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Book: The Big Girl and Cowboy Show - An Alpha Cowboy Erotic Romance by Cleo Page
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Authors: Cleo Page
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Chapter One
“Do you know,” I began to ask the utterly uninterested coffee shop employee with the company-issued hairnet and, unless he worked on the side as a creepy porn actor, not company-issued pencil thin moustache, “what, exactly, could be better than a donut?”
Silence. Bewildered staring ensued.
Truth be told, I didn’t much care whether he answered or not. I was just entertaining myself mostly. Waiting to get to the punch line so I could giggle to myself and, more importantly, order a second donut.
After an impeccably-timed comic pause, I opened my mouth and, quite proud of myself for being so clever, triumphantly declared, “TWO donuts!”
My voice, however, was not the only voice I heard when I landed my joke at its obvious destination. Instead, from behind me, and perfectly synchronized, came a booming baritone with a slight drawl that mimicked my line and then followed it up with a hearty chuckle of its own.
A split-second assessment later, and pretty confident that the second voice did not somehow belong to me—I’m quick like that—I promptly spun around to investigate who would be so bold as to horn in on my comedic-slash-donut-ordering moment.
Whenever I turn to face a direction, I tend to lead with my tits. It’s not intentional; it just is what it is. I have been generously endowed in that department. Like, really generous. Fortunately for me, the size of my ample bosom is directly proportionate to the size of my backside—also a sight to behold. Luckily for me, instead of being oddly top heavy, I balance out well and have been told by friends and lovers many a time that I am lusciously curvy and Rubenesque. As far as I’m concerned, the people who say these things are wonderful people with fantastic taste.
As usual, for me anyway, I had to catch up to my tits as I swung around those 180 degrees. But, where there might normally have been free air space for my girls to swoop into and occupy, there was instead the solid chest of a large man in a black Stetson.
The side of my right breast made contact first. Not with a great wallop, but certainly more than a brief brush past. There was enough lovely pressure between breast and chest to allow for some friction on my nipple as I finished my change in direction. That friction, normally chalked up to incidental contact and not given a second thought when I manage to whack-a-boob into something or someone, instead sent a lightning bolt of electricity that ran right from the tip of my nipple up to my suddenly very alert brain and down to my wonderfully smooth—freshly landscaped, thank you—lady-bits.
I don’t startle easily. Not much fazes me really. But that delicious and unexpected jolt of current caused me to uncharacteristically hop backwards as though I’d just walked face first into a spider web made of something even more disgusting than a spider web.
“Whoa, little lady! Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you.” His drawl was a little more apparent now. Also apparent was that his voice somehow managed to power up the last vestiges of tingling voltage in my pleasure generator.
While I am most definitely a lady, little was not something I could ever be mistaken for being. That said, whether he meant it literally or just as a term of endearment, in the shadow of this hunk of cowboy, it certainly seemed appropriate enough. A full head taller than me put him in the six foot four range with broad shoulders that matched and complemented his height. He was muscular—you could certainly tell that from his well-fitting black t-shirt—but not in an “I go to the gym every day” kind of way. Speaking of well-fitting . . . those jeans. That . . . bulge! Wow. You’d almost think the guy was showing off, if it wasn’t for the fact that nothing about him even remotely seemed like he was trying to be anything. He was very obviously just himself and had it down cold. This man was a cowboy through and through.
“You didn’t
“Do you know,” I began to ask the utterly uninterested coffee shop employee with the company-issued hairnet and, unless he worked on the side as a creepy porn actor, not company-issued pencil thin moustache, “what, exactly, could be better than a donut?”
Silence. Bewildered staring ensued.
Truth be told, I didn’t much care whether he answered or not. I was just entertaining myself mostly. Waiting to get to the punch line so I could giggle to myself and, more importantly, order a second donut.
After an impeccably-timed comic pause, I opened my mouth and, quite proud of myself for being so clever, triumphantly declared, “TWO donuts!”
My voice, however, was not the only voice I heard when I landed my joke at its obvious destination. Instead, from behind me, and perfectly synchronized, came a booming baritone with a slight drawl that mimicked my line and then followed it up with a hearty chuckle of its own.
A split-second assessment later, and pretty confident that the second voice did not somehow belong to me—I’m quick like that—I promptly spun around to investigate who would be so bold as to horn in on my comedic-slash-donut-ordering moment.
Whenever I turn to face a direction, I tend to lead with my tits. It’s not intentional; it just is what it is. I have been generously endowed in that department. Like, really generous. Fortunately for me, the size of my ample bosom is directly proportionate to the size of my backside—also a sight to behold. Luckily for me, instead of being oddly top heavy, I balance out well and have been told by friends and lovers many a time that I am lusciously curvy and Rubenesque. As far as I’m concerned, the people who say these things are wonderful people with fantastic taste.
As usual, for me anyway, I had to catch up to my tits as I swung around those 180 degrees. But, where there might normally have been free air space for my girls to swoop into and occupy, there was instead the solid chest of a large man in a black Stetson.
The side of my right breast made contact first. Not with a great wallop, but certainly more than a brief brush past. There was enough lovely pressure between breast and chest to allow for some friction on my nipple as I finished my change in direction. That friction, normally chalked up to incidental contact and not given a second thought when I manage to whack-a-boob into something or someone, instead sent a lightning bolt of electricity that ran right from the tip of my nipple up to my suddenly very alert brain and down to my wonderfully smooth—freshly landscaped, thank you—lady-bits.
I don’t startle easily. Not much fazes me really. But that delicious and unexpected jolt of current caused me to uncharacteristically hop backwards as though I’d just walked face first into a spider web made of something even more disgusting than a spider web.
“Whoa, little lady! Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you.” His drawl was a little more apparent now. Also apparent was that his voice somehow managed to power up the last vestiges of tingling voltage in my pleasure generator.
While I am most definitely a lady, little was not something I could ever be mistaken for being. That said, whether he meant it literally or just as a term of endearment, in the shadow of this hunk of cowboy, it certainly seemed appropriate enough. A full head taller than me put him in the six foot four range with broad shoulders that matched and complemented his height. He was muscular—you could certainly tell that from his well-fitting black t-shirt—but not in an “I go to the gym every day” kind of way. Speaking of well-fitting . . . those jeans. That . . . bulge! Wow. You’d almost think the guy was showing off, if it wasn’t for the fact that nothing about him even remotely seemed like he was trying to be anything. He was very obviously just himself and had it down cold. This man was a cowboy through and through.
“You didn’t
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