Her hands don't move, even when she tells them to, some part of her body sensing that she's not sure how serious she is about the instruction herself. She's not sure how serious he is.
Until he repeats the instruction. "Go on. Off."
She shudders at the sound of his voice, low and edged with a threat that she doesn't know for sure he won't follow through on. She's not sure what he's threatening her with, and she's not sure what she'd be the most afraid of anyways.
Maybe it would be something usual—but maybe it would be something real simple. Maybe she'd go home without the relief that her body had already awoken to the need for. She'd been worried about him.
Worried, and nothing more.
But now that she was there, now that he'd taken that tone with her, her body responded like a computer—he pushed the buttons, and she did as she was told.
Her hands move slow, like she's moving through water, but no matter how she tried she couldn't make it go faster. Her fingers worked the buttons on her suit jacket, slipping it back and off her shoulders.
He raises his hand an inch off his lap, but the movement was enough to stop her. "Slow down. It's not a race."
Morgan takes a breath and tries to get her hands to stop shaking. Tries to get her head on right.
She sways her hips side to side, moving to the rhythm of a song that neither of them can hear. She closes her eyes a moment. Her hands have no trouble finding the buttons on her blouse. She undoes the bottom one and holds the shirt open a little, showing a little peek at her belly button.
Then she does the next one, and the next, each one showing a little more of her soft skin. A minute later, her hips still swaying softly from side to side, her shirt slips down her shoulders, until she catches it as it falls and tosses it over the back of the easy-chair beside her.
She turns, her hips still swaying, and her skirt unzips easily. She bends down as she pushes it over her hips, giving him as much of a show as she can manage. It feels strange, foreign.
And yet, the possessive, aroused look in his eyes makes it all worth it. She tries to hide the pleasure that she feels at the way his eyes rake over her.
And then he's pushing himself up from the couch. She stands back up and turns.
"No touching," she says. He wraps his arms around her and draws her in close to him, hips-first.
"Shhh." Her eyes flutter shut a moment at his command. She's never had anyone who took control like Philip does, and there's something about it that drives her absolutely wild. She gets to take the back-seat, when he does it.
In her every-day life, it was unacceptable, and yet—the minute that the right man does it, the minute that Callahan does it, she can't help but go wild.
His lips press against hers. The kiss starts sexual, and goes deeper from there. His tongue finds her teeth, but she opens them for him, their tongues dancing together. One of his hands squeezes her ass, causing her to suck in a deep breath. More of that, please.
She lets him move at his own pace. After a moment his lips leave hers, tracing a line with his teeth up her jaw and then back down her neck, alternately scraping and biting softly down into the sensitive skin.
"You like that, don't you," he growls. Morgan nods. "Say it."
"I love it," she says, her throat tight. "I need it."
His teeth bite in deeper, harder. Hard enough to hurt, but when she lets out a gasp and her body twists itself up, it's not the pain that she's reacting to. Her hips press themselves into him, his hardness pressing into her, taunting her with what she can't have yet. Because he hasn't given it to her.
His little nibbles resume, down her body, tracing the line of her shoulder and then her collar bone. He kisses down between her breasts and continues lower until his fingers are hooking into her panties and pulling them lower to allow him more space to kiss.
And then his kisses reach the place between her legs, the place that she'd been dying for them to go. She slips into the chair beside her and lets him begin.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
She tastes sweet and tangy and like a woman is supposed to taste. His tongue explores her folds greedily, as much about his own enjoyment as it is about hers. Her fingers, trying to find purchase in his shirt hair and mash his face in deeper, to take the last bit of pleasure, tell him that her pleasure is in no short order.
Philip's tongue moved faster, flicking the tip across the very tip of the hardened nub, as fast as his body would let him move. Morgan mashed in harder, already lost in the pursuit of more and more pleasure.
The feeling of arousal, of raw need, welling up inside his chest is too much. He probes a little bit lower, finding her wet and waiting hole with two fingers.
They suck at his fingers, trying to squeeze down and get them to pull deeper inside, her body already reacting to the intrusion by trying to make sure that he stays inside her as long as possible.
Her hips, on the other hand, tell a different story, writhing back and forth, not sure whether to try to drive him in deeper or pull back and try to regain her senses, so it does both alternately, sometimes trying to pull away and other times trying to force him deeper.
And then, when the efforts to pull away finally fail, and he adds a third finger to his probing efforts, when he refocuses his efforts on her g-spot, her body tenses up, her back stuck in a high arch.
Only then does she cry out, her voice hoarse and shrill and rich with arousal and need. His hands keep moving, his mouth locked around her clit, his tongue working faster and rougher as she rides out her orgasm.
He stops when her body finally relaxes, his fingers trailing out of her slowly as he stands before her; him fully clothed, while she lays on his lazyboy in the nude.
His erection presses hard against the fabric of his jeans. Her eyes don't leave it for a moment, even as her breaths can only come in spurts and gasps.
