CowSex

by Lesley Jones

  He blinks—more than once—scratches his beard, and asks, “What’s a ‘wink of sooty’?”

  “Sleep. Sooty and sweep—sleep,” I explain.

  He looks none the wiser. “You need help getting down from there?”

  I look at the floor, and because I’m tired and injured and he’s hot, I decide that I’m definitely going to need some help.

  “If you don’t mind?” I try my best to sound casual while I’m anything but.

  He steps towards me, places his hands on my hips, and slides me forward so I’m sitting on the very edge of the worktop and he’s right between my legs.

  He’s close enough for me to be able to breathe in the scent of his aftershave. It’s fresh and earthy with a hint of citrus. The top he’s wearing smells slightly floral, some kind of fabric conditioner if I had to guess. Added to that is the smell of alcohol and a definite hint of smoke. It’s not tobacco, though, it’s like an open fire smell.

  I stare at his chest and the hairs at the base of his throat as I take all of these details in, knowing all the while that he’s looking right back at me.

  “Put the ice pack down. I’ll make you another one to take to bed with you.”

  I set down the two now-soggy tea towels, and he slides his hands to my waist and helps me down.

  “Thank you,” I mumble before making my exit and heading up the stairs to my room. I’m not really embarrassed so much as pissed off that I needed his help.

  I WAKE IN AN UNFAMILIAR room bathed in muted sunlight. It takes me a few moments to remember where I am, and when I do, I replay last night's events in my head and the possibly homeless situation I might now find myself in.

  The curtains on the window are only partially drawn, and I watch the dust motes dance in the bright sunlight escaping through the gap.

  I have no recollection of getting into bed last night. I look down at myself and realise I’m still dressed in my vest, bra, and knickers. I remember toeing off my boots and struggling to get out of my jeans, and I obviously crashed after that, but I don’t remember lying down.

  When I reach for my phone that’s sitting on the chest of drawers next to the bed, a jolt of pain shoots through my entire right hand and arm, reminding me of my injury. My hand is huge and doesn’t look like it belongs to me—it’s swollen to almost twice its normal size and in the process of turning purple.

  I seriously have nothing with me that I can coordinate with this colour.

  Letting out a long sigh at my first world problem, I grab my phone with my left hand and am shocked to see that it’s almost three in the afternoon.

  I also note that I have several texts and missed calls from both Kod and Rod.

  Rod is Kimmie’s brother Ryan O’Donohue. He is a shareholder in my business and runs our website and all of our social media. He also set up our fantastic app that allows users to order items from our line and then makes outfit suggestions according to the likely weather conditions for whatever event they might be attending. It also allows the user to purchase tickets to the event.

  Rod was my first ever crush, and from the age of five, I planned my entire life around our future together. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I realised that future was never going to include Rod as anything more than a friend. Rod likes boys a whole lot more than he likes girls and has been with James for around six years.

  I call Kimmie first, acutely aware of the bollocking I’m about to receive because I didn’t get in touch with her last night, or this morning—whenever it was that I should’ve let her know I’d arrived safely. I snort and consider whether ‘safely’ is even the correct term.

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Good afternoon to you, too.”

  “Twenty-four hours, Grace! I’ve not heard from you in almost twenty-four fucking hours. I’ve had to practically sit on my brother to stop him from flying over there, or at the very least contacting the CIA, FBI, MI5, and Interpol.”

  “Inter who?”

  “No clue, just heard Bourne or Jack Reacher or some other dude that saves people mention it and know that they’re the go-to fuckers when someone’s missing abroad and shit. What happened?”

  “I crashed.”

  “I figured that’s what had happened. I was still worried, though.”

  “Awww. That’s sweet.”

  “So, how is it?”

  “Cold, snowy, and my cabin came with its very own resident cowboy.”

  “Wha’ da fuuuck?”

  “Yep. I got here last night and thought that someone had broken in. Called the Old Bill and everything. They told me to get out and hide, which I’d already done, but then a security light came on just as the police arrived. I legged it down the driveway, only to get rugby tackled to the ground by the geezer that owns the place.”

  “No fucking way?’

  “Yes, fucking way. I thought he was a homeless man from the woods, and he thought I was casing the joint, the Old Bill saw him on top of me and thought he was some kind of perv attempting to assault me and it all went off.”

  “Dude! So what the fuck happened?”

  “A real-life sheriff showed up. He knew the bloke. Turns out he grew up in this gaff with his aunt. She died recently and left it to him. He instructed the agency to cancel all the bookings, and somehow, I didn’t get the memo. So here we are.”

  “OMG, Grace. So where did you stay?”

  I let out a long sigh in anticipation of Kod’s freak out when I give her my answer.

  “We were in the middle of a snowstorm, and it was one in the morning, so I had no choice but to stay here.”

  “Grace! Please tell me he left?”

  “Hmmm, no. I can’t tell you that, love, coz he didn’t—”

  “Grace Amelia Elliott, you mean to tell me you stayed in a big ol’ fucking cabin, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, with a scary man who tackled you to the ground and tried to assault you?”

  “Well, it wasn’t quite like that.”

