Page 16 of CowSex
“Played a lot of football, got a lot of injuries, and learned how to fix myself up.”
“By football, I assume you mean that game where men wear lots of padding, run along carrying a wonky ball, knock other men out of the way until they reach a line, where they then proceed to throw down the wonky ball and score a point, or a goal, or something similar? Would that be the game you’re referring to?”
He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the worktop opposite where he sat me.
“It would be the game that’s played something like the way you described that I’m talking about, yes.”
I nod and then shake my head. “Always puzzled me why you would call that football when so much of the game is played with the hands. The foot and the ball, rarely actually come into contact.”
“Well, what would you call it?”
“Big-men-that-are-scared-of-getting-hurt-so-they-wear-lots-of-padding-while they-run-around-ball.”
“Now who’s being a comedian?”
“I’m female, so it’s comedienne.”
“What’s the difference?”
“We’re actually much funnier.”
That earns me a smirk, and I swing my legs while sitting on the worktop, basking in the satisfaction that I’ve almost made him smile.
His eyes, once again, roam up my legs, arms, and chest, causing goose bumps to race across my skin. He’s blatant in his perusal, and there’s absolutely no shame in his golden eyes as they meet mine. It turns me the fuck on.
“You cold?”
He gestures with a nod of his head towards my chest, and Iknow, without even having to look, that my nipples are erect enough to hang a coat on.
“My wrist is wrapped in ice, so yeah, I’m freezing.”
I’ll be fucked if I’m gonna look at my nips to confirm my suspicions, or if I’m gonna let him think that I’m embarrassed—because of course, I’msonot.
“Shit, my suitcase is still outside,” I blurt, suddenly remembering where I was heading when I slipped over.
“They’re in the hallway. I moved them to the bottom of the stairs. I’ll take them up for you when you head up.”
“Did you get the third one?”
“Third? I thought there were two?”
“Three. The third’s still outside, it’s where I was going when I slipped.”
Without a word, he leaves the kitchen, and I know he’s gone outside when I feel the cold air, let in by the open front door, dance around my legs.
The door slams shut. “Jesus, it’s fucking cold out there. Brr.” He walks back in rubbing his hands together, and it’s my turn to noticehisnipples poking through his T-shirt.
“You cold?” I repeat the question he asked and gesture with my head in the same manner.
“Not as cold you, apparently.” His eyes are back to being locked onto my chest. I feign indifference and give a loud yawn.
“I need to get to bed. On top of enduring an eleven-hour flight and navigating US customs without being shouted at, I’ve been physically assaulted by a cowboy, had to take down a polar bear to get to my bedroom, and sustained a near fatal injury whilst battling severe and extreme weather conditions in an attempt to retrieve my luggage—all while having not had a wink of sooty in over twenty-four hours.”
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?”