"Fuck, that was—"
"You liked that, did you?"
Her eyes drift shut, and then open again a moment later, her body too lazy and too satiated to blink. "A little."
"Good."
With what seems to be all the strength she can muster, Morgan sits herself forward, her hands working the zip at the front of his fly. It springs out and practically into her face. His boxers follow his jeans to the floor, but by then, no doubt, she's already forgotten about them.
She swallows Philip's cock like she's a woman dying of thirst, like it's the only thing that's going to save her from her need.
He holds her head still this time. Time for something different. Something more. Her head still, he moves his hips. It's slow, at first. No faster than she was doing it herself.
She'll need to open her throat up a little, for what's going to come next. She could use the time to practice, to get used to it. To get used to his cock and get ready for what's going to come next.
He moves faster. His fingers dig into her hair a little, holding it tight and giving her that little reminder that she's not supposed to move. His hips thrust a little faster, now—a little needier.
And once he's sure that she can take it, he stops holding himself back. Her throat releases a choking sound with every thrust as her air gets blocked, just for a moment before he pulls back out. The tightness of the back of her mouth feels amazing, and every thrust sends a tight shiver down his spine.
But his orgasm is approaching. He can feel it, almost on the horizon, and he's not ready to cum yet. He pulls out almost reluctantly, Morgan's face still wearing a hazy, well-fucked expression. He hasn't even begun yet.
"You ready?"
She nods, a dim smile plastered on her face. She's awash, now, he knows. She's away somewhere else, in a sea of need and arousal and nothing else exists for her but pleasure. Pleasure that he's going to give her. He leans down for a kiss, lining himself up with her entrance.
Her arms wrap around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist as he moves in close. He lines himself up with her entrance, and when he slowly pushes himself
inside, she grasps at him immediately with the thick walls of her pussy.
She lets out a happy sigh. She's been waiting for this, wanting it. She's been thinking about it, no doubt, since she climaxed under his earlier ministrations.
He pulls away from the kiss, pushes himself upright and pulls her back, away from the back of the chair without pulling out of her.
She's laying down, now, and he puts a hand down on her throat. As he pushes back inside, he drops some weight on his hand, and for an instant her hands move to grab his wrist.
Then, as if she's unsure herself of what she wants him to do, she pulls her hands back, presses her elbows into the chair, and presses her throat up into his hand, only closing it further.
He pulls out again and hits home, his cock driving hilt-deep in a single powerful thrust.
"You like that?"
She can't answer him. From the vacant expression on her face, the way that she just blinks and moans through the choking, Philip isn't sure that she's capable of much of anything except feeling pleasure. Certainly not speech.
He drives himself home again, his hips moving hard and fast—taking what he wants, taking his pleasure. What she wants is tangential to his own need.
His movements, as fast as he can make them, make it easy to feel his orgasm coming on quickly. His fingers tighten around her throat, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.
He pushes himself harder, faster. His hips can't keep rhythm any more, but still he needs more. Still he needs to push himself to move more, to take more, to get more, with every thrust.
And then he can feel her tightening down as her orgasm rips through her. Her body stiffens, her pussy clamps down on him, and he pushes inside her once, twice, three times more, and gives himself what he wanted since the first time he's laid eyes on her.
He pushes in and explodes inside her, strand after ropey strand of cum shooting deep inside, fulfilling a primal need that neither one of them is truly prepared to deny themselves. He lets out a hoarse cry, and then—
His grip on her throat loosens and she takes a breath, her eyes shooting wide before going half-lidded again. He leans down and claims a kiss from her lips, her hands moving up behind to run through his short hair.
Her body is slick with sweat, pressed against his, and her kiss tastes delicious. Like she always does. Callahan smiles into it and moves inside her, an implicit suggestion for a second round. He'll need a few minutes, at the very least. He's not a teenager any more.
But she seems generally receptive. Her teeth bite at his lip and her arms move lower, wrapping around his chest, pressing the full length of their bodies against one another.
His exhaustion, now forgotten.
By morning, it won't be.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The check was sitting in a desk drawer, and it was going to stay in her desk until he showed up. Whether or not Phil Callahan knew that he was supposed to come and get it wasn't entirely clear. She certainly hadn't bothered to tell him, but she wasn't about to.
Morgan could feel it sitting there; it was burning a hole in her pocket. She'd rather have cut the thing in half. But if he wanted to sell, then… she took a breath. She was going in circles. Over and over in circles.
First she'd be comfortable with it, and then it would be inappropriate to buy. And then she'd decide that it was his decision to make—she wasn't going to tell him what he was or wasn't allowed to do with his own damn property. Then she'd feel good about it again until the reservations would kick back in.
Well, there was plenty to be concerned about. No doubt about that. She was taking away a man's life, with the promise of land somewhere else. She hadn't even seen the place. They'd offered to buy, and the owner had come forward. A surveying team sent out, and they'd gotten information back.