  I get up and make my way to the bathroom, suddenly realising my bladder is about to burst.

  “You told me it was exactly like that.”

  I put my phone on speaker and place it on the edge of the sink, and after wriggling my knickers down to my knees with one hand, I sit down on the toilet.

  “Well, it was, and it wasn’t.”

  “What’s that noise, are you taking a waz?”

  “Soz, I was busting.”

  “Anyway, you stayed in the scary cabin in the woods with a stranger last night?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t exactly have too many options considering the time of night and the fact it was snowing like a…” I look up at the ceiling as I try to think. “Like a cold, snowy place.” It’s the best I can do.

  “So, what? Is he old, young, fit, what? I need deets.”

  “Seriously?” I finish what I’m doing, flush, and then wash my hands.

  “What, Grace? Fuck me, will you spit it out?”

  I close the bathroom door and turn on the shower. It’s the over bath kind, with a huge watering can type head, and I give out a little yelp as the icy cold water hits me. I adjust the taps and wait for it to warm.

  “You still there?”

  “Shit, sorry.” I’d forgotten for a moment Kimmie was still on the phone.

  “For fuck’s sake, woman, what’s he like?”

  “He’s an arsehole but seriously hot.”

  She gives a girly squeal.

  “More. I need more. Give me a visual?”

  “Tall, dark, and arseholish.”

  “And, yet, you still slept there.” It was a statement, not a question, and it reminded me that it was probably not one of my wisest decisions.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I slipped on the ice and practically broke my arm in several places—”

  “What? This all happened in one night?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, despite being a bit of a dick, he made me an ice pack and found me some painkillers. Plus, the
sheriff told me I would be fine.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Yeah, why not? He’s the sheriff.”

  “Oh, that’s fine then, coz there’s no possible way the sheriff might’ve been a baddy, too, is there? Scream, Halloween, IT, they all happen in America. It’s the land of the free and home to Hannibal Lecter.”

  “You watch too many films, Kod.”

  She lets out a long sigh. “So anyway, what’s the go now? You gotta find somewhere else to stay?’

  “I reckon so. I only just woke up, so I’m gonna take a shower and then take a look online, see what else is around here.”

  “I’m searching as we speak, everything is saying full, maybe if you ring around, you’ll find something. The websites aren’t always accurate.”

  “I’ll do that, too.”

  “Okay, make sure you keep me posted. A text will do. I’m about to go to bed, worrying about you all day has stressed me out.”

  I don’t respond to that. I’ve said sorry; it’s done with as far as I’m concerned.

  “Will do, love ya.”

  “Love ya, too.”

  Our call ends, and I look around the now steam-filled bathroom in search of towels. There are none. I open the door and step into the bedroom. I know that the confirmation email I received stated that towels were included, so I didn’t bring any of my own.

  My cases are too big for me to attempt lifting onto the bed with one hand, so I lay the first one down on the floor and unlock it.

  That’s when it hits me.

  My cases weren’t up here when I went to bed last night. Well, they weren’t when I fell asleep at least.

  I get up and check the door. It’s unlocked. I don’t remember locking it behind me when I came into the room. That’s when I also notice the pile of big fluffy towels stacked on the wing-backed chair that sits in the corner of the room. I’ve no clue if they were there last night or not. The room is also warm. The vent’s been opened.

  “Shit,” I whisper-hiss. The cowboy must’ve brought my cases up after I’d fallen asleep. Anything could’ve happened.

  “Nice one, Grace.” I shake my head at my own stupidity. “Shower. Let’s shower, take some painkillers, and then maybe try to act like the responsible business owner and adult I know you are.”

  Scooping up the towels with one arm, I hold them against me, acutely aware of two things: the towels smell exactly like the T-shirt the cowboy was wearing last night, and my injured arm is throbbing in pain.

  KOA

  I HEAR THE TOILET FLUSH upstairs and then the old pipes knocking as a tap is turned on before the shower starts.

  She’s probably getting naked right about now.

  An image of her creamy skin hits me right in the balls, and I fidget in the hard kitchen chair before adjusting my dick.

  When I carried her cases up to her room last night, she was lying on her back across the bed, legs hanging over the side, wearing a little pair of panties that looked like shorts. She still had on the tank top she’d almost killed me with earlier when I’d been putting ice on her arm, and fuck me if she didn’t have ink on her leg that matched what I’d seen on her arm last night, too.

  “Fuck me,” I groan and stare at the ceiling at the memory.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, excuse my language, but Lord, what in the actual fuck are you trying to do to me?”

  I take a sip of my bourbon and enjoy the heat as it slides down my throat and warms my belly.

  Her bedroom was freezing when I found her lying there. The vent still closed. She obviously hadn’t been able to reach it, and I didn’t want her getting cold in the night, so I opened the vent and then attempted to wake her by gently shaking her shoulder. She didn’t stir. Without trying to look too hard at her creamy skin, those little panties, or her ink, I pulled back the blankets on one side of the bed and then carefully moved her so I could pull the blankets over her.

  She’d really needed more ice on that wrist, but there was no way of holding it in place while she slept. Instead, I slid a pillow underneath her arm, in an attempt to keep it raised.

