Nymphomania (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  "I'm going to fuck you," he growls. Morgan presses back against him. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she wants this. Needs it. It's been—God, it's been forever since she had anyone do this to her.

  Never like this. Never a raw, primal lust. Never this bad of an idea. Never with a man ten years her elder. As he lines himself up with her slick entrance and pushes inside, she feels herself already starting to clamp down on him, her body tensing up a little and then relaxing.

  Her eyes go wide. He pulls back out a ways and then pushes in again. Somehow, though it seems impossible, he goes in deeper this time.

  He rocks his hips back once again, and with the third thrust he pulls himself in, using her hips like a handle, until he slams all the way home. His balls slap against her in a way she never realized would feel as hot as it does.

  "Fuck me," she says. She's not sure why she says it, not sure if any of this is a good idea. The idea that she shouldn't be doing it only makes her want to keep going more. The need overtaking her senses keeps her on the edge of orgasm, always threatening to go over the edge once more.

  He does what she asks. He pulls out and then slams himself home once more, his body moving in perfect time, filling her up to the breaking point. She's close. She feels as if she's been close the entire time, every thrust threatening to send her over the edge.

  But something holds her back. Something that she can't name, something she can't explain. Something that she wants very badly to go away. When his hand comes down hard on her round ass, unleashing a resounding clapping sound, and then he thrusts in again, it's like the veil has been lifted.

  Her entire body goes tight, her fingers scrabbling on the countertop for grip that she can't find. Her body is moving on its own, now, her pussy squeezing to drain out every last drop of his essence.

  And when he explodes inside her, the mistakes are complete, and she falls deeper and deeper into the orgasm, down to depths that she didn't know could exist, but now that she's got them, she's not giving them up for anything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The weight of his mistakes hits him every time that he blinks. It doesn't take all night for it to start hitting him. It only takes as long as it takes to get some of that now-cold takeout into his belly.

  He looks up at Morgan, at how attractive she is. He feels another stirring deep inside himself, even now that she's dressed. The desire that he's already slaked building up again. And he knows he should have told himself 'no,' but he didn't.

  It hits him again when she leaves. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see the way her wide hips spread just a little, enough to accommodate him. He can see the way her back arches. He can feel the roundness of her ass in his hand.

  It hits him harder in the morning, though. Everything always seems to. As if in the morning your mistakes are multiplied. The headache from dehydration, to little tiny hangover, isn't helping things at all.

  But even still, the alarm kicks him awake before the sun rises, and he forces himself out of bed. He pulls on some clothes and an extra flannel shirt for good measure. It'll come off at some point during the day, but right now the outside is too cold to ignore it completely.

  Deep breath. He's already had plenty of experience with all this. Already learned how to deal with things that you're absolutely not ready to deal with.

  This time isn't any easier than it has been the last thousand times. Something inside him wants it to be harder, wants a hate to build up so big that it will burn forever. A hate for himself, for what he did to Sara, that he'll never feel okay again.

  But he can't make himself feel that way. He already hated himself. This is just another in a long line of mistakes he's made, things he's done to embarrass himself. No change there.

  And like he has to every morning, he has to force himself out the door. But that's no change, either. It's not any easier than it's ever been, but now he knows what to do. He knows how its supposed to feel. He knows that it's not going to be easy—not ever.

  Somehow that makes it easier. It's made it easier every day since he left the hospital with two spaces in the car that should've had someone in them that were empty. Knowing that you'll never be able to fix it. He doesn't have to look forward to the day when it goes away.

  He can just keep remembering that all he really has to do is make it through the next five minutes. Just keep going.

  Five minutes is really progress, in the end. In the beginning, all he had was telling himself if he just took one more step, it would be fine. He could just put one foot in front of the other, and if that was too much, well, he could wait.

  But eventually, he'd have to take one more step. Now, five minutes feels like a luxury. Just have to get to the coffee. Have to get a glass of water. Have to get breakfast started.

  It's the routine that keeps him going on days like this. Some are better than others, but they're never good. How could they be? How could he let himself have a good day, when everything good that ever happened to him is gone?

  He sits down at the table with his coffee, still steaming from the pot. He sets the water down next to it, and the plate of bacon and eggs down next to that. Deep breaths. It's easy to feel overwhelmed. Avoiding the overwhelming stress, that's the most important part.

  He doesn't have to eat them, not if he doesn't want to. He just has to get everything on the table. Then, he has to sit down, and take a bite, and if he's not feeling it, then he won't eat.

  But the routine gives him momentum. The momentum that will carry him through the day. He spears a little egg with his fork and puts it in his mouth. He can stomach the idea of eating. So he takes another bite.

  He takes a sip of coffee. It's a little burned. He should buy a new coffee maker, but he won't. He takes another sip. Still burned, but he can drink it. If it's unpleasant, then that's just fine. After all, he deserves it for what he did. He's betrayed his wife.

  It's not the first time. The latest and worst in a long string of ever-worsening betrayals.

