Page 65 of Sexting the Cowboy
So I reach into the front of her scrubs and find her throbbing clit. Her whole body bucks against me like a rogue wave. With my other hand, I cover her mouth again and lean in close to her ear. “Scream for me.” Then I work her clit fast and rough, and it’s just seconds before she follows my order as she comes. It’s enough to pull me into my own, wave after wave of cum filling her up as we cry out together.
After, my head drops onto her shoulder, and I kiss my way up until I pull out, turn her around, and kiss her properly. I pressmy forehead to hers, and we breathe each other’s air for a few minutes. When my heart stops racing my good sense, I murmur, “You are an amazing woman, Annabel Pearl.”
“You…” She snorts a giggle to herself.
“Not exactly the response I was hoping for?—”
“No, no, it’s nothing about you…well, kind of.”
“You’re killing me here.”
Annie smiles up at me. “Until now, I didn’t know you knew my whole name, and it seems like the kind of thing I should have known before I let you come in me.”
I snort at that. “Yeah, that seems like a good rule.”
19
ANNIE
The morning sunis already rude, slanting under the tent flap like it’s hunting me down. The fans keep their lazy vigil, squeaking as they rotate, pushing heat from one corner to the other. It’s early enough that the grandstands are just ribs against the sky and the loudspeakers haven’t found their voice. I restock the cart and pretend the rhythm is enough to keep my brain quiet.
It isn’t.
Mac swings into the medic tent like a comet, camera bag bouncing her hip, iced coffee sweating down her wrist. She’s grinning so hard I’m worried she’s going to pull a muscle.
“Dr. Pearl,” she says, sing-song. “Are you accepting walk-ins for medical emergencies of the delight variety?”
I don’t look up from the gauze I’m stacking. “Only if you sign the consent form.”
“Oh, I consented,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “Frequently.”
I drop the gauze on purpose so I have to crouch and buy myself two seconds. “How’s your wrist?”
“Fine. For now.” She flops into the chair I keep for exactly this purpose—Mac monologues—and slurps her coffee. “That could change at any moment now, if you know what I mean.” She winks.
“Romance is not dead,” I say, dry. I pick up the gauze and drop it into a bin, then line syringes in neat rows, cap-side out. Order helps when nothing else does.
“It’s not,” she says. “Last night was spontaneous. Magic. Stars aligned. I forgot the world can still surprise me.” She crosses her legs and bounces her foot. “Tell me you have some spontaneous magic to report.”
“From the medic tent?” I raise an eyebrow. “Yes, my sterile technique was dazzling.”
“You’re glowing again. You can’t fake it. Your skin looks like it made a pact with the morning.”
“Stop saying glowing like it’s a diagnosis.”
“It is.” She points with her straw. “It’s called ‘had a good time and might have it again.’”
The straw squeaks against the lid. I give the sharps container a gentle tap, like it needs to wake up. “You’re going to keep talking until I give in, aren’t you?”
“Here’s why…” She launches into her favorite subject of the week—spontaneity. How some people study a map and some people take the wrong exit on purpose. How last night involved laughter in a hallway and a stolen kiss on a stairwell and a rider who knew when to shut up and listen. I let her talk because that’sour bargain. She fills every space I don’t want to fill. I triage her details and stitch the edges so nothing unravels.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, and it’s not a lie. I am. I also feel like a balloon tied to a chair, bright and taut and one tug away from getting loose.
Mac tips her head, watching me like she does through her lens, calibrating. “And you,” she says, softer. “You’re somewhere else right now. Which means you’ve been spontaneous lately too, because when you plan a date, you tell me the analysis instead of denying it ever happened. So, spill.”
I run out of stalling moves. The tent has four corners and I’ve paced all of them. My hands are too steady for how much my chest won’t be. “Who is it?” I ask, sharper than I mean to. “Your mystery rider. You’ve been singing about them for days. I’ve been very patient.”
Her grin goes wicked. “Who’syourhookup?”