  I’d watched her sleep for a few seconds, feeling like a total creep while I took her in but unable to do a damn thing about it.

  Her hair was an unusual colour, almost a silvery-grey and there were some pink and purple stripes in her braids.

  Her lashes fanned out across her high cheekbones, and with her cute little turned-up nose, she’d looked almost sweet, which was a fuckin’ joke really. She might be a little-bit, but that hadn’t curbed the ballsy attitude and cussing she’d handed out to me earlier.

  Feeling like the biggest perv on the planet, I eventually quit staring and brought up her last remaining suitcase and some fresh towels.

  With one final glance, I left her to sleep. Then I locked up the house for the second time that night and took myself off to bed—after I’d had a shower and spent ten minutes jacking off to thoughts of the English Duchess with attitude racing through my head—both of them.

  I finish my drink and give myself a shake before pouring another. She isn’t what I need in my life. Not now—hell, not at any time.

  My eyes slide towards the entryway into the kitchen as she walks through it. The braids are gone, replaced with what looks like a silvery-grey, pink and purple striped rat’s nest on top of her head. It’s kinda cute.

  She’s wearing a pair of thin grey sweats, which are tucked into a pair of pale pink sheepskin boots from Australia that everyone wears. I think they are called Gangsters, or Thugs, something like that. Her top is a darker grey, and it looks all soft and fluffy. It hangs off one shoulder to reveal a pink tank top underneath.

  Never in my life have I taken so much notice of what a woman is wearing, let alone whether it’s fluffy, and I feel like a complete pussy for doing it now.

  “I overslept,” she announces, and I’m so lost in my thoughts of her that I almost jump out of my skin.

  “No shit, it’s nearly four in the afternoon.”

  Her cheeks turn pink, almost matching the colour of her lips, and I wonder if they coordinate with her nipples. Fuck, I hope so.

  “I thought I packed some paracetamol, but I can’t find them. Would you have any?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure I know what that is.” Judging by the way she’s holding her wrist, I could almost assume it’s some kind of painkiller. “That causing you trouble?”

  She nods. “Yeah, it hurts. That’s what I wanted the paracetamol for, it’s a painkiller.”

  “Like Tylenol?”

  This time she shrugs.

  “I think so. Anything will do, to be honest. Ecstasy, cocaine, ketamine…......I’d take about anything right now if I thought it’d help.”

  My eye twitches at the mention of all those drugs. If that’s her thing, if that’s what she’s into...she can get the fuck out of my house right now.

  “I’ve got none of that shit, but I can offer you some Tylenol.”

  “Thank you.”

  She seems like a different person today. All of her ballsiness and bravado seem to have deserted her, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

  “You need to eat something before you take any more medication.”

  I get up and take the Tylenol from the drawer and hand her two.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Are there any shops near here? I’ll nip out and get something.”

  “You sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell last night, too?”

  She frowns as if she’s thinking about it.

  “Just my bum, back, and arm as far as I remember.”

  “You take a look out of your window?”

  “No, why? What’ve I missed?”

  “Darling, we had about four feet of snow overnight. You won’t be going anywhere. Not today and probably not tomorrow or the day after, either.”

  I watch as her mouth opens and closes a few times before her posture changes. Her shoulders straighten, and she smil
es. “Guess you got lucky then, Cowboy. You get to spend the next few days with me. First things first, though, what’s for dinner, I’m fucking Hank Marvin.”

  I inwardly smile at the way she so casually drops the F-bomb and try to figure out what the hell she just said.

  “You’re what?”

  “Hank Marvin.”

  “Strange name for a girl and I’m pretty sure Nelson called you Ms Elliott last night.”

  She folds her arms over her chest and gives me a smile. She has a dimple in her left cheek. I noticed the one in her chin last night but not the one in her cheek. It’s also kinda cute. My dick agrees.

  “Hank Marvin ain’t my name.” She moves towards me and holds her left hand out. “It’s Grace, Gracie Elliott. Pleased to meet you.”

  “So, who’s Hank? I know that name—Hank Marvin—who is that?”

  “Hank Marvin—starving. It just means that I’m hungry.”

  “So why the fuck didn’t you just say that?”

  “I did.”

  I’m bewildered.

  “So you gonna feed me, or what, Cowboy?”

  She spins around and heads towards my fridge. “What ya got in here that I can make a sarnie with?” I’m about to ask when she looks over her shoulder and explains, “A sarnie is a sandwich.”

  I nod, even though I don’t understand, which reminds me of something she said last night. A few things she said in fact.

  “Let me get this straight, you’re English, right?

  “Sure am.”

  “And in England, you call a sandwich a sarnie, and when you’re hungry, you say that you’re Hank Marvin.”

  She turns back around to face me, drinking from a bottle of water she’s helped herself to. Her head’s tilted back, exposing the creamy skin covering her throat.

  I’m a guy, so of course, I stare. I also take note of the way her lips wrap around the bottle, the way she swallows, and maybe even the way she licks her lips while looking right at me once she’s finished drinking.