Nymphomania (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  "Huh."

  The horse tries throwing James again. Callahan winces as the boy's weight, low as he can keep it, comes flying off the saddle a couple inches. The horse comes back down onto the ground hard, and James keeps a good enough grip that the horse yanks him back down into the saddle.

  "We're not going to try to cheat you, you know. We'll make you a very generous offer, and we're prepared to negotiate. But having the space right there, practically butting up against both sides—I shouldn't tell you this, but it's worth quite a bit."

  "Well, then I'm sorry that I'm being such a cuss about it." His heart really isn't in the conversation. He's watching James and hoping he doesn't get his arm ripped out. Still, he's looking good for it.

  Then the horse kicks just right, and James's hand must not be cinched in tight enough because he slips and tumbles right onto his ass. Randy and Michael make a bee-line to grab the horse and get it calmed down. James pushes himself up, looks up to see how the girl's thinking about him.

  But Philip Callahan's standing right there next to her, and he knows the answer. He's not thinking about them at all. Not thinking about him, either, and he shouldn't be thinking about her.

  She's thinking about what it would do for her business if she got them to sell her the land.

  "Well, if you're sorry about it, I can get some papers drawn up—"

  "Not that sorry," he says. He shakes his head as if he were sad about it, but he's not.

  "You can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"

  He can't. And he doesn't. But that doesn't mean that he's changing his mind. His eyes slide over on the horizon. They have time for maybe another few tries before they're done. The little sapling reminds him why he's not selling.

  "I don't blame you, Miss Lowe. I just want you to know that I'm not changing my mind, in spite of not blaming you."

  "Well, if you won't let me buy your ranch, you could at least let me buy you dinner." Callahan looks over at her. His eyebrow raises. "And the boys. Of course. Ain't every day you get that kind of entertainment for free."

  Randy tightens a gloved hand into the reins and throws his weight up onto the horse, and then hangs on for dear life as the ornery son of a bitch gets to trying to throw him off again.

  "I couldn't. And neither could they. You got other things on your mind, don't worry about us."

  "Well, Mr. Callahan, I'm not a woman who gives up easy. If I was, I wouldn't be able to do my job. So you're going to be seeing a lot of me. You might as well get the benefits, too."

  He lets out a breath. "You want to take the boys, they'll eat about anything. But leave me out of it, I'll find something on my own."

  He doesn't want to admit that he doesn't want to start any rumors about the two of them, and he doesn't want to spend any time with her because if some rumors got started then they wouldn't be that far from the truth.

  Morgan Lowe is a hell of an attractive woman. It's easy to imagine himself with her. It'd be easy for any man to imagine it. The boys seemed to think that he had some ideas in his head about it, and it was hard not to think that maybe he was getting some sort of notion.

  He didn't want to get any notions. He wanted to keep working his ranch, get rid of the Black, and get back to his life. Get back to the work that he'd known since he was just a boy.

  Because the truth is, there's no space for a second attractive woman in his life, no matter how much he wants there to be.

  Chapter Ten

  Morgan Lowe sits in her car with the lights off, and her stomach doing a flip. What the heck is she thinking? There's nothing to be nervous about.

  And yet, it's dark, the lights in the house are still on, and she's got a paper bag full of takeout. Takeout for two, it should be noted. Because she's got to impress somehow, and not being a scaly bitch has been the best way to get him to talk to her so far.

  There's no being sure that this will even work. But going out of her way to think about him, maybe, will show that she's got the human element. Maybe she'll look thoughtful.

  Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll look pushy and needy and everything that she doesn't want to be described as. Maybe everything will just go sideways, and she'll have to go back with her tail between her legs, knowing that things couldn't possibly go in the direction of selling the place.

  But there's a good chance that neither is going to happen. More than likely, she stays in this awful limbo that she's already been in for days now. She'll be allowed to come around, and he won't be even willing to think about it.

  Well, everyone's willing to think about it. Everyone has a price, and it's a price that she'd be willing to pay, if it means that she gets to have that feather in her cap. Doesn't matter what the number is—none is too high.

  But sometimes the price isn't something in money. Or you can't get them to make the mental translation from the money to whatever they really want.

  Sometimes they want what they've got because they think it makes them look better. They don't want the thing, they want to look good. So you give them an out, a way to look good without whatever you wanted. Then the emotions are out of the way, and then they've got a number.

  Morgan isn't sure what the emotions are that Callahan is dealing with. He's got history here, and when that history isn't with you any more… well, once she's got a better idea of the problem, she can get a better idea of the solution.

  She hefts up the bag of takeout. He'll let her in, or he won't. But she's not going to let herself get turned away by just the thought that he might not. She's got too much pride and she's worked too hard to get where she is, to let it go now.

  Not when she's so close.

  When she finally makes this sale, they'll have to respect her. The same thing is true of her, after all, as anyone else.

  It's not the ranch that matters. It's winning where her father lost, and showing Brad and all those sons of bitches back at the site that she's not just some woman who wants to priss around the site while the men do the real work.

