The Big Girl and Cowboy Show - An Alpha Cowboy Erotic Romance (2 page)

A little taken aback by this sudden mishmash of confusion paired with something resembling understanding, I decided to savor the moment of this grand unveiling of Randall’s card and examine it more thoroughly than I might have otherwise. I slowly turned it around with my fingers. As I ran my fingertips over every part of the card, the thickness and linen-like finish of the paper coupled with the slightly raised, embossed lettering made my arm vibrate as though I was running my fingers over small peaks and valleys of electric current, instead of the subtle textures of ink on paper. Instinctively, before even bothering to read what the card said, I brought it to my face and took a deep pull through my nose, searching for any residual scent left on the card from Randall.
Blammo!
A hint of musky sandalwood and plains dust, the same combination of aromas that registered in my brain when I first bumped into Randall at the coffee shop earlier that day, hit my brain so hard that I immediately felt a wetness between my legs.
Well, that was sudden!
I said out loud to myself as I felt the corners of my mouth curl slightly upwards into a playful grin.

Words now. Read the words already!
I mock chastised myself. I was quite enjoying the warmth that was quickly spreading over me just from my examination of the card, but understood that I needed to direct my attention to the actual words for a second to actually be able to read them. Go figure. A little reluctantly, I made my brain put the building yumminess on hold while I shifted focus to the printed matter on the front of my little piece of cowboy.

At the top of the card, center justified, there was a small logo made of an uppercase
R
and an uppercase
H
positioned side by side with the word
FARM
underneath, in a smaller font that spanned both the letters. Below that was
Randall Hemming
, and on the next line a phone number. The all black lettering and logo against the white of the card reminded me of Randall in his black t-shirt and black Stetson, and I couldn’t help but think that wasn’t entirely unintentional. Overall, the card didn’t tell me much, but it did tell me how to contact Randall, and as far as I was concerned, that was the only thing that mattered at the moment.

The answer to my
when-to-call
quandary arrived at precisely the same time that I realized how best to deal with the building Mount Vesuvius in my nether region. Undoubtedly brought on by the fermented grapes in my glass—
Oh, wine. Is there anything you can’t do?
—and subsequent lowering of my already low inhibitions, I had a mid-sip collision of thoughts that struck me as nothing short of brilliant, if I do say so myself. I decided to call Randall right that freaking minute and covertly pleasure myself to the sweet sound of that honeyed voice washing over me.

Suddenly I was a woman on a mission! I topped up my wine, grabbed the phone, and purposefully made my way to the couch, pleased to notice while I walked that the rapid onset of slickness from a moment ago had not abated one bit.

I’ve always been a sucker for pretty underthings.
Pretty things can only make pretty things prettier!
I loved saying this to myself as I slid my big soft curves into whatever pieces of silk or cotton that I was going to use to keep my naughty bits in check for the day. Today’s choice for undies was no exception. Before sitting down, I reached up under my dress and got a hold of my, as of today, favorite lacy red panties.
No sense in having these get in the way,
I told myself and promptly shimmied out of the pretty, and very damp, piece of fabric.

I was already in such a state by the time I eased myself into the corner of my soft, black sectional that the spine-stiffening jolt I normally get from the back of my bare legs first touching the cool surface of the leather cushions barely registered. Also not registering was even the slightest semblance of nervousness at the prospect of, not only calling a man I had met only hours earlier and who very clearly made me weak in the knees, but also of what I planned to do while speaking with him. Being so hot and bothered by my impending pseudo 1-800 call had apparently erased any space for something like nervousness or apprehension to even exist.

I took a big swallow of wine and placed the glass on the floor next to the couch. Next, I hiked the hemline of my dress up and under my substantial ass until it rested under the small of my back. My pubis exposed, I could see the sculpted triangle of trimmed hair that I liked to leave above my labia. I always kept everything below smooth as glass, but that small soft patch of hair above always made me feel like a woman. Call me old-school, but a pussy isn’t called a pussy because cats don’t have fur.

