Retreat From Love by Samantha Kane Read Free Book Online Page A

fingers that ended with beautiful nails, long ovals with bright crescent moons at their tips. They were short, but Freddy imagined they were firm and well-formed when they were long. His back muscles rippled as he imagined Anne digging those nails into him as she came around his cock.
    She pulled the glove off Brett’s index finger, and Freddy imagined both sets of hands on him, wrapped around his cock, inside his ass. He turned away abruptly and coughed to cover his moan. They were killing him. Did they know they were killing him?

    Brett was mortified. He’d ruined her glove. That was obvious. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t been, not with his head anyway. What was it about Anne’s proximity that caused his brain to cease functioning?
    Her glove was so soft, so small and fragile, as he imagined Anne would be. So delicate, and he’d wanted to violate that delicate, fragile sheath. God, what was wrong 28
    Retreat From Love
    with him? But the feel of his over-large fingers pressing the soft, damp leather apart and pushing inside the tight, humid warmth there had mesmerized him. He’d tortured himself with visions of Anne spread out beneath him as first his fingers and then his cock had parted her tight little cunt and ravaged her. He imagined the heat and the wetness of her passage, the texture of her springy, black pubic hair against his fingers and cock.
    Anne fumbled trying to get her glove off him, and Brett winced as the scrape of her nail on his skin made his gut clench and his cock grow hotter and harder. He hoped to God she hadn’t noticed how hard he was. He glanced over at Freddy and was met with an identical problem in the other man. His gaze flew up and met Freddy’s hot blue perusal. Freddy knew. Freddy knew what he’d been thinking. At least part of what he’d been thinking. But Brett had worked hard the last five years to make sure Freddy didn’t know that Brett thought about him too.
    Because when Brett was torturing himself with visions of Anne, he’d thrown caution to the wind and let his fantasies about Freddy loose as well. He’d imagined those tight finger holes were both Freddy and Anne, and he was pushing into both of them. He’d never wanted to put his fingers in a man’s arse until Freddy had started parading his around Brett, after Brett was recovered and capable of having sex again.
    Freddy had offered that gloriously smooth, tight, white arse of his to Brett so often that Brett had worn his teeth down to stubs gritting them against temptation. But he wanted it. Christ, he wanted it. He wanted to shove his fingers—hell, his whole hand—in Freddy until Freddy could take Brett’s cock. And then he wanted to fuck him so hard he cried, and fist that long, hard cock of his. The tempting little bastard.
    Brett looked down at Anne’s hands on him again and a new, raw vision assailed him. He imagined Anne on top of Freddy, Freddy’s cock buried in her cunt, Brett’s fingers buried in her bottom while Brett’s cock filled Freddy’s behind. He gasped and jerked his hand from Anne.
    “I’m sorry,” she said in a panicked rush. “I was just trying to get it off. Did I scratch you?”
    Brett forced himself to take several deep breaths before he spoke. “No, no, I’m all right.” He gently pushed her hands away. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.” He made his hands work slowly, deliberately, calmly as he peeled the rest of the glove off. It was ruined, ruined. Just as he’d ruin them both if given half a chance.
    He looked up at Anne ruefully, at her agitated expression. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’ve ruined your glove. I shall replace it when we get to the village.” The glove had been old, Brett could see that. She needed a new pair. Was this her best pair? He inwardly chastised himself yet again. He should have come to see her, to make sure everything was all right. Because it clearly was not. He never should have allowed things to reach this point, where she couldn’t buy a