Page 11 of CowSex

I can hear shouting going on from beside me, but the blood is whooshing so loudly through my ears that I can’t make out what’s being said.

I draw in deep breaths and stutter out a, “Thank you,” to whoever has ahold of me. Their jacket is dark, soft, warm, and smells fantastic—like the cold and fresh air. Of coffee and something earthy. But most of all, it smells like safety.

“It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. I’m Deputy Martinez. You’re safe now. Are you hurt anywhere? The EMTs are on their way.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? She damn near ripped half my face off, and that was after she kicked in me the fuckin’ balls, and you’re asking her if she needs an EMT? I’m the one that needs a fuckin’ EMT.”

I wipe my face and my undoubtedly snotty nose on the back of my gloved hand and turn my head towards my attacker, but another set of headlights, which are moving swiftly towards us, temporarily blind me. I’m mesmerised by the snowflakes falling hard as they are captured in the glare of the vehicle’s full beams.

A car door slams and my attacker starts shouting again. “Thank fuck! Someone else with a brain is finally here. Can you call off your dogs, Nelson, and tell them who fuckin’ owns this place.”

What?

I turn my head slowly and stare at a pair of bare feet that seem to be hopping from one foot to the other. Good, I hope the fucker gets frostbite, and all his toes fall off...and his dick—yeah, definitely his dick, too.

“Let him go, Harris,” the guy I assume is Nelson, orders.

“But, sir, when I arrived on scene, he was attacking the girl.”

“Like fuck was I attacking her. She was breaking into my barn. The door opening triggered the sensor light, I came out the front and caught her trying to run up the driveway.”

More pissed than scared now, I climb out of the arms of the nice-smelling police officer.

I stand on shaky legs, ready to confront the scary, homeless burglar from the woods.

My eyes travel up a pair of jean-clad legs and then hit the naked chest that was lying all over me earlier. It’s not what I would expect from a wild, homeless man who lives in the woods when he’s not squatting in other people’s empty cabins.

His pecs are perfect, solid, a beautiful shade of brown-gold that is covered in a fine layer of dark hair. His abs, which my eyes flick down to and then away from—because fuck me if they're incredible—look like they’ve been carved. He has a six-pack, or maybe even an eight-pack.

There’s a conversation going on around me, but I’ve no clue what anyone is saying. Instead, I’m totally mesmerised by the man I was rolling around in the snow with. The jeans he’s wearing are undone at the waist and hang low, barely covering his hips, and oh my fucking God, he has no boxers on underneath, and I follow the line of dark hair that travels down the length of his body until it disappears inside his lowered zip.

My eyes then follow that same fine line of hair up over those perfectly tanned and toned abs, through the centre of his chest, to his throat, which is hidden behind his dark, but slightly greying, beard. My eyes dart over his plump lips, which are moving at a rapid rate, and then to his eyes, which are a brownish colour.

I think I might actually be nodding as I take in the fact that his beard is not long, straggly, or filthy. It’s trimmed, groomed, and fucking perfect, much like the rest of him.

His head turns suddenly, and he looks at me. I’m instantly hyperaware of how I probably resemble Scary Mary by this stage. I lost my beanie somewhere in the struggle, and my hair, which was in plaits, is possibly sticking up all over the show.

“Are you checking me out?”

My skin heats further. My cheeks take on a Ready Brek glow, and my mouth goes dry.

“What?” I splutter out.

“Stop checking me out, you thieving little bitch.”

What the fuck?

I take a step towards him, but Martinez grabs my elbow.

“Listen, you fucking prick. I’d have to be desperate to be interested in you. I was noting how much bigger you are than I am and how that’s gonna look in front of a judge and jury when I sue your cowboy arse for attacking me.”

“I didn’t attack you.”

“You scared me half to death, then when I ran for my life towards the safety of the Old Bill, you physically assaulted me.”

He looks to me, then to the policemen surrounding us with an incredulous look on his face. One of the officers hands him a pair of boots and a jacket, and I watch, feeling a little sad as he pulls on first the boots and then the jacket, hiding that fine body of his from view.

“You tried to break into my barn. I’m not a cowboy, and neither is my ass and who’s Bill?”