I resisted the urge to dive right in. I wanted to hear Randall’s voice before the first touch of my glistening lips.
Let’s get this party started, Connor!
I instructed myself. Unable to help myself, I added a little
Woot! Woot!
because, well, I’m kind of a dork like that sometimes. I took a deep breath and dialed the phone.

My right hand was poised above my pussy like a runner at the blocks waiting for a starter’s pistol to fire.
Ring
. At the sound of the first ring I felt my fingers twitch just a little as the ache inside me grew stronger.
Ring
. The second ring brought about a fresh wave of wetness just from knowing that hearing Randall’s voice was seconds away. I dug my heels into the couch and my ass lifted just slightly from the tightening of my already taut back muscles. Not sure that I could, or wanted to, hold out on myself any longer, my brain sent my hand a stern memo informing it that it was to remain in its holding pattern until further notice. That was just as the third ring of the phone began. Mercifully, that ring was interrupted by the glorious moment I was waiting for.

“Good evening. This is Randall Hemming.”

An appropriate response to such a fine telephone greeting as the one Randall had just offered could have been just about anything. A simple hello would have done it. Perhaps even a nice civilized
Good evening, Randall. This is Connor
. Hell, even a
Yo, baby!
would have been better than the insane gasp I let out at the first sound of his voice as my fingers touched down on the electrified fence that was currently my clit.
Oh. My. God. Are you kidding me right now? How in the hell was that discreet?

“Hello?” came Randall’s voice over the receiver.

Feebly attempting to regain my composure, I stammered out, “Hello. Sorry. Hi. I was daydreaming there and I got a little startled when you answered. This is Connor. Connor Lyall. We met earlier today. At the coffee shop.”
There is no way he’s buying that daydreaming line.

“Seems like I’ve made a habit of causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. That’s the second time today that I’ve given you a start, and we’ve only just spoken the two times.” My fingers slowly circled my hot button while he spoke. Our call had only just begun, but my breath was already quickening and I forced myself to keep a controlled pace for the time being. He was certainly right about my hairs standing on end though. The sound of his voice gave me goose bumps.

“Well, I’ll admit you do have a way of getting me going . . . flowing . . . adrenaline! My adrenaline flowing!”
Holy hell, Connor! Are you for real?
I was not impressed with my sudden metamorphosis into a babbling fool. However, it didn’t seem to matter to Randall. And it didn’t stop me from changing my slow circles into a more pressured diagonal stroke that was almost frictionless thanks to the copious amount of lubrication I had generated.

He let out a super cowboy-y
heh heh
that made my stomach flutter with a fresh batch of butterflies and, without hesitation, followed that up with, “I’m real happy to hear that, Connor. I was hoping I wasn’t the only one to feel that way. Adrenalized, that is.” He drew out the
i
in
adrenalized
in just the same way you’d expect to hear it from a cowboy in an old-timey western. Incidentally, the amount of time it took for that letter
i
to pass his lips was exactly the same amount of time I took to slide my middle finger past my own lips—albeit lips of a different variety. I just teased my opening, pressuring slightly, but not allowing my digit to fully penetrate myself just yet. I could feel the pulsing of my heartbeat around the edges of the circular shape beneath my fingertip.

Even as I edged nearer to what I could only imagine was going to be a monumentally explosive orgasm, or two . . . or three, I started to find my words again. “I get your blood flowing, do I?”

“Darlin’, you can’t even imagine.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I can.” And I was. Imagining, that is. And the more I imagined, the harder it was becoming to keep my concurrent activity to myself. I wanted so many things all at once. I wanted to know everything about Randall. I wanted to hear a steady stream of his voice wash over me. I wanted to come like a motherfucking screaming, roiling, tidal wave made from geysers that shoot laser beams into a whirlpool of exploding dynamite! But, I couldn’t. Not yet.
Dial it back a bit, lady
, I told myself. I brought my finger back out from tempting the opening of my vag and began to slowly run it, and the rest of my fingers, from the top of the hood of my clit down, over the drenched lips of my pussy, past my taint, right to the tight pucker of my asshole and back again. My hand glided over the changing elevations of my
Connor Range
with the ease of a silk kerchief following the undulations of a wispy ocean breeze.

