Part 15 (2/2)

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 s.h.i.+ver down his spine.

But his o.r.g.a.s.m is approaching. He can feel it, almost on the horizon, and he's not ready to c.u.m yet. He pulls out almost reluctantly, Morgan's face still wearing a hazy, well-f.u.c.ked 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 p.u.s.s.y.

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 c.o.c.k 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 o.r.g.a.s.m coming on quickly. His fingers tighten around her throat, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 o.r.g.a.s.m rips through her. Her body stiffens, her p.u.s.s.y 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 ropy strand of c.u.m shooting deep inside, fulfilling a primal need that neither one of them is truly prepared to deny themselves. He lets out a hoa.r.s.e 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 d.a.m.n 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 f.u.c.k 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.

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