by Amy Faye
"Anywhere."
"Anywhere sounds wonderful, but I need a specific where."
She doesn't take long to think about it. She's passed by the little Italian place a thousand times. She can hear something in his voice when she suggests it. Something that makes her wonder if she's made a mistake by mentioning it. If she has, though, the mistake is already made.
"That's fine. You want me to meet you there? Or I can pick you up from the site."
"I don't need a ride, Mr. Callahan. I've got a very nice one of my own."
"I've seen it. How do you keep mud off, way out here? You'd think—"
"I wash it. It's real easy, you just use a hose, and…"
She tapers off and there's a little silence where Philip Callahan's smile fits in.
"Alright, smart-ass. Seven o'clock sound good to you?"
She should be ready well before then. But if it's a date—and he's making it sound very much like a date—then she can be busy as late as he needs her to be.
"Sure."
She sets the phone down and makes a distinct effort not to read into any of it. This was all about making sure that he was in a good mood, making sure that he had what he needed to keep going. Her feelings didn't enter into it in the slightest—nor should they.
But that didn't mean that her heart wasn't flapping around the room, now. It didn't mean that she could keep the smile off her face. It didn't mean that she could keep her thoughts out of the gutter, either.
She tapped the desk. Just another few days. Easy days. Nothing to worry about. The walls were already up. Now they just had to build out the inside, and then they'd have a couple weeks installing the machinery.
Six months from now, there would be people working there who had already settled into the daily routine. People who would already be used to it.
She smiles at the thought. Not much longer, now. Not much more to wait for. Not for them, anyways. Not for her business. But for her, personally… tonight was all that she had to look forward to, and it was already far, far too much.
She clicks her teeth together in anticipation. She checks her e-mail again. A hundred new messages, not one of them particularly important. She starts combing through them. By the time she finishes, they'll have replenished themselves.
And then, after she's done that a few more times, after she's made a call or two to make absolutely certain that everything is on track, it'll be time to cut out of here. She'll go right straight home and get dressed, and then…
She doesn't dare to think about it. She shouldn't be imagining any of it. She shouldn't even think about what it's going to be like sitting at the table with him.
The thought of a repeat performance, of laying down in the back of his truck with a little blanket under her to cushion her shoulders?
The thought of spreading her legs a little, of him pushing her skirt up over her hips and taking his place between them?
The thought of being full and complete in a way that she had only felt once before in her life?
Those were the sort of thoughts she couldn't really afford to be having. And those were, as it happened, exactly the sort of thoughts running through her head at that instant. Go figure.
She takes a deep breath and tries to slow the beating of her heart down, tries to cool the fire that lit itself inside her belly when she wasn't paying enough attention to her thoughts.
There's a lot more going on in her imagination, and she's trying like the devil not to think about it. But the more that she tries not to think about it, the more real it all seems. The more that her skin raises goosebumps, the more that her nipples can feel, acutely, the fabric of her bra with every little movement.
The more that she tries not to think about it, the more that she needs it. It's going to be a long couple of hours waiting.
This time, she's not going home without someone making sure that she's not going home frustrated. If she's got any luck at all, then she's got someone in mind. If not—she's not sure what she'll do, but at the end of it, whatever it has to be, she knows one thing.
If she doesn't scream, it's not over yet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The biggest thing that kept him from walking out right then and there was that she'd told him that his suit looked nice the last time they were together.
Philip Callahan hadn't been on the inside of a real restaurant in a long time. Longer, frankly, than he was entirely prepared to admit. And to be the first one there? His hands wanted to clench up into little balls.
Now he looked like some kind of idiot, and that was only if he was just a little early. If she was late, he'd be waiting there for her, as alone as could be.
If she didn't show—there was no reason to assume that. He cuts the thought off before it can take too deep a root. He's too old to be sitting there worrying like a seventeen year old kid on his first date. That was a long time ago, now, and the nerves that went along with it are long past.
Which is why, in spite of the fact that there's certainly something twisting his stomach up in knots, he's not going to attribute it to nerves about a damn date. The nerves that threaten to eat at him tell a different story.
Callahan leans back against the seat that they've got sitting out in the waiting room. Nothing to do but wait. She'll show up. He's got no reason to assume that she won't. Don't be an idiot.
He closes his eyes a minute. He shouldn't have lied to her, either. If he wants to talk to her about maybe getting an option on selling the ranch, he should've come out and said it.
They could have plenty of personal time—personal time that didn't come with any strings attached or promises, he added to himself and to his stirring arousal—after they'd really cleared the air about what his intentions were with the land.
But he shouldn't try to play it as if he's not even thinking about it, not now that the thought's started to occur to him more and more often. Not now that he needs the money more than he needs to be obstinate.
He hears the door open. The air whooshes out of the climate-controlled restaurant, a little too cold for comfort, and rush into the open air. The warm breeze that comes along with it is a comfort, as well.
