Free Misplaced Hands: 4 (Foreign Affairs) by Lexxie Couper, Mari Carr Page B

don’t get along and leave it at that.”
    Curiosity flittered across Harper’s face.
    Marc chuckled. “Nothing too terrible. I didn’t think so anyway. But now that I know you’re definitely not a lesbian, and you know Blue and I definitely aren’t gay, we can put Big Mac’s stupid pranks behind us and get on with doing lots more ‘well, you know, what we did’.” He grinned. “How’s that sound?”
    Her cheeks turned a darker shade of red. “My brother would kill me if he knew.”
    “Is he a large bugger?”
    Harper’s smile grew, warm affection shining in her eyes. “Little taller than you. Andrew’s a professional adrenaline junkie. He’s ten years older than me and very protective. Overprotective, I have to say. But there’s a…” She petered out. “I do love him, even though he treats me like I’m still twelve.”
    Sensing a tension stealing over her, Marc smoothed his hand up her arm. “Then let’s hope I never meet him. ’Cause love, every time I look at you, I reckon it’s gonna be bloody obvious what I want to do to you. And overprotective big brothers are inclined to beat the shit out of blokes who want to fuck their little sisters five ways from Sunday.”
    Harper’s laugh was spontaneous and genuine, something that made Marc’s gut knot. He could fall for this woman without any trouble at all. She was bloody gorgeous. He could listen to her sexy-arse accent until the cows came home, her intelligence shone in her eyes and he felt completely relaxed, a state he rarely felt around anyone but Blue.
    It was daunting, feeling this way, given he hardly knew her. Especially when she was only going to be Down Under for a fortnight.
    Then make the most of it, dickhead. Don’t waste a single bloody minute.
    He wouldn’t. And he’d make sure Keith didn’t either. What the three of them had shared today was beyond his limited vocabulary. He was just a jackaroo, a boy from the bush who’d spent his life on Farpoint. The only words he could think of were phenomenal, unbelievable and fucking amazing.
    Twenty minutes later, during which he pointed out things he thought Harper may be interested in seeing—the mob of ’roos bounding over the plain, the dingo and her pups playing in the scrub, the red-belly black snake slithering on the side of the road—the ute pulled to a halt outside Amy’s cottage.
    “What are you guys doing after dinner tonight?”
    Marc vaulted out of the tray. “Can’t get enough of us, ’eh?”
    She grinned. “Ego, much?”
    He held out his hand to help her climb from the back. “Bloody oath, mate.”
    Harper’s feet had just touched the ground when Keith slammed the driver’s side door. “Thomo,” he said, walking toward them both, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat and the dappled light filtering through the overhanging gum trees. “Pick Harper up and carry her inside.”
    Marc’s pulse leapt into his throat. He swung to Harper, unable to deny the sudden tightening in his groin at Keith’s command. She stared at him, at Keith, back to him again.
    Her breath caught. “Keith,” she whispered.
    “It’s later, darl’.”
    Her nipples hardened at his low murmur. Marc could see them straining against the cotton of her shirt.
    “Pick her up, Thomo,” Keith ordered again without taking his stare from her face. “And take her inside. I can’t hold on much longer.”
    Marc moved. He turned to Harper and, with a wink, snared her wrist in one hand, tucked his shoulder to her belly and hauled her off her feet.
    She squealed, the sound rising above the warbles of the magpies nesting in the gum trees.
    Ten strides later, after a rather dramatic kick that swung the door to the cottage wide, Marc dropped Harper on the bed.
    Keith followed him into the room. The clink of metal told Marc his best mate had released his belt buckle. Harper’s swift intake of breath, the widening of her eyes, told him he’d lowered his fly.
    “I’m going to make you come