Page 203 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“Breathe, darl’,” Keith murmured. “Breathe.”

She drew in a breath, let it out and threw back her head as Marc penetrated her virgin ass.

There was a burning sting as his girth pushed her opening wide, a pain so hot she wanted to scream. She froze and then moaned as Marc slowly buried his cock in her passage.

Unfathomable pleasure took her. She cried out again, and again when Keith began to move inside her as well.

She balanced on the precipice, their moans echoing around her, their bodies possessing her, filling her. They moved together, and she moved with them, taking them both as deep as she could, rolling her hips, squeezing their pumping lengths with her most intimate muscles.

They made love to her and when she came, her screams loud and unrestrained, they came too. Her name raw groans on their lips, their rhythm lost as they both told her they loved her, they loved her, oh fuck, how they loved her.

And when it was all done, when their release was spent and their cocks withdrawn from her body, they took her in their arms, held her close between them and told her they loved her again.

Chapter9

If Keith had his way, the weekend never would have ended. It was the best of his life. He and Marc had given Harper horse-riding lessons on Saturday, a hilarious endeavor they all agreed was a failure. There wasn’t an ounce of skill in Harper’s body. No matter what horse they put her on, Harper froze and then panicked and then froze again. After two hours, they all gave up, happy to admit defeat.

“Can you ride a motorbike?” Keith had asked, returning his hat to his head after she’d knock it off tumbling from Whippet’s saddle into his arms.

“You mean a motorcycle?” She’d tentatively patted his horse’s rump as she leaned into the protection of his embrace. “Like a Yamaha?”

Marc had retrieved one of the dirt bikes from the equipment shed and, in five minutes, Harper was proving what she couldn’t do on a horse, she could do on a motorbike.

“Well,” Marc watched her race around the paddock traditionally used to teach new jackaroos how to ride a horse, “guess she can always round up cattle on a bike.”

They’d spent the night making love by the billabong, taking turns icing her saddle-sore butt before kissing every inch of her body. They’d swum naked under the stars, fucked in the water, dozed on blankets laid out on the grass, tried to get her to eat Vegemite, gave up after everyone got the hiccups laughing too much and went back to making love again.

Sunday was just as wonderful. They’d taken her into Cobar for lunch at the pub, making the most of the long trip in and back by stopping often, pointing out various things along the way, filling her in on the history of the land, telling her some of the Aboriginal Dreamtime stories, making love to her over and over.

By the time Sunday night came, Keith knew there was no coming back from this.

There was no denying how they all felt about each other. Nor could they deny the reality of geography. Harper was an American teacher, and he and Marc were two Australian stockmen. Hell, neither of them even owned a home.

Come next Sunday, when Harper flew back to Chicago, he and Marc would return to the only life they’d ever known—working on Farpoint Creek Cattle Station.

For the first time ever, Keith felt empty about that.

And for the first time ever, he considered the unthinkable. LifeoffFarpoint.

“Oi, Blue.”

He jerked his head up from the open paper spread out before him.

Marc tossed a thermos at him, a glower on his face. “You left this out on the Blue Gulley Ridge tract.”

Snatching his thermos from the air, Keith scowled. They’d spent the afternoon moving a herd of new Angus heifers from the sorting pens to a holding paddock, a relatively easy job made hard because Keith’s heart hadn’t been in it. At all. Which had become fairly evident when more than one of the frisky young animals managed to slip past him during the muster. If it wasn’t for Legs and Jett, it was likely Keith would still be hunting for one in Blue Gulley.

Crossing to the table under a grove of gum trees the hands used when taking a break at the main homestead, Marc dropped onto the seat opposite Keith. “Care to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Keith returned his attention to the paper.

“That good, ’eh? Y’know, if you’re going to carry on like a tool, sulking about Harper going home, the next six days are going to be shit.”

Keith lifted his head and glared. “I’m not sulking.”

Marc’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? ’Cause it fucking looks like it.”

Biting back a growl, Keith spun the paper around to face Marc.