh, it felt so good. The slow circular motion of his tongue against her clitoris was exquisite. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the languid, liquid sensations pouring through her, held her body completely still to let Turner go wherever he wanted to go next.
Where he wanted to go was inside her. Because he slid his tongue into the damp, heated opening between her legs and pushed it inside her, moving it in and out in a slow, methodical fashion that left her feeling anything but slow or methodical.
"Oh," she said aloud this time. "Oh, that feels so good...."
"It's about to get better," he told her.
And before she could ask why, he was working his body under hers, positioning it in the opposite direction, so that his head was still between her legs, and her head...
Oh, my. What a prize she saw beneath her, situated perfectly for her to enjoy. Still bracing herself on all fours, she dipped her head down and covered Turner's shaft with her mouth, circling its tip with her tongue, exerting varying amounts of pressure as she drew him in and out. Vaguely, she heard him groan, the sound vibrating his tongue against her overly sensitized flesh, something that made her moan in response, inadvertently increasing his pleasure, too.
For long moments, they pleasured each other that way, their bodies jerking in time with their mouths, their passion rising with each new touch. But when Becca felt close to coming, she lifted her head from him and scooted forward, straddling Turner's middle, positioning herself over his thrusting rod. Her back to him, she lowered herself over him just as he settled his hands on her hips, and he filled her so full, he nearly split her in two. She bent forward a little to ease the pressure some, then decided she liked the pressure and straightened her body again. His hands on her hips clenched tighter and he bucked his hips upward, embedding himself even deeper inside her. Becca cried out, moving her hands to the twin spheres between his legs, something that made him buck upward again.
"Oh, yes," she whispered. "Do that again."
With great enthusiasm, he did as she told him, jerking his body upward again and again. Never in her life had Becca felt so complete. Never had she joined herself so completely to a man. In that moment, she could almost believe that she and Turner had fused into one being and that they would never be separated again. And then that keen, familiar sensation of pleasure began to coil tighter inside her, and she ceased thinking at all. After that, she could only feel. Turner inside her. Turner beneath her. Turner filling her hands, her body, her heart, and so much more.
With one final upward thrust, he felt as if he was deeper inside her than he had ever been before---physically, emotionally, in every way he could be---and he filled her up as he came. But after a moment, she felt him relax, and he withdrew from her---physically, at least. She turned and collapsed alongside him, opening her hand on his chest, loving the way his ragged heartbeat buffeted her palm.
She wanted to tell him something very important, but a deep, narcotic fatigue was trying to overtake her. It was right there at the very fringe of her brain, though, what she wanted to say, right there at the edge of her soul, pushing out of her heart. She wanted, no, needed, for him to know it. It was absolutely essential that he know how she felt.
"Turner..." she began softly. But her eyelids fluttered closed, and she gave in to the liquid, languid satisfaction purling through her body.
"What?" she heard him say, as if from a very great distance.
"Turner..." She tried again. "I think I..."
But that was as far as she got. She never quite made the words leave her mouth, never quite said them aloud. So she never quite told him she was pretty sure she'd fallen in love with him.