She looks around for a minute, unsure where she's supposed to go. The way that she doesn't head right up to the desk, she must have seen his truck, but she doesn't see him at first.
Callahan can't help taking advantage of the situation for a moment, allowing himself to look her up and down. Her clothes are tight-fitted and show off all the right parts, all the parts a man looks at on a woman. Just like the last one, it implies without giving away the whole show, and in spite of his best intentions, his body responds.
"Glad you made it," he says, stepping up beside her. Morgan jumps back and hits into his chest as she turns. Having her this close is intoxicating, and having the opportunity to tease her doubly so.
She fits comfortably into his arms, even though he hadn't meant to pull her in. Now that she was there, wrapped in his strong arms, it felt too right to stop all of a sudden.
She smelled sweet. A vaguely flowery smell that smelled very much like a woman was supposed to. One that complimented the soft curves that his hands pressed against.
"Philip. It's you."
He smiles. "Yes, it's me."
Callahan lets her go reluctantly, but she doesn't pull back. "Have you been waiting long?"
"Only a few hours. I called you, when, noon?"
Morgan rolls her eyes, but it only serves to egg Callahan on. He winks. "Only another minute or two until we get our table." He guides her back to his seat, positioned just so that they can see the hostess stand without being right in the middle of the room where everyone can gawk at them. "You look lovely tonight, by the way."
She lights up a little bit. "You think?"
"Absolutely. You light the place up."
She flushes again. He likes that, likes his ability to get her to react to his flirtation. It was something that he'd always liked in women.
"Of course."
She sits back. He allows himself one last look at her, his eyes sliding over her hungrily. But he's not going to sate that hunger now. They're going to have to wait until later for that. For now, they will both just have to pretend that they're completely under control.
Once they leave, though—that's when all bets will be off.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
She doesn't want to wait any more than she has to. It's been burning in her gut since longer than she can even remember, and now that he's right there, now that he's in front of her and she's in the position to take what she wants again, she's not going to let it slip out of her grasp again.
His lips press against hers roughly. The skin around his mouth is baby-smooth—he must have shaved just before he went to meet her, because there's no stubble to press roughly into her. It would hurt, but it's exactly the sort of hurt she wants. Part of her is a little disappointed.
His hands reach around to grab her behind, pulling her up and into him, molding her body around his in a way that she hadn't wanted to forget about. Her breaths come in short bursts, the need threatening to overtake her senses entirely.
She tears away from the kiss, breathless, but it's only an instant before she's back at him, pressing her lips into his throat. Callahan's breathing is rough with need, a need that can only be matched by her own, can only be met by what they're about to do.
His hands move away from her ass, reaching up and pulling down the zip on her dress. Around them, the ranch is quiet. Nobody will, but the thought that someone could drive down the little country road and see them is burning in her mind, making her body coil up around itself.
"God, I need you," she says. Her voice reflects the need that she's feeling.
"Good," he growls. He pulls her back and pulls the dress down. It falls into the grass at their feet. He presses her back against the truck. She leans over it a little, the shape of the hood pressing an arch into her back, presenting her breasts to his inspection.
She can feel the vulnerability inside her. It threatens to overwhelm at any moment, threatens to force her to lose what little bit of control she still retains. And the way that his eyes rake over her naked body—possessive and masculine and filled with need—only serves to stoke that fire.
She leans back, her arms wide and pressed into the hood of the truck, still a little warm against the skin of her back. He can take whatever he wants, and they both know it. Now she's telling him, with everything less than words. She's his.
His head dips to take a dark, pointed nipple between his lips. The feeling of warmth, of his rough lips pulling at the sensitive bud sends signals through her body that only serve to make sure that she continues down the path that she's already on.
Her body presses up into him, her arms wrapping around his head and trying to get him to take her deeper into his mouth, to spread that warmth. His tongue flicks across the nipple. Again. Her body is starting to tense, preparing early for an orgasm that she knows isn't coming yet. She'll need a little more, but she knows it will come. In time.
His hands explore her skin. Gone is the quick, forceful sex that they'd had the first time. He lets the need burn slow, takes his time in getting to know her flesh.
His hands trace the silhouette of her hips, cupping the roundness of her ass and pulling it away from the steel bumper. He squeezes, eliciting a soft yelp that she can't quite keep silent any longer. He can't quite keep the smile off his face as he sees it.
Callahan's teeth gleam in the darkness as he smiles. Those teeth take her hard, sensitive nipple between them and pinch, a high-octane mix of pain and pleasure sending signals to every nerve center in her brain.
Her body bucks against his, trying to get the pleasure that she knows isn't there to take yet. He presses a knee between her thighs, a small concession to her need, a little promise that she knows he'll have no difficulty in fulfilling when the time comes.
