All Through the Night

by Mixed authors

“Not on this menu, and not tonight.”

  “Right. The menu: Dinner. Bowling. Whatever. Twelve ninety-five with soup and salad.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, then, what’s for dessert?”

  She had an instant vision of creamy things. She felt creamy, all soft, pliant, her body unfurling like a flower. He was a magician to make her feel like that when she was resisting him so hard. “Don’t go there.”

  “Oh, I’m already there, Regan.”

  A recipe for disaster, this was. There was too much against it—not least, their past. And they were sideswiping everything about that in his tearing need to quickly reestablish a connection.

  And everyone was opposed to it. Everyone?

  All good reasons to forge full steam ahead.

  Which was exactly what the old Regan, pre-divorce, would have done.

  Hell, Bobby had a head of steam on him already that was damned hard to resist, even with all her resolve. Her every instinct was to touch him, melt into him, take his heat, his hardness, for her own. The urge was so tempting, so much folly.

  … so what? …

  Who would know? Who would care?

  Sweet little lie.

  “Regan?”

  And then that softness in his voice, that emotional break. His warm, hard hand still grasping her own. Those dark eyes with worlds more experience, full of promise. When Bobby Torrance was hot, hard and ready to go, there was no getting in his way. He was mesmerizing.

  I came back for you…

  Irresistible.

  I want you ...

  Indomitable.

  The night was young, and she’d punished herself—and him—enough, she thought.

  She pushed out of the booth. “You win. Yes, sex. Let’s go.”

  In the elevator. She lifted her skirt before the door even closed. She was naked underneath. His possession was swift, hard, the prelude to a night of hot, unrelenting fucking.

  There was hardly time as the elevator shot up to her floor, to do anything but feel the pleasure of him cramming into her before they had to pull apart.

  She’d forgotten how hot he was, how hard, how there. Like granite between her legs. Her hand shook as she opened the door.

  She stripped in thirty seconds and pulled him onto the couch, her legs spread, her pubic hair glistening with his ejaculate.

  He mounted her without preliminaries; she was slick, hot, tight, endless.

  Home.

  He rocked against her hips, working himself deeper, tighter, harder, his head buried against her shoulder, listening to the erotic sounds of her accommodation, her pleasure.

  “I may never move again,” he whispered. “This is where I belong.”

  And the minute he had made that admission, his body seized and spewed, and he reared back and drove his point home.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

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  This was fine. On her back on the sofa, with him mounted on her, his penis swimming in his cream deep inside her, oh, that was so fine. So luscious.

  So necessary. How did she live without it—without him—so long?

  She felt a swamping greed. She wanted more. She felt his penis flexing inside her, still rock hard.

  He wanted more.

  “I want your nipples,” he murmured.

  “You just don’t stop.”

  “We haven’t even started.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  He shifted his body and maneuvered her onto his lap, his penis still embedded in her, and her breasts now at mouth level.

  Gorgeous, responsive breasts, the nipples pebble hard and pointed. Inviting. Just waiting to be fucked by a mouth and tongue that knew just what to do with them.

  “I need that nipple now.”

  She braced her hands against his shoulders as he settled his lips around her left nipple.

  Just his lips, soft and moist. Just the nipple, tight and hard. Just the faintest of pulling sensation. Faint, faint, growing more definitive, more precise, just the tight, hard tip of the nipple compressed in his lips.

  No tongue. Not yet. Just the pull, the sucking, pressing pull on her nipple, growing harder now, and harder. His other hand cupping her right breast, his fingers seeking that nipple, so that she felt two sensations centered at each hard tip: a sucking, pulling wetness and a soft caressing compression between his fingers.

  And all the while, the hot upright penetration of his penis, the root, the root on which her body writhed and skirled as he sucked and squeezed. Sucked and squeezed. Hot, hard, his lips now squeezing her left tit in erotic tandem with his fingers playing with the other, with the grinding of her hips as she rocked and rolled her body against his penis.

  And then his hot, wet tongue flicked it, curled around it and he began to pull on that nipple while he held the other compressed between his fingers and the pleasure, the pressure, his control of her body by his owning her nipples, the hardness of him intimate and naked within—it was more than she could bear.

  So much more.

  But she couldn’t get away. She didn’t want to. The pleasure skeined through her, primitive and profound. She wanted only to keep watching his possession of her nipples with his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, until she shattered into a thousand pieces.

  And it was coming. He was eating her nipple, compressing it between his lips, and holding onto the other nipple as he fed at her.

  Oh, God, he knew just how to do it. Just.. . her body heaved… like . .. and bucked on him… that—as lightning struck. Down she went, down, down, down on his hardness and into that gorgeous oblivion where the only thing that existed was the pouring pleasure centered on her nipples.

  And he never let her go.

  Down, Hard. Tight. Reverberating all over her body. Silence. Raw. Swirling away. And gone.

  Tension in him, as he relinquished her, taut as a bow.

  She lowered her mouth onto his, the first kiss since that previous day—could that be so?—and his orgasm rolled out of him like a storm.