Was it going to be good enough? Should she have kept it to herself?
Morgan takes a breath. She's acting like every bit the weak woman that she's never wanted to be. Every bit the woman that Brad Lang thought he could control. Every bit the one that Andrea had warned her against becoming.
Why was she so worried about pleasing Phil Callahan? At worst, he was an obstacle to her business. At best, he was a man capable of taking care of himself. He didn't need her babying him. He didn't need her trying to figure out how to solve his problems for him.
After all, if he did, he'd have told her what had him so concerned. He'd have talked to her, even a little bit, about what had him so worried. Why he needed the money so bad.
But he hadn't done that. He was allowed to have private concerns, and evidently, this time, he did.
Now that she was alone, now that she was sitting in her office and waiting for something to happen—either for the day to end, so she could go home and have a good hot soak and wake the next morning and repeat the pattern until the project was done, or for someone to walk through the door with a problem.
Something that she could put her head towards. Work for her to do. But instead, she had as many irons in the fire right now as she could juggle and all her projects were going smoothly.
Which meant that, instead of what had felt like a routine for the past six month—namely running around like a chicken with its head chopped off—she was waiting around, and for the first time she felt on top of the job.
Which was giving her too much time. Too much time to question herself, too much time to ask questions she shouldn't even have thought about asking.
Like why she was there. Why was it so important to set an aggressive timing on a project that her father had worked for years to get done? Why, after five years, had she needed to get it all done in six months?
Why was she here at all? Did the factories mean anything to her? Was it the respect?
She shouldn't have been questioning any of it. She shouldn't have thought anything about it. She should have kept her head square on her shoulders and not thought about it too much. Too much thinking leads to big problems.
And yet she's trapped in the thoughts. Trapped and waiting for something to change. Something has to change. Eventually, something will come along. Something will tell her what she's doing wrong, what she's supposed to do to fix it.
But as much as she wants something—anything—to distract her from her thoughts and worries, nothing does. Brad doesn't suddenly walk through the door to fill her with righteous anger, and she can't bring herself to start making calls to figure out what the fuck is going on with him.
Phil doesn't call. He doesn't come inside. She'll see him tomorrow. They've already got dinner plans. There's no reason for him to call.
And in her office, the lights humming at just the right pitch to set her nerves on edge, her worries and her fears climbed down her throat until she didn't know which way was up and which way was down, until she looked down at the clock on her computer screen and realized that everyone must have left twenty minutes ago.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Moving forward with a sale is something that Philip Callahan knows well. It may have been a long time since he's done it, but to an extent, it's a lot like riding a bike. The basic rules don't change much or often.
Why the hell would they?
But there's something else to consider, in this case, and that is that when the check starts to clear, it will mean things that he's not ready to deal with right now.
Once the ink dries on that contract, he's got to start seriously thinking about moving out of the ranch. He's got to start learning a new route home from town. He's got to start getting used to a whole new set of problems that need to be fixed around the ranch.
He's got to get used to a whole lot of things being different. Sara's not going to be right there any more. She'll be somewhere else. Somewhere respectful, no doubt.
With a hundred and fifty thousand, even after making sure that Randy's got no trouble, it won't be a special struggle to see that she's got a respectful and comfortable place to lay her down.
But some part of him isn
't ready. Some part that knows that he can afford to put it off as long as he needs to. After all, the check will still be there tomorrow. The deal will still be there. And with plans already made to see her…
Even then, time passes. It passes slow when you want it to go slow, but when you want to savor every last drop of time before you have to leave the place you've been living since you got your own place, near twenty years, the sand can't stay in the hourglass fast enough.
She looks good this evening. Morgan's always looked good, every time he's seen her. She wakes up looking good. His throat feels tight, looking at her.
"Evening."
She smiles up at him, leaning over her desk. It's strange to see her in those clothes, ready to go out for the night, leaning over the desk in her office. She must have changed in the office, but even still…
"Hey, you." Her voice sounds nice, too. But still, no mention of the deal. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe it's what she wants. Neither one of them seems to have much intention of getting to the point, right or wrong.
"How was work?"
"Slow. You wouldn't think that I would have something to complain about when nothing's happening. And yet…"
"Sorry to hear that."
"Don't be."
She tucks a set of keys into her purse and crosses the room, her arm in his. "Where are you taking me, Mr. Callahan?"
"I'm taking you? Oh, I get it—you've got my land, now the wining and dining is over, is it?"
She looks at him, clearly unsure, and he keeps a straight face for an instant. Then, as subtle as a train whistle, he winks and smiles, and then goes back to the straight face.
"You're awful."
"I think I told you that before. When we first met."
"Oh no, you're not getting out of this that easily."
"Alright, fine. You're right. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have teased you. How can I make it up to you?"
Nymphomania (Erotic Romance Bundle) Page 17