  First it was letting her go. If he'd been there, in the room with her, the whole time… they'd told him he had to leave. He should've stayed. In the waiting room, in the chapel, somewhere. He should've been close to her.

  She would've been able to take it then. She would've been stronger. He would've been stronger. They were a team. They'd always been a team. And when he'd been sitting there in his truck, fallen asleep out front of the ranch, she'd been fighting without her partner with her, and she'd lost the fight.

  Then he'd kept going without her. He should've, you know. To meet her. But someone told him that she would have wanted him to keep going. Maybe they were right, but what she wanted and the right thing to do weren't the same thing.

  In his weakness, he'd decided to do what they told him was the right thing. And he couldn't bring himself to regret it, not really, but he could absolutely blame himself for it. It wasn't even hard. Blame came easy and it stung bad enough that he felt like he was really suffering for what he'd done.

  Then he'd started to live, a life that didn't have his wife in it. Now this. The latest and greatest in a line of failures. He takes a deep breath and drinks another sip of burned coffee.

  It's always burned, though, and he deserves to drink burned coffee. He deserves it because he betrayed her, and now he was just going to hurt some other woman.

  He reaches over and grabs the little brown box full of index cards, where he's written down numbers over the past fifteen years. It's not quite a Rolodex, like they used to use, and if the boys saw it then no doubt they'd have a whale of a time giving him shit about it.

  But he thumbs through it until he sees a name that he's looking for, punches the number into his phone, and waits until it starts ringing.

  A woman's voice answers. That's a surprise by itself. But the name she gives is the same one he's used to.

  "This is Phil Callahan, over at the Callahan ranch."

  "Good morning, Mr. Callahan. How can we help you?"

 
"I've got a horse I'm looking to sell. I've got all his papers. I think that Glen will be interested."

  "Would you like to make an appointment to have Mr. Brand come look at it?"

  "Sure. Whenever is fine, I'll be here."

  "How's Thursday afternoon, around two?"

  "Thursday afternoon sounds great," Philip says. He lets out a breath. Glen Brand used to be a little name in a big game, but he wanted to win. And like most people who wanted to win, and who were committed to winning, he was willing to spend the money it took to get there.

  If he had a secretary, that was proof by itself that he'd found what he was looking for.

  Maybe, if Callahan was very lucky, he was looking for more of it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Morgan Lowe knows that there's a next step. There's always a next step, and she knows that sometimes the next step is to do nothing.

  This doesn't feel like one of those times. It feels like there's something she should be doing. This feels like a junction for her. More than that, it feels like it could be a major turning point for Phil Callahan.

  The way he was looking at her didn't leave much question about what he was thinking. He'd pulled out of her and not one second later he'd started blaming himself for the whole thing.

  He'd started thinking, maybe it was all his own fault. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but that wasn't going to be something that she could just tell him.

  She'd made her choices. She'd decided to do what she did. The best thing she could do was sit down and talk it out. He wasn't ready to talk last night. Any idiot could have seen that.

  Maybe after a night's rest he could give it some serious thought. Maybe he could see things clearer. Maybe she could sit down and talk things out.

  They could get closer. Maybe they could even grow from the entire experience. Was it the right decision to have made? No. She was pretty sure that it wasn't. It was a mistake by all accounts. But there's a big difference between something being a mistake and something being unrecoverable.

  The situation was far from being unrecoverable. If she got over there, and she talked to him, then she could probably make everything go back to the way it was. Better than the way it was.

  She could have a relationship based on more than just her constant nagging need to be involved in his affairs, built on more than just nagging him into oblivion to pretty-please give selling her the property some thought.

  And once a relationship like that was established, you could start seriously working on getting things done.

  Which would be very nice to have. It would be extremely nice. It could all lead up to that big win that she's needed. All she had to do was go talk to him, get the air cleared up.

  Which is why it's so frustrating that leaving the grounds is the one thing she absolutely cannot do. Brad leans his weight on the desk in front of her with a wolfish smile.

  "How's the Callahan ranch going? You drafting up papers yet?"

  Whatever he knows, or thinks he knows, he thinks he's got something that will get under her skin.

  "It's a work in progress," she says. Flatly.

  "You ought to know, the old man's never going to sell that ranch. Never in a million years. Might as well give up. Woman like you, he'll take you for everything you're worth and then drop you with nothing to show for it."

  "Thank you for your advice, Brad. I'll keep that under advisement."

  "No problem. I know why you're trying to get it. Would look real good to the board. Nobody doubts why you're doing it, and it's a good idea, on some level. But babe—" Morgan bristles at being called 'babe' but keeps it to herself— "you got to admit. It's just not going to happen. You want a man's opinion, that's my opinion."

  She hadn't asked him for his opinion, in fact. What she'd asked him for was some feedback on why the crews she'd specifically asked him to keep an eye on were a solid day behind.

  And then it had all been a bunch of questions about the Callahan ranch.