  And then he gathered her in his arms, shifted to his side, which caused him to withdraw, and pulled her on top of him as he lay down.

  Feeling so right, so sated, her body languid and drenched with semen. She swiped a finger full and rubbed it into her swollen breasts.

  Perfect. She’d never again deny herself this. If this was all there was to being with him, for whatever time it was— then, yes…

  Yes, sex.

  And no regrets.

  That was the first hour. Regan awoke a short time later to the awareness of his hands all over her, stroking her, feeling her, caressing her slit, her buttocks, thumbing her nipples.

  Instantly, she was erect and aroused, and groping for his penis.

  He was huge, tender, thrusting. His mouth took hers as he inserted his fingers between her legs. She grasped him tighter as his tongue plunged against hers.

  Kisses, naked in the dark—that was what was missing. These incredibly hot, voluptuous kisses, sweet and insistent, swirling down to her toes.

  His fingers, probing her, spreading her, exploring all that she was.

  She had never felt so naked, so excited, so out of control. He knew just how to hold her down there, just how to manipulate the delicate folds. Just how to make her wanton with need and lusting for his penis, his possession.

  But no penis this time. This time his expert fingers playing with her nakedness, delving into her wet, finding the nub. And his mouth distracting her. And her hands frantically stroking the hard part that should be between her legs.

  Just there. Oh, God. He splayed her legs wider apart with his leg. He spread the folds of her cleft further outward to reveal her pleasure point.

  And there he played, exposing her nakedness to his expert manipulations.

  She could do nothing more than bear her heaving hips down on his writhing fingers, nothing more but succumb to the pressure of his nestling fingers rubbing and sliding all over h
er naked clit.

  There was nothing like this, ever—her whole world focused down on the rhythmic movement of his fingers on her point of pleasure. And it was coming. Her fingers convulsed on his shaft as she felt it coming, like a thundercloud rolling in, it came, rolling, rolling, dark, dark, swirling, catching her up as lightning bolted through her body, crackling through her bones, and flashing away.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered.

  “I couldn’t… I’ll explode.”

  But he still held her between her legs, her folds still spread, and she loved the way her nakedness was wholly open to him.

  She made a restive movement toward, and his fingers inexorably moved with her, and she loved the feeling of that, too.

  They spoke in whispers. “Kiss me.”

  “I am kissing you. Where it counts.”

  “I love the feel of your fingers doing that.”

  “Good. I love doing it.”

  “What else do you love doing?”

  “Everything you can imagine.”

  “Let’s start.”

  “We have.” He pushed against her cleft to widen it farther and she writhed her hips against the pressure of his fingers. He flicked her clit gently. “Nice. You’re all aroused again.”

  She made a helpless erotic sound, but he wouldn’t release her.

  “I want to hold you like this all night.”

  “Anything…” She felt wild, primitive, aggressive. It was feeling his fingers, the way he kept spreading her. She felt as naked as a cavewoman and just as primeval. He owned her pleasure point. There were no more secrets from him, and now he owed her his penis.

  “I want you to feel my fingers there every minute of every day.” His voice was low and fierce. “I want you to know where you live and you’d better remember who knows it more intimately than you do, and who owns it, and who fucks it.”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  “Now you do.” He caressed her clit and she shuddered. “All ready all over again.”

  “Then give me your penis.”

  “Not yet. I love holding you all wide-open like this.”

  Her hips churned against his fingers. “Bobby…”

  He silenced her with a kiss, deep, wet, swamping as he kept pushing at her labia. She pulled away, breathless, panting. “I need…”

  “Not yet.” He took her mouth again, pushing and pushing, battling her writhing, demanding body. Winning because the feel of his fingers pushing at her like that was so erotic, she didn’t want him to stop. Yet. Soon. Maybe.

  And, then, one well-placed touch of his fingers and her body exploded. The only word—just boom—and a thousand pinpoints of light sparked all over her body and flicked out in the darkness.

  He had relinquished his relentless hold, and she nestled up against him, half asleep. If this wasn’t his best wet dream, he didn’t know what was. Regan wholly his in every way possible—except… that one.

  And they needed to talk about that. Maybe not now.

  Maybe the thing was just to get her to say yes while she was all soft and sated and cuddly.

  Cuddly—Regan? In the aftermath of hot raunchy sex, she was as pliant as a sponge, everything absorbed into her and utterly wrung out.

  For this five minutes. This was how to deal with Regan: all the sex she could handle—and…

  Love her. Only differently, this time. Without jealousies and fights and recriminations and withdrawals and withholding anything. Just love her.

  He loved her. Always had. Now he knew how.

  His penis flexed, reminding him that he’d foregone his own release in the fury and spontaneity of hers.

  … No, actually, he didn’t think so. He wanted something else first.

  He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face and she stirred.

  He slipped his fingers between her legs. Oh, yes—she was still wet. Just where he wanted her to be. He moved her slowly and cautiously so that he could reposition himself just there.

  It didn’t take long for her to awaken. She felt his tongue, flicking in and out of her nether lips, felt him going deeper as he spread them outward, slipping, sliding his tongue all in and out of her, reaching for the elusive point of her pleasure.

