Bound by Suggestion by L.L. Bartlett Page B

sensual,’ it coaxed with gentle authority.
    Fool me once . . . shame on me. Fool me twice . . . . Yet the pull to give in was strong. My body ached for that familiar shiver of excitement.
    ‘You know you want it . . . .’
    I did want it, so bad it hurt.
    ‘Go with it,’ came the whisper once more.
    What was it that wanted me, some distant part of me wondered. Was it a . . . succubus?
    Back off, common sense warned. But it curled around me—soothing, intoxicating. How could something so deliciously gratifying be so achingly . . . empty? Where was the sharing, the connection with another soul?
    My brains wonged back and forth, fighting against this insubstantial invader, feeling bruised—used.
    Accept the physical, puzzle over the incongruity of it later, my body urged. Trying to think it through only brought me, full circle, back to confusion.
    ‘Give in,’ the teasing voice pressed.
    I reached out, surrendering myself to giddy temptation. Luxuriant sensations enveloped me, propelling me along on a ripple of pure excitement. The stoking intensified, softness and strength and rhythmic motion urging me on, taking me higher. Caresses that left me powerless to resist.
    Passion swept me away, the burning urgency multiplying, growing. A delightful shudder ran through me, climaxing in a fusillade of explosive, unbearable pleasure.
     
    I awoke , panting, sweating, and smiling—basking in the afterglow of the biggest, baddest wet dream this side of adolescence.
     

Chapter 5
     
    Richard stood before the frosted glass flanking Mona Humphrey’s office door, poised to knock. Still time to bail, he reminded himself as he studied the brass nameplate in front of him. The Foundation’s director had for years rallied her troops to seek out deep-pocketed Buffalonians to generously donate to the university’s hospital foundation. During Mona’s tenure, they’d hired estate planners and adopted every conceivable method to entice money from rich donors. It was Richard’s intention to follow in her formidable footsteps.
    He brushed a knock against the door, entered, and paused at the secretary’s desk. “Hi, Penny.”
    “Hey, Doc. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” the perky redhead said, barely taking her eyes off her computer screen.
    “You must know what list I drew.”
    “Sealed the envelope myself. Giving up already?”
    “As a matter of fact—” He withdrew an envelope from the inside breast pocket of his sports coat and handed it to her.
    Penny opened the unsealed flap and flipped through the five checks, then turned her surprised, brown-eyed gaze on him. “How’d you manage that so fast?”
    “I went to see them all. We talked. They wrote checks.”
    “Yes, but,” she stammered, positively shocked. “No one’s ever been able to get them to contribute.”
    He shrugged, trying not to smile.
    She was still sitting there, open mouthed, when Wes Timberly entered the office.
    “Hey, Penny for your thoughts,” he said.
    Penny clamped her teeth together, turning a menacing gaze on the newcomer. Like she hadn’t heard the same quip—and probably from him—a thousand times before.
    “If it isn’t my old pal, Dr. Dick,” Timberly said, clapping Richard on the back. “How goes it?”
    Richard’s jaw clenched at the decade’s old insult. He could have cheerfully joined Penny in throttling the jerk.
    Dr. Wes Timberly had no doubt begun his academic career as a schoolyard bully. More than forty years later, that term still applied. Friction—in the form of challenge—defined Richard’s relationship with the pompous oaf. Most annoying was his habit of calling Richard by the still-hated nickname.
    They’d been rivals in med school—then as interns. Timberly’s jealousy over Richard’s higher grades, and the women he’d dated, was almost legendary. He was Richard’s personal Moby Dick. Even after a nearly nineteen-year separation, he’d resurfaced as a perpetual thorn in Richard’s