My change in motion slowed the oncoming
O train
, but I knew not for long. Arriving at the station, so to speak, was an inevitability that would come to pass sooner rather than later. So, not wanting to just break out into random caterwauling in the middle of dead air in our conversation, I steeled myself as best as I could under the circumstances and added, “I noticed the logo on your card.
RH Farm
. I’m no detective, but if I were to guess, I’d guess the
R
and the
H
stood for Randall Hemming. Annnd that you . . . own a farm?”

I was being a hair cheeky. I wasn’t really expecting him to say that he did, indeed, own a farm. But, I suppose I wasn’t really expecting him not to either. “My, my. Turns out you’re a good detective after all, Ms. Lyall.” His tone was sarcastic, but in a good way—a playful way. I already loved how we spoke to each other. It was so easy. Like we had known each other for a thousand years.

“Well, how do ya like them apples?” I said. “From here on out, it’s Detective Lyall!” I heard Randall chuckle that deep chuckle of his and it stirred me up even further.
Get him talking, Connor!
the voice in my head that was attached to my very worked-up self quite adamantly demanded. I continued, speaking quickly, “Now, please do tell me all about this farm of yours! I want to know everything!” Not much of a segue—like, at all—but I was becoming increasingly aware that my voice had a bit more breathiness to it by this point, and if I could hear it, I was pretty certain that Randall would pick up on it soon as well. If he hadn’t already. I was hoping he was as good an orator as he was a charmer and had a lot to say on the matter of his farm. Really, really hoping. I was nearing the point of no return.

“You want to know everything, do you? That might take some time.”

“Oh, I have time. Loads of it. All night. Take as much time as you need,” I babbled enthusiastically as the pace of my hand rubbing my whole soaked area from top to bottom picked up speed.

“Fair enough. You just let me know if I get to boring you.”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” I quickly assured him.

“Okay. Well, as you so expertly deduced a moment ago, I do indeed own a farm. A thoroughbred horse farm, to be more exact. Anything you can think of that has to do with horses, we do. From breeding, breaking, or rehabbing, right on through to the thing which we are most passionate about, training those horses to be champions.”

The succession of words emanating from Randall’s mouth was like sweet ambrosia for my craving body. Every cell of me was greedily drinking each syllable as though my very life depended on them. It was time to step up my game. Guided via a remote control combination of my brain and Randall’s voice, my hand stopped the quickened, all over up and down movement I had been enjoying and proceeded to extend my index and middle finger. I knew immediately that what was coming next was not going to be easy to keep quiet, but I was beginning to care less about my cover being blown as the moments continued. For the time being though, I continued my stealthy sojourn to electric lady-land. I slid my rigid digits past my ludicrously soaked lips and, once again, found myself resting on the pulsing opening to my vag. The pause there was brief. I pushed past the gentle resistance of my entrance and curled my fingers upward. I landed my fingers on the ridged flesh of my, definitely not mythical for me, g-spot with the precision of a skilled marksman. This, of course, was not without consequence. I had to bite my lip so hard to try and keep myself quiet that I actually hurt myself enough to let out a squeaky moan.

“Connor? Are you okay?”

“Me? Yes. Fine. Very fine. Thanks. I just . . . uhh . . . I’m good. I’m good. Do go on.” So, yeah, the words had left me again.

By now I was near certain that Randall was on to me and knew I was up to some funny business. My stammering was only the latest piece of evidence. He let me off the hook again though—sort of—and continued speaking. “Heh heh. Okay. I’m glad you’re
very fine,
Connor. And by the way, I have to agree. You are indeed very fine.”
Holy mother of fuck. I am going to explode soon.
My fingers now took to an in and out motion, fucking my pussy, while keeping a steady pressure against the top wall of my insides. Going for broke now, I also made sure to keep my thumb pressed against my fully engorged clit so it would be stimulated at the same pace. I seriously could have been an instruction manual for how to maximize sensation while playing with yourself.

At Randall’s last comment, I managed to eke out a sort of demented giggle, but really I was just holding on for dear life at this point. Release was imminent, and I was barely keeping quiet while hammering away at my pussy.