Page 4 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“I don’t know …” Jackie frets. “What if she needs me?”
Carefully, I place my hands at Jules’ waist, holding her steady. “I’ll take care of her, Jackie. Promise.”
Flynn’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers. Then louder, “Let us know when you guys are home safe.”
“Yeah, let’s go home,” Jules says while she squirms up my body, climbing me like a tree. She wraps her leather-clad legs around my waist, gripping the back of my head with her hands. As she is no petite lady, that puts her boobs right at eye level. On top of which, I have no choice but to grab her backside to keep her from falling.
“Ride ’em cowboy,” she mumbles, her head falling forward, her breath tickling the underside of my ear.
Holy heck, I’m in trouble.
Two
Hitch in the Giddy-up
Jules
My mouth feelslike the arid surface of Mars. Plans are still in the works for that particular mission and by the time it flies I’ll probably be too old to sign up, but still, I imagine the red dirt planet has nothing on what I’m tasting at the moment.
I blink a few times in tandem with opening and closing my mouth, trying to produce some sort of moisture.
Fuck. I have to lay off the hard stuff so soon after de-orbit.
For six months I’ve been floating around in zero gravity. I’ve helped conduct scientific experiments that could have significant impact on the medical community’s race to find cures for terminal diseases. I’ve Skyped into classrooms across the world to inspire young minds to study science. Not to mention, I’ve been tethered to the outside of the International Space Station while moving at over 17,000 miles an hour to basically hotwire the main computers. So it’s understandable how I may be a tad let down at the reality of my daily life on Earth. Which is why those shots sounded like a damn fine choice last night.
Don’t get me wrong— I’ve worked really hard to get where I am today. Only the best of the best get to be astronauts.
But I’ve been in space.Space. After that, coming home to my sparsely furnished condo in humid Clear Lake, Texas where my hair has more kink than the local sex shop isn’t the adrenaline rush you’d think.
I mean, I guess I could make it homier. For someone who thinks a periodic table T-shirt is cool, my best friend, Jackie, has sweet taste in home decor. She even painted her ceiling to look like the galaxy. However, after seeing the real thing up close and personal, an imitation isn’t gonna do it for me.
Growing up military brat style, you learn not to get too comfortable or put your personal touch on things. Easier to sell. Easier to move on. But still, I should get Jackie over here. At the very least I need shades. The bright light filtering through my windows isn’t doing me any favors right now. I try and pull the sheet up over my head, but it doesn’tbudge.
I’m about to try my relaxation mantras that help me sleep in zero gravity when the aforementioned sheet slides off my body and the mattress jostles.
Holy fuck. I amnotalone.
Now, this doesn’t upset me in the way that you might think. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman. I haven’t been a virgin since my older brother’s friend Todd claimed my final frontier after our high school’s Under the Stars themed dance when I was in tenth grade.
However, I currently feel untouched in all the ways a woman should feel touched on the morning after a good bout of sexual release. So that either means I didn’t have sex, or the dude I let be my first since gravity started weighing down my boobs again has a seriously small peen. And that’s just sad.
Slowly, I roll out of bed. It’s pretty easy, seeing as I only have a king-size mattress laid out on the floor.
Yeah, I definitely need to spruce the place up. Or you know, get actual furniture. Adulting and stuff.
Whatever. Back to the dude in my bed.
He isfine. So, well done me.
He’s sleeping on his stomach with his head turned to the side. I can’t see his face, but even so, he looks familiar. Shit. It better not be someone from work. I’ve never dipped my wick in the NASA watering hole, so to speak. It isn’t against the rules or anything, but I like to keep my professional and personal lives separate. Less mess getting to the top that way. I don’t need someone crying foul, accusing me of sleeping my way to the top, when everyone knows I simply kick ass at my job. Double standards and all that, so whatever. Better safe than sorry.
But somehow, I don’t think this guy is NASA. His skin is tan, likedeeptan. In Texas, that isn’t too out of the ordinary, but his body is hard. Not just with muscle, though there is plenty of that. Small, random scars mar his skin, as well as some sort of burn line slashed across one of his forearms. The hand not shoved under my extra pillow has obvious calluses. This dude works for a living. That shit is so hot.
I can’t stand these wimpy millennials who bitch about their lives while doing nothing. Life isn’t for the weak and success isn’t earned by the meager. That’s one thing two-star Air Force General William Starr, otherwise known as my father, has said (repeatedly) that I actually agree with. In my mind, there is nothing hotter than work ethic. Well, that and a set of rock hard abs, apparently.
The dude in my bed snorts lightly and turns over. One good look at his square jaw, dark morning scruff and hollowed cheekbones and I know the sinking feeling in my stomach has nothing to do with gravity or the amount of alcohol I consumed the night before. It also has nothing to do with the tent this guy is currently pitching under my sheets, letting me know that if we’dactually had sex, I’d be feeling it for sure. The sinking feeling has to do with the fact that the man in my bed is Holt West. A man that Imayhave secretly (and repeatedly) fantasized about while floating around in space.
Awesome.
