Page 72 of CowSex
I thought I would have trouble sleeping, but I passed straight out and woke this morning after a solid seven hours with my pad and pencil by my side.
That was two hours ago. Since then, I’ve showered—again—moisturised—again—changed my outfit about four times and have done everything I can not to overthink lasts night’s turn of events.
My face flames with heat when I think about what I let him do to me, how good it felt, and how much I blatantly enjoyed it—but what’s done is done. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened, and why should I be ashamed, anyway? It was hot. One of the best orgasms of my bloody life. Still, I’m happy with my decision not to let things go any further. I don’t need a distraction like Koa Carmichael in my life right now. I still have to deal with Reggie and separating our assets when I get back to England, the last thing I need is no-strings, mind-blowing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex from a bearded, boot-wearing, sexy-black-truck-driving, country-rock-band-playing cowboy. I mean, who needs that kind of shit in their life?
I hear the water pipes rumble as a tap is turned on and assume that Koa is awake. It’s a little after eight, and the house has been silent until now.
I get up and creep to my bedroom door. Sticking my head out, I can see that Koa’s door is now open slightly, there’s a light on, and I can hear the shower running.
I make my way downstairs and clear away all of our crap from last night. There’s not a lot, just empty bottles and dirty glasses. I then search around for a kettle, but can’t find one, so I boil some hot water in a saucepan instead.
I’m far from a snob, but there are certain things I have very high standards and opinions about, my tea is one of them. Finger and toenails should always be manicured, hair root regrowth should not exist, eyebrows should always be groomed and on point, and coffee should be freshly pressed or from a pod, not filtered and left brewing for nine days.
I have a machine at home for my coffee, the pod kind. Koa has a machine, too, but it’s entirely different from mine. The taste of what comes out of the two is also vastly different. The coffee his machine produces is something that tastes like tar. So, the first things I added to the trolley yesterday were green tea and lemons.
When the water finally boils, I drop the tea bag and a lemon slice into the mug and then pour the water over them before heading into the family room. The whole back wall is made up of a set of timber-framed glass double doors that open onto the back deck, and I realise that I’ve never actually looked out there in daylight.
The sky is cloudless and a beautiful shade of light blue. There’s no snow falling today, but beyond the covered deck area, there’s still plenty on the ground. The garden that lies beyond is vast. There are trees of all kinds dotted around and what looks like some sort of shed off in the distance.
“Mornin’.”
I almost spill my tea as I jump at the sound of Koa’s voice.
Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t be embarrassed.
Turning around, I take him in. His hair’s still damp from his shower and pushed back from his face. He’s wearing another of his long-sleeved T-shirts and jeans. He’s not put anything on his feet yet and stands before me with them bare, a pair of socks in his hand.
T-shirt, jeans, and naked feet have never looked so fucking sexy.
“You sleep okay?”
I give him the best smile I have to offer as I answer, “Yeah, really well. I think the wine and the last of my jet lag,”and the incredible orgasm,“finally caught up with me. I crashed for a full seven hours.”
He nods and strokes at his beard with the hand not holding the socks.
“That’s good. I thought maybe we could grab some breakfast once we’re out if that’s okay with you?”
“Fine by me.”
This is awkward. We need to stop being so formal and get back to how we were.
“You...uh...um. You going out dressed like that, Essex?”
I look down at my outfit and then back at him. Instantly pissed off and defensive. No wonder he’s been married twice. “Are you going out dressed like that?” is not, under any circumstances, something you ask a woman.
“Why? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“You’re...uh...you’re dressed in a tutu?” His comment sounds like a question. As if I’m not acutely aware of the three thousand two hundred Australian dollar Mischka Aoki masterpiece I have on. Yeah, it might have been made with a child in mind, but I’m short and pretty sure I nailed the look I was aiming for.
“And?”
“Legging things.”
I look down at my outfit again. I don’t know why. I’m not stupid, and I have a pretty good memory, so no issue recalling what I put on this morning.
“They’re tights, and I didn’t meanandwhat else, I meant,andwhat of it?”
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and smiles as he does it. My fanny flutters return instantly, along with the galloping goose bumps that travel across my skin like a cavalry at full charge.