  She canted her hips upward as he ate her. It was nothing more than full bore possession by his tongue, and she was naked and open to him even more. She wanted to fight it, she wanted desperately to run away from it, the sucking and kissing, and his tongue swirling with intimate knowledge in her very core.

  Instead, she let him take her. Let him have all of her that he could get at, all of her he could take in that voluptuous and carnal way.

  And when his tongue and lips finally pulled on her clit, there was nowhere to hide; she convulsed and convulsed with each rhythmic pull until she thought her body could take no more. And then she convulsed again, giving herself up wholly to that tongue, that mouth, that man.

  He buried his face in her muff, inhaling her scent, her sex. God, she was something. Endless.

  And he wasn’t done yet. He still had a penis to satisfy, and he so tender, so bursting, he thought he didn’t have a chance to get father inside her than his head before he detonated.

  But he’d wait. He’d learned a lot of hard lessons about waiting.

  “Bobby?” Her voice was the merest breath, as if speaking out loud would break the spell, the sensual bubble in which she floated.

  “What?”

  “I love everything you’re doing. Everything. But I need to feel something hot and hard between my legs.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “ You, Bobby. I really need you.”

  “Me too,” he muttered, mounting her, taking her, taking her, taking her… straight on till morning.

  You played chess with men like Bobby, with your boss and even with your friends.

  It was a matter of degree. And a matter of the lies, scattered like seed to root and spawn.

  “What happened last night?” Angie demanded as she came bustling into the Riverside Inn. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

  “I forgot.” She wasn’t going to talk about Bobby. She hadn’t quite assessed what had happened last night with Bobby. And it was too private, too personal, anyway. And that was a lie, too. “So don’t read me the riot act over one little phone call. Besides, I’m tired and you know I can’t talk coherently before I have coffee.”

  Angie backed off and slid into the booth. Something happened last night after her phone call, she could tell just by that little slip. She felt a tingle of foreboding. And she wondered why she instantly thought it had to do with Bobby.

  She clamped down on her first impulse to ask questions. If she were patient, Regan would spill everything in her own good time.

  She picked up the menu. “I never could understand how you could stand it day after day, all those clients, all that juggling, all those moves and countermoves. Doesn’t it wear you out?”

  Thank God, Angie wasn’t going to question the abortive phone call. Smart Angie. So much easier to talk about business.

  “It’s a lot of money, and some deals come with incentives.” Like sex. “And the minute we find some momentum, the sky’s the limit. So—we play chess.”

  “I know you’re good at it.”

  “You bet.” And before today, it had mercifully kept her too engrossed to think about anything else. But maybe that was the reassurance that Angie wanted.

  Needed.

  Or maybe she needed it.

  Angie looked a little tentative this morning, a little unhappy.

  “You need a job,” Regan said. “Have some coffee.”

  “I have a job. I take care of Mother.”

  “Who is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”

  “You haven’t seen her recently: she looks older, more frail. Bobby’s coming home hasn’t made her happy.”

  Damn—mistake to share that. Regan was certain to want to know why.

  But Regan d
idn’t comment, and Angie went on, trying to backpedal, “She’s kind of isolated herself, doesn’t go out hardly at all, or do much of anything.”

  “She’s an iron butterfly,” Regan said. “She’s punishing someone for something. Bobby, maybe?”

  Well, who wouldn’t have honed in on that? Angie thought. “Probably. She thought everything was all set up in Chicago. I bet if she’d known Bobby was planning something like this homecoming, she’d have finally consented to move there.”

  “But then what would she have done? There’s no Regan to hate in Chicago.”

  Angie looked up at her sharply. “No, there isn’t. She’d have died of boredom. Now she’ll die of resentment. And Bobby came home really late last night, by the way. Really, really late.” The worst thing. Her worst fears. She hadn’t meant to emphasize it quite that way, but that flicker in Regan’s eyes was all she needed: Bobby had been with Regan last night. And that was why Regan hadn’t returned her call.

  She wanted to kill Regan just because of that, if nothing else. Because Bobby was in her thrall, ever a man, and couldn’t keep his hands off her or his penis in his damned pants.

  “None of that is my fault, Angie. None of that—or Bobby’s coming back.”

  “Maybe Bobby’s coming back,” Angie said tightly.

  Regan poured some coffee to warm up her cold cup. Another mistake, getting onto this track. She didn’t want to hear that Angie knew about last night.

  “We’re talking too much about him.”

  “Mother knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “He’s back because of you.”

  Well, she wasn’t a plague, for God’s sake. She wasn’t a leper. “Well, she’ll just have to deal with it.”

  Angie set down her cup. One cup of coffee, and she’d already said too much when all she wanted to know was what happened last night.

  Maybe.

  No, all she wanted to know was whether Bobby had finally screwed Regan last night. And maybe she didn’t want to know, because if she did, she might do something drastic. “Forget I said that.”

  “Why? What do you—what does she expect me to do about it?”

  Typical Regan. Just mess up everyone else’s life with her thoughtlessness and selfishness, and bulldoze right through it without considering the consequences.