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We’re a sliver away, so close I can taste the wet heat of his breath, feel the electricity buzzing between us, that last moment before we both succumb to the base desires running through our bloodstreams.
A loud whirring breaks the moment, and I rock back on my heels, getting an inch of space to breathe my own oxygen instead of Cowboy’s. I look over and see that Reed and Manuel have been watching the whole show we are putting on. Not that it was a show, or at least it wasn’t yet, but it was definitely something.
Reed’s holding an automatic drill in his hand, one he needlessly hit the trigger on to break up my moment, and his eyes are bright with fury and hurt.
What just happened here?
Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I already know that I’d be tiny beneath his wide chest, that his thick arms could hold me and toss me around in a Kama Sutra’s worth of positions, and that he’d be a good, hard fuck.
I’m picky about who I fuck, but he’s checking off boxes left and right. The main one being that my vagina has taken up begging for a taste of his cock with a ferocity that’d embarrass me if anyone else knew how wet I am beneath these hide-everything coveralls.
I step back, sensing that Reed and Manuel reluctantly go back to work. I change tactics with Cowboy.
“Was that a goat?” I lift my chin toward the parking lot, where that big brown truck just pulled away.
His eyes say that I’m not fooling him and he knows exactly what I’m doing, but he goes along with it. “Vincent van Goat. Sophie’s taking him back to his owner.”
“Sophie?” Goddamn it. I hate that of everything he just said, the woman’s name is what I latch onto. But who names their goat after a depressed, self-mutilating artist from the 19th century?
“She’s my sister, I guess?”
The question mark on that statement seems odd. “Well, is she, or isn’t she? Like by marriage or something?”
His lips quirk as he scratches at the bottom one with his thumb, the same one that swiped at my cheek. “By force, I guess. Long story. But she’s a vet, was taking care of the goat. Now he’s going home.”
I’d bet my right pinkie finger there’s a lot more to that story, but to Cowboy, that’s enough. The bare bones.
“She take better care of that goat than you do your truck? Boys usually take care of their toys.” If Emily said that, it’d sound flirty. When I say it, I sound like I’m giving him a hard time. I don’t know how she does that, not that I particularly care to. Or at least, I haven’t ever before.
“Bessie’s not my truck, like I told you. Belongs to the ranch I work on, and Mark’s taken damn good care of her. She’s just had a long two decades of rough ranch work and a lot required of her. And yes, I do take care of my truck. Three-year-old Dodge Ram, silver, a good worker. Belonged to my dad before he passed. Mine now.” A shadow passes through his eyes, blacker than the darkness that naturally resides there. Oh, there’s a story there, but I don’t push.
“You take care of your car?” he asks casually, perching on a stool uninvited. He spreads his legs, like he’s giving his dick room to breathe, and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s posing, I realize. Maybe not on purpose, but subconsciously, at least. My stone-faced cowboy isn’t unaffected by me like he wants me to believe. He’s posing for me, which gives me a little buzz of sexual giddiness.
I don’t let him know that, though. I glare under one raised brow. “Yes, I take good care of my truck. It’s the billboard for my business.” I point out to the lot to my 2017 Ford F150. It’s not fancy. It’s meant to work, and it does, but I keep it clean and scratch-free, and it runs like a demon from all the extra guts I’ve put under the hood.
He’s about to say something when the breakroom door opens and Emily comes in like a tornado, as always.
“I’m telling you, Rix, I’m not taking no for an answer. We’re going to the resort bar tonight so I can find him.” It’s her sugar-sweet version of an order.
I hold my hand up, trying to stop her rambling interruption, seeing as I’m with a customer. But there’s no stopping Emily. She can’t see Cowboy from where she’s standing and would honestly probably forget her broody asshole if she did catch sight of him. She thinks she met a bad boy to turn into her golden prince, but Cowboy’s another creature entirely. He doesn’t wear broody like a personality trait. For him, it’s just fuck off o’clock twenty-four seven. Except when he’s about to kiss me, then it’s just fuck-me time.