  She's just as much of a leader, just as much of a captain of the ship as her father ever was. Just like him, she's willing to do any job that needs doing. And just like him, as the company grew, she hires the right people so that she shouldn't need to do much on the floor.

  This—property acquisition—was what her real job was. Hopefully there wouldn't be a riot waiting for her, Brad Lang at its head, by the time the ink dries.

  Chapter Eleven

  It's been a while since there was any reason to keep beer in the house. After all, there aren't any parties going on. Nobody's coming over to see much of anything.

  But with the buyers coming out any day now, it's not hard to imagine that they might want something to drink. Most will take water, some will take soda. A couple might not say no to a beer.

  And neither, right now, with the mood he's been in, would Philip Callahan. Not only wouldn't he—he didn't. Not that there was any reason that he shouldn't be drinking a little.

  He'd never had cause to drink alone, but it was a little celebration, all for himself. A chance to say to the world that he wasn't giving up. That he'd figure out, some way or the other, how to keep the ranch open.

  The stallion went, that was a couple grand right into the ranch. Went into new samples, went into new breeding stock. Went into making it a real business again, making real money. Making more than just horse-hair.

  There's a knock at the door. He's not that drunk. There's no way that he's imagining it. The knock comes again, and he sets the can down on the table, next to the four others like it.

  The T.V. yammers on in the background, the remote too well-hidden to bother turning it off.

  "One second," he calls out. It takes longer than it should have to pick his way through the room and get to the door. He's made a mess of the room for one thing, and for another, he's not navigating at his best.

  The door opens, and on the other side is a pretty woman in a snug-fitting jacket. It's started raining some time in th
e last couple minutes, and yet it took no time at all to start pouring, and now Morgan Lowe is standing in his doorway dripping wet.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Uh, sure." Philip steps back and lets her pass. She drops a sack of food on the table. It's about the only thing she's got that isn't soaked through. Aside from a few little water-splash marks, it's actually in surprisingly good condition, all told.

  "You alright?"

  "I got you some food. Us some food."

  "I thought you were going out with the boys?"

  "I couldn't stand the thought of you out here alone, so I got you some food. And if you're gonna be eating, and I'm going to be right there, in case you change your mind about talking to me…"

  "You thought you'd just bring a little more, just in case?"

  Philip presses the clicker and the T.V. shuts off.

  "That's about right," she says. It's not until he steps into the doorway to the kitchen to continue the conversation that he sees that she's stripped to the waist, her back to the door.

  Part of him wants to stay and watch. She's got soft, clear skin, and her dark hair falls against it strikingly. Even from behind, with not a whole lot to see, she's a very attractive woman.

  He turns away down a hallway, presses his back against the shared wall. "You need anything? I could, I dunno, probably get you a change of clothes. No guarantees how it'd fit."

  She doesn't respond right away. The sound of water hitting steel as she wrings her shirt out.

  "I couldn't. That would be totally inappropriate."

  "I'm just offering you a shirt and a pair of jeans, Miss Lowe, not askin' your hand in marriage."

  Another pause. Another squeeze-out into the sink.

  "I don't want to put you out."

  "You wouldn't be putting me out." The thought runs through his head and out his mouth, while the alcohol runs interference on his better senses. "Easier for me than having to look at a pretty woman in a wet shirt like that."

  Another squeeze, this one quieter. Smaller.

  "If it wouldn't be any trouble, then—"

  Philip doesn't answer. He's already going to grab something from his dresser. The place isn't fit for guests, but now that she's here… well, it could be worse.

  It got a lot worse, the first year. It wasn't until a year ago now that he had figured out that he can't just keep wallowing. It had been a big project getting this far. It would be a big project getting any further.

  But you either do it, or you quit. What's the point of going halfway?

  "Got your shirt," he says, finally. He's standing in the doorway. The second she starts moving, he's already wondering whether or not she's thought it through, but she turns anyways.

  Her bra is hanging over a chair. She must have been thinking about what she was doing, right? And yet… she keeps turning. Her breasts are the first thing that strike him, and with the buzz from the alcohol, the voices telling him to stay are a hell of a lot louder than the voices telling him to walk away.

  She walks up. If she hadn't realized her state of dress when she turned at his voice—well, that might have been instinct. A reflexive action. But the look on her face now shows that she knows exactly what she's wearing, and she's not happy about having just made an idiot out of herself.

  She should be giving herself more credit. She might have made an idiot out of herself, but she made for a very attractive idiot.

  "Thanks," she says. She takes the shirt and swings it around her shoulders. It sticks a little where her skin is still damp.

  "Not a problem."

  This close up, he can practically smell her. Can practically smell everything about her. The shampoo she uses, the smell of the damp air outside, mixed in.

  She smells like a pretty woman. Like everything he'd imagine a pretty woman to smell like. And she's standing in front of him. She's closer to him than he'd realized. Her breasts are almost touching his chest. Her face is filling his vision.

  And then, before he even realizes that he's the one moving, her lips are pressed against his, and he's pulling his arms around her, and it may be a moment of weakness but it's a moment of weakness that he's not looking to end.

