Free Real Men Do It Better by Carrie Alexander Lori Wilde Susan Donovan Lora Leigh Page A

with a bounce. A soft hiss slid from between his teeth. “Sexy.”
    “I’m on fire.”
    “You’re electric. Do you know how hot you looked with that welding torch, making sparks fly?” He frowned a little, taking in the buzzing welding machine. “Huh. Looks like the power’s back on.”
    “The phone, too.” She listened. The machine continued to hum. “And staying on.”
    “I’ll keep my distance.”
    She pressed crisscrossed hands over her breasts, a futile attempt to ease the ache of wanting to feel them in his mouth. “I’d rather lose power.”
    He barked a deep laugh and suddenly came forward to swing her off her feet. She felt herself flying high through the air before coming around to be brought up snug against his chest. Her legs clasped his hips and their mouths came together like magnets locking in place. They were wild, with dueling tongues, clutching hands, needy noises.
    Gabe staggered into the depths of the barn, where shadows gave them privacy. He set Karen on a stack of alfalfa hay bales, the small stock remaining from the winter’s store, never removing his mouth, his supple, scouring tongue. She was dizzy from desire and exhaustion and heat and happiness, and she laced her fingers at the small of his back, holding him tight, pressing him closer, trying to rub against him with her legs spread wide, the seam of her jeans grinding into her hot crotch.
    “Make love to me,” she said. “Make love to me, Gabe.”
    His kiss was deep and moving. Swearing a promise that reached her heart. She whispered against his lips, returning the emotion, freeing herself from old disappointments and loss.
    Sometimes you just have to be loved.
    He set her back on the bale, bending to kiss the tip of one breast, then the other. She sighed, melting. He laid a palm against the twitching skin of her midriff and she felt the hot connection that had already become an addiction. Then his hands were at her zipper and he was skinning off her jeans, yanking one shoe off her foot, but leaving the jeans puddled around her other ankle when he couldn’t tug them loose and was too impatient to try again.
    The flat of his hand slid inside the front of her panties, through the patch of curls into the wet heat. She jolted. The lopsided hay bales swayed beneath them as he bent her back, yanking away her bikinis with a quick tug and snap, pushing down his jeans and underwear so his erection reared up, hot and red like a fire-breathing dragon, a mythical beast who spat sparks and flame. For a crazed moment she wanted to ask him to put it in her like that, naked and burning, but he had pulled out a condom, sheathed himself, and pressed the head against her slit, all in one motion, so smooth and swift she could only give herself, open herself completely, surrender to the consuming fire devouring her whole, as he thrust all the way home.
    Pleasure and shock and need ripped through her. He put his arms around her and soothed the ragged edges, lipping sweet kisses across her collarbone, finding the pulse in her throat, grazing his teeth up her neck until he’d reached her mouth again—her mouth and his mouth, drowning in a rain of fire.
    She rocked on the bales, squeezing and sliding over the shaft of his cock. Their perch shifted and loosened. She pushed up with her hips, but the stack was too unstable and she cried in frustration, wanting the deep thrust so badly she clawed at him when he pulled away.
    “Like this.” He lifted and turned her, saying “Bend for me” so sweetly in her ear that she sprawled across the messy bales, not caring about the stalks that poked and scratched, as she clutched handfuls of loose hay, bracing herself for the invasion of hard cock.
    Distantly, she heard the whickering horses, the uninterrupted motor of the welding machine. Maybe she was right. Maybe she’d absorbed some of his—his—
    Or not. Her ass flinched as he took hold with two hands, caressing for a moment before he parted them. Cool