by Lola Rebel
"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 ropy 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?"
"I don't know. It's probably impossible." She's fully in the role now, even as they walk together, arms intertwined.
"Anything. I'll do anything. How's dinner sound?"
"Dinner? Oh, you'll have to do more than just that."
"In too deep for dinner, huh? Dessert, then, too."
"You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Callahan."
"I know, but that's part of what makes me so charming, you see."
"You're right about that."
He slips into the truck, and to his surprise she slides into the passenger seat. It's so strangely unlike her—she's always been in that red speed machine of hers, always been driving herself.
He doesn't ask her about it. If she's decided to ride with him, that's her prerogative. He drives her out. There's no reason to mention that of course he already had a reservation. You hardly need them out here, even if you go into the city.
Of course, if they're celebrating—whatever they're celebrating—then you can't stay just in town, but Wyoming isn't exactly the bustling social scene of a place like New York or Vegas. Does she expect that sort of thing? He doesn't know. But there's no use in getting nervous about it now.
Morgan takes his arm again automatically when they climb down from the truck. It must have been strange, sitting so high up after having her butt only a few inches off the ground every day.
"Sir?"
"I called ahead? Phil Callahan, table for two."
The girl at the front is small, barely five feet tall and she looks like she could still be in high school. Maybe just outside of it. She looks down the list studiously and taps next to where his name shows up on the list, near the top of the page. Maybe he'd called a little early.
"Got you right here, sir." She picks up a couple menus and tucks them under her arm. "Right this way, sir."
He follows her, Morgan only a step behind, to a quiet little section of the restaurant. The place isn't dimly lit—not the romantic lighting that the last one had.
But you can get one hell of a burrito here, and to his very great surprise, their steaks aren't half bad either. Maybe if he'd gotten into raising cattle, rather than raising horses, he'd have a stronger opinion on the matter.
Then again, Wyoming territory, they probably have access to the best steaks in the country, and local to boot. So who the hell knows, any more.
Morgan picks up a menu, and he does the same. He doesn't particularly need to look it over. He's been here plenty of times.
But his eyes drop to the pages, for a minute or two. Running over everything to see what he can see, and that's probably why he doesn't notice when a man walks up until he speaks.
"Hey, Callahan. Small world. Who's your friend here?"
Phil looks up, a little tired and not in the mood to talk to Glen Brand tonight.
"Glen, this is Morgan Lowe. She owns those, ah, factories going up? I'm sure you heard about 'em."
"Sure. You two close?"
Philip looks to her for guidance. Close? Sure. Close according to who? And who would they be close for? He might as well let her decide.
"We've been getting to know each other over business dinners. And you are?"
Chapter Forty
Morgan Lowe doesn't know a whole lot about cattle ranching, and she knows less about racing them. She's not an old hand in running a company—she's only been doing it a year now in any capacity at all, and only six months or so from top to bottom.
But men? She's got a lot of experience meeting men, and a lot of experience learning which ones she wasn't interested in dealing with any more.
When the guy introduces himself, and she takes his hand lightly, it doesn't take long to know that she's found another one that she's not particularly interested in meeting again.
The newcomer leans in close and says something to Callahan that she can't hear. How they're related, she's not sure. But that they know each other, that much isn't a question. She knows they do. They must.
Business partners, very possibly. But friends? It's hard to say. And the difference is an important one. She tries to get a sense for the relationship, but it's untenable at best. They've got something going on, that much is clear.
What it is, what it has to do with her—if anything—is less clear. Morgan closes her eyes a minute. She shouldn't be concerned. She shouldn't let herself be concerned. If she's got anything to be worried about, she can respond to it when it happens.
When you start preparing, when you start hedging bets, that's when you start to run into problems. That's when you start to have serious issues. She's got no interest in giving herself fits, and she's not going to, not if she has any choice in the matter.
Whatever it was that Glen said to Callahan, he closes his eyes a minute and tries to straighten his face. It's not a reaction that Morgan likes. It speaks to a discomfort on Philip's part, and if it's going to make him uncomfortable then it's almost certainly going to do the same for her.
"Would you like to have a seat?"
Callahan moves over a little, and the other man slides in next to him.
"Miss Lowe, how's business? I've heard that you're really knocking out the construction on your new plants."
"My boys are doing good work," she responds. What's this guy's play, anyway?
"Good to hear it. So how are you liking Wyoming?"
Philip's silence isn't comforting, either. He's looking at Glen, and he's not smiling. The way his elbows sit on the table, he looks like he's trying to cover himself. Or perhaps restrain himself. Everything about his posture is wrong.
"It's fine," she says. She tries to send her best 'buzz off' signal
s, but if he sees them he seems to think he can get around them through force of will.
"I run a few race horses, around the state. Been having some good successes around.
"Good for you." She doesn't want to turn this into an ugly situation. Not on her life. But the novelty of the situation is beginning to wear thin, and he continues not to get the message.
"You don't mind my joining the two of you, do you?" He says it as if he's just noticed that she doesn't like him being there. If he didn't notice, then he needs to have his head examined.
"Actually—"
"It's fine," Callahan says. His jaw's set in a way that immediately sends a signal to Morgan—not that she can tell exactly what it is.
He's not pleased, but he's not saying no either. In spite of the fact that he seems to want to. Whatever the younger man has on him, it must be something he doesn't want to lose.
She doesn't particularly have any interest in playing along. If he's got some creep over his head, then he should just tell him to buzz off. If he won't, then that's not her problem. Or it shouldn't be.
But 'shouldn't be' is nowhere near the same thing as 'isn't' in the real world. Not in business, and not in her personal life. So in spite of herself, she settles back.
"No problem at all."
If he's got something on Philip, then the question isn't what she wants or doesn't want. It's what she is willing to put up with for him. And in spite of the fact that he's just about a converted deal, and she could walk away as soon as the papers are signed, she doesn't want to walk away.
Which means that she's got to put up with whatever he's got on Philip, too. Deep breath. Nothing to worry about. She's going to worry either way, because if she doesn't, then she can get run over.
That's how it is for a woman in business, and like all women in business—like Andrea Neill, who called her just to make sure that she hadn't forgotten the lesson—she was going to have to be proactive.
Proactive enough to react to problems before they can even become problems, and at the same time, keep it in her pocket as long as she can.
