Page 27 of The Cowboy Who Stayed
On another night he texts me once his shift has ended. We at least pretend to listen to some more of my vinyl collection before we’re distracted by each other, ending the night with orgasms rushing us.
There’s the evening I ride him until my thighs burn and he grips and smacks my ass, and we wind up so spent, we lay in bed for an hour, watching TV and chatting.
The weekends offer a slight twist.
He comes by earlier, and we return to checking out my vinyl collection. We have drinks and laugh over our unpopular music opinions. Then he’s pulling me into his lap and we’re having sex to Prince’s “Purple Rain.”
We take our time, going slow and savoring the pleasure like gold.
Rhett insists on ordering us dinner. I try to stop him then realize we’ve worked up an appetite and it’s not as if I had any better dinner plans.
We have pizza delivered from a place in town and wind up eating it cross-legged in bed, naked except for our underwear.
He tells me about Buttercup’s latest antics now that she’s feeling much better, and I update him on the pregnant heifer I’ve been monitoring.
The conversation flows so easily that I have to remind myself this isn’t a relationship. This is a casual arrangement.
There’s a difference, and the difference matters.
What I can’t ignore, even when I try, is the way he prioritizes my pleasure. It seems to be a point of pride for him to make sure I finish first. Often more than once.
He’s attentive in a way that feels genuine, paying attention to little details about me, and often bringing them up randomly in future conversations.
I catch the way he stares at me sometimes, and a shiver racks down my spine.
He’s agreed to keep things strictly sexual, but if I’m honest, intuition tells me, deep down, he feels otherwise.
But he’s not the only one who notices the small things.
I pick up on how he sometimes winces when he stands up once we’re done. I’ve taken note of the way his face tenses up as if pained, then how it filters out of his expression. Almost as if he’s trained himself to mask it.
“You alright?” I ask.
“Never better,” he grunts. His flirty grin returns, and he winks at me.
I decide to let it go.
It’s not my place to push the subject. That’s what a girlfriend would do. That’s what I would’ve done as Craig’s wife.
Though the veterinarian in me has an inkling Rhett’s not being upfront with me, it’s none of my business at the end of the day.
We have an agreement, and it’s to keep things strictly casual.
It’s satisfying and exciting and makes me feel good. Exactly what I needed starting over after my health scare and marriage that crashed and burned.
Quick, casual, and meaningless.
EIGHT
Rhett
I’ve survived combat zones, jumps from thirty thousand feet, and three herniated discs, but Vivica Murphy’s smile might be the thing that actually kills me.
It’s not even the big moments that get to me.
It’s the small stuff. Things I wouldn’t normally notice—or appreciate—about a woman. Let alone obsess over.
Vivica’s honey-blonde pixie cut and how it frames her face. Her cottage and how she’s decorated to maximum cozy effect, with throw pillows and plants and warm, low-lit mood lighting. Her way of busting my chops and how matter-of-fact she can be when establishing boundaries.