Her hips rock against him, the rough fabric of his trousers giving her a tiny taste of relief. And then he's spreading her legs a little wider. His hand dips between them, exploring the skin below her belly-button. She's never thought of it as sensitive until now, but every tiny touch, every time that his skin brushes against hers, it leaves a trail of burning memory that promises and delivers all by itself.
His fingers dip deeper, caressing the downy-soft hair above her core. He knows what he wants, and he knows exactly what she wants, too. Her hips press up into his hand and he grows still, pressing her hips back with his palm.
"Now, what made you go and do that?" he says. His voice is low and sexual, and speaks to the teasing that's going to drive her nuts.
"I'm sorry," she says. She's played this game before. It's a game she's always liked. From both sides.
"You need to stay still, girlie. It's not your turn yet. It's my turn."
His fingers find the place where her legs meet. The folds part easily, readily, for him and his probing fingers. Her clit sends alarm bells ringing through her entire body as she feels him circle around it, as she feels the vaguest threat that he might press against the hardened nub.
Then he's passed, the very tips of his fingers spreading her the tiniest possible amount, hinting and tantalizing without ever going quite far enough to give her what she needs.
Her hips squirm again, trying to get a little more. She forces them still as quickly as possible, but it won't happen. She can't make it happen. And then he's pulling away.
"What did I say about moving, little darlin'?"
She whimpers. The words, so immediately ready, just won't come out. "I didn't mean to—"
"Now, what am I going to do with you? Disobedient… needy… oh, you can't help yourself, can you, little thing?"
"No," she says. She looks up in his eyes, pleading with him. Please, don't stop. Please. Just a little more. Just a little further, and—
"You're going to have to learn better. You remember what to do?"
She nods. She knows exactly what he wants. And she knows that she's going to give it to him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There are only three sensations that a man can feel through his cock. Only three that feel good, anyway. And those three are more than enough for any of them. Wet, hot, tight.
Philip's eyes are closed when her mouth wraps around him, because he already knows what's coming, practically already feels the relief that she'll bring his arousal.
His hands move to her head, not quite guiding her. He keeps his hips still as best he can. It's not time for that sort of thing, not just yet. He'll take what he wants, but he'll wait until he can maximize it for himself.
A fire burns inside him, a need that only gets worse as her mouth bobs along his length. Her tongue is moving along with her mouth, testing the bottom-side of his cock.
Callahan's breathing is coming in hard, raspy breaths, his body already beginning to feel the strain of simply holding itself back.
And then he isn't holding himself back any more. He pulls her off.
"Is everything—"
"Turn around, bend over," he says. She does as she's told, on her hands and knees in the dirt. His cock lines up with her entrance easily, readily, as if it were finding its home.
He presses in a little bit. He doesn't encounter any resistance; even still, he pushes in slowly. His manhood stiffens even as it rests inside her, so erect that it hurts.
He pulls back and enters her again, his hips finding the perfect groove that takes him out as far as he can go before driving himself home. He settles into that rhythm, pushing himself deep into her before withdrawing slowly.
His orgasm, threatening to overtake him in her mouth, takes a step back, and he takes a step forward to chase it, his thrusts coming harder and faster, motivated by need.
He grasps her body, any way he can get a better hand-hold to take his pleasure from her. Her shoulders do nicely, and
he grasps them and uses them to push himself to move faster still, harder still. To rip what he needs away from her, even as he can hear her breaths turn to soft moans.
She tightens down on him, and yet still he doesn't slow. His hips move harder. Faster. His body is beginning to tire, but his need only burns hotter. His fingers grip hard into her shoulder. No doubt they'll leave bruises, but the girl below him isn't complaining.
Her soft moans have grown harder, have grown more throaty with need. If she still remembers that they're outside, the information isn't stopping her.
"Fuck," he says—his voice sounds hoarse, from the heady combination of sexual arousal and his rapidly approaching orgasm. "I'm gonna—"
"Cum in my mouth," she says. The words hit somewhere deep inside him, an instinct that he can't suppress any longer.
He pushes himself into her warmth once, twice more, and then withdraws, scrambling across her body to enter her waiting, open mouth. His fingers dig into her hair. It's not the time for reservedness, not now.
His hips press out an erratic rhythm, trying to press his cock as deep into her mouth as either of them will let it go.
His fingers tighten, her hair caught up in his hands, starting to pull. And then he feels the release rip through him, drawing out a hoarse, triumphant shout as he shoots his cum into her waiting mouth.
A moment later he regains his senses. Morgan Lowe, one of the richest women in the country, is kneeling in the dirt in front of him; her clothes are in disarray, her hair a mess. She's got a vacant sort of expression, and a dull smile on her face that she likely doesn't even realize that she's showing.
"You look good," he says, and he means it.
"That was exactly what I needed," she says. She sits back and starts to take her feet again. Her clothes slip easily back into place. A hand run through her hair doesn't do nearly as well getting her hair back into place, but they're not planning on going back out.
"I'm glad you liked it. If you don't have somewhere to be, I've got a movie set up in the living room."