  "Well, thank you very much, Brad. Did you want to tell me what the hell is going on with crews three and four?"

  "Some kinda problem. They say they can't dig."

  "If that's the case, then why wasn't I notified?"

  "What do I look like to you, some kinda idiot? We were taking care of it, so you didn't need to be called. Damn, girl."

  Her shoulders were tight, and it took everything she could muster not to launch right across the desk and rip his throat right out.

  "I'm in charge here, Mr. Lang. Don't forget that. You've got not one, but two crews being insubordinate, and you don't bother to contact me once?"

  "You were busy," he says. He shrugs.

  The son of a bitch keeps arguing like this and she's going to kill him.

  "Too busy for a text? So you thought that meant you were in charge? You think you own this factory, you—"

  "What the fuck is with you today? Hormones or something?"

  She wants to slap him. She wants nothing more in this life than to slap the hell out of him. She bites down on the inside of her cheeks instead, tightens her toes inside her shoes.

  "I'm going to talk to the crew chiefs of three and four. You're done for the day. See you tomorrow."

  He shrugs again. "Whatever, boss. Y'want to overreact, I won't stop you."

  "You're lucky I don't fire your ass, you insubordinate little piece of—"

  He's already turned, already shrugging on his coat. He's got no interest in listening to her.

  Something inside her says she ought to fire him. Nobody in the world would tell her that she'd been unreasonable to do it. That was some of the most insubordinate garbage she's ever heard come out of anyone's mouth.

  Right to her face, no less. Right to her God damned face. And yet, a little voice reminded her. He was in good with the guys. She fired him, it would seem like a reflection on the guys that liked him.

  She swallowed her anger. She'd have to ignore it as best she could, because there were bigger, more important concerns than whatever the fuck Brad Lang thought he could do. Bigger than his being a piece of shit.

  Right now, she had to get out there on the grounds and find out why, specifically, they say they can't dig. Then she's got to figure out what to do about it, and she's got to do it in a hurry.

  The factory's supposed to be up in two months, and running in four. Every day counts. Every day. And every time that Brad Lang lets a crew get behind, it's a big god damn mess to clean it up that only gets bigger as the timeline goes on.

  Little inefficiencies like that cause big ripples. It might not seem like much now. It might seem like he can handle it.

  He's not going to be the one standing there on the stage when someone asks her why they desecrated some burial grounds, and she has to look like a god damned fool because she doesn't have an answer for them.

  He's not going to be the one who has to stand in front of the members of the board and explain why she thought it would be a good idea to create a public relations nightmare that could kill the company outright if they weren't careful.

  So whatever the problem was, if she didn't have her hands on it, then she didn't want it solved. Because six months from now, a year from now, two years from now, the solution isn't going to fall down on Brad Lang's head.

  It's going to fall down on hers. So she'd better be god damn prepared to answer that question when it comes up, and the only way she can do that is if they keep her in the fucking loop.

  She takes a deep breath. She shouldn't let herself get riled up like this.

  But it's too late now. She straightens her back, pulls back her shoulders. It's past time for her to take back control of this god damn build site.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It wasn't until the boys were already out working the field that the mail came for the day. It was always like that. Philip took a deep breath and mopped at his forehead. It wasn't as if tending animals was easy work, and even in the coolness of the spring it was hot inside the
barn.

  Still, the man standing at the barn door called out his name and he answered.

  "I've got a letter for you," the mailman says.

  "Good," Callahan calls back. What's that supposed to mean?

  "Needs a signature, Mr. Callahan."

  "I'll be right there."

  He carries himself out to the door. The cool breeze blowing in cools his skin comfortably, and he takes a moment before he accepts the little electronic sign-in and scrawls his name on the screen with the plastic stylus.

  The scribble that results is vaguely similar in some ways to the signature he might have put down on paper, but the man looks at it and shrugs. Good enough. Then he hands over the letter. His hands straight into Phil Callahan's.

  On the front is a label he'd hoped never to see. The Internal Revenue Service was sending him a love-letter, it seemed.

  The mailman turns and starts walking off as Callahan tears open the envelope and pulls the papers inside out. Whatever productive work he might have done today is pretty much out the window at this point.

  Callahan's blood pressure jumps through the roof as he reads. Each time that it seems as if it can't get any worse, it just does.

  A god damned audit? This is hardly the time for that. He's got no time at all. And all because they think he made more than he filed?

  He would almost laugh, if it wasn't so god damn frustrating. He'd made next to nothing the past two years. Next to nothing. It was only thanks to the savings he'd built up, when things looked like they might actually be looking up, that he could even keep the place open.

  The ranch was relying almost entirely on the hope of getting twenty grand or so from the Black that would put them back on track. If they could do that, then they could get a younger mare, they could get back to seriously breeding again.

  The Black was as quick as greased lightning. He should have been thirty. Forty if he found a real good buyer. But now, Callahan had to hope for twenty. And then he had to hope that he could find the right breeding stock and do it for pennies.