  She's kissing him back, and now her hands are on his hips, pulling him in closer, too. It doesn't take long for buttons to start being undone. For skin to press against skin as they hold each other.

  Her body is cold from the wet and the rain, little goose-bumps raised all across her body. She shivers, though Philip can't say whether it's from the cold or from something else entirely.

  His hands dance across her skin, now, pushing the boundaries that they've set for themselves once again.

  He should've stayed outside the kitchen. He should never have seen what he saw. Then he shouldn't have kissed her. But he did.

  And now, he shouldn't be letting his hands dance underneath that unbuttoned shirt, testing the soft skin of her sides, finding the feel of the curve by her ribs. Feeling the way that her back arches under his dancing fingers.

  But he is, and he's not going to stop. His breath catches in his throat. He's not going to stop for anything or anyone, not unless she makes him. And from the way her teeth bite into his lip, pulling on it softly…

  He doesn't think she's going to be stopping anything.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morgan Lowe knows exactly how much of a mistake she's making. Some small voice in the back of her head is telling her how it's all going to be fine. How this is building up a relationship with him.

  Not a business relationship, of course. That part of her is lying its ass off. This isn't going to turn into anything. If it does, then whatever it turns into isn't going to be what she came here for.

  She'd been wanting a sense of camaraderie. A sense that she was friendly, that she wasn't just a blood-sucking harpy who was out to steal his land. After all, that was what men thought of her, right? Just some kind of bitch.

  Instead, she's building up a very different sense. His hands run across her skin, sensitive from the cold. Like little spots of warmth, wherever he touches. This is a mistake, and it's a mistake she's decided to make anyways.

  Her lips press against his neck and then her teeth bite down. Philip lets out a little gasp and lowers his weight a little, turning and pressing her back into the wall. She lets go of his neck and takes a deep breath.

  She can see the way that his eyes drop to watch her breasts heaving as she breathes. He pulls the thin cotton fabric away from them and looks. She resists the urge to cover them up. She's already resisted it long enough as it is.

  She'd never been happy with her body in the past. Why should that be any different now? But something about the way that he looks at her, hungry, needing something that neither of them are entirely prepared to explain to the other—

  It makes her feel like a woman, in a way she's never felt before. In a way that makes it feel less like she's at a disadvantage to every man she's ever met.

  His head dips and his hot mouth engulfs a dusky nipple. The heat, surrounding her most sensitive parts, makes her head feel fuzzy. She only knows what she feels, and she knows that her hips are pressed against something very hard.

  Her hands decide to go on their own little exploratory mission to find out exactly what it is that he's hiding down there. Morgan has a good idea of what she'll find when her fingers undo the button fly.

  She wraps those fingers around his hardness, through the paper-thin fabric of his boxers, and it reacts to the touch, jumping and twitching in her hand. She gives it an experimental tug and even through the boxers she can tell that the experiment is a complete success.

  When she starts to pull the boxers down, sinking to her knees, it reacts again, twitching almost in a gleeful response to its new-found freedom. The shaft is almost too thick to wrap her hand around.

  She might be making another mistake thinking that she could take it all in her mouth, never mind inside her. But she's not going to stop herself now. Not going to be stop
ped by anything.

  She presses her lips against the head, a gentle kiss that almost certainly isn't exactly what he's looking for. The sigh that he lets out tells her that she's on the right track, though. Her mouth opens wide, and she takes him inside.

  His hardness fills her mouth, and she's forced to use her tongue as much as she can, because she's not taking it near as deep as some of the women in those videos she's seen.

  The way his fingers snake into her hair, pulling just enough to let her know that he probably can't stop himself from doing it, though, says that she's not doing so badly.

  She starts to move, and his hands tighten, trying to softly and subtly guide her mouth up and down his shaft. He must be enjoying it. Everything about the way he's acting suggests he does. But even still, she's amazed.

  Morgan looks up at him. The look of complete rapture on his face, an inescapable bliss, is surprising. She must be doing something right after all.

  His hips rock in to meet her mouth, his cock pressing itself dangerously toward the back of her mouth. The soft moan that escapes his lips stops her from telling him that she can't, though.

  Instead, she continues. She ignores whatever reflexes her throat tries to throw ay her. She can't overcome them, not with sheer force of will, but she can try to pretend that she doesn't notice it.

  Finally he pulls her off. His breaths are coming hard and ragged. "Fuck that was good."

  Something inside her, something she can't explain and will deny in the morning, feels a little bit sad that he didn't cum. Her pussy tingles at the thought of him shooting it down her throat, of taking her and making her give him whatever he wants.

  "Did you like that?" She shouldn't ask. She can see on his face that he does. His eyes flutter shut at the memory.

  "Fuck yes." He reaches down, one of his big, meaty hands wrapping around her arm and lifting her up a little. "Get up."

  She gets up, and as soon as she's got her balance, she's being turned around, bent over the countertop. Her trousers slip down easily over her skin, wetness forcing him to peel them off of her.