Authors: Cleo Page
The BIG GIRL and
An ALPHA COWBOY Erotic Romance
Copyright © 2013 Cleo Page
All Rights Reserved
“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,
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
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 scare me,” I said. “I just wasn’t expecting someone to be standing so close.
for someone to hijack my punch line, for that matter.”
“Well,” he cocked the dark brown eyebrow over his left eye and tilted his hat back slightly, “it would seem to me that stealing some of your thunder on that fine joke of yours is just about the smartest thing I’ve done in quite some time.” As he spoke he, noticeably, looked me up and down in the same deliberate manner that he deftly slid that line out of his mouth. It wasn’t uncomfortable though. Neither thing was, actually. Not the look or the line. It was quite the opposite really. Both things were delivered in such a way that told me this man not only appreciated a woman, but appreciated a woman who was a whole lotta woman.
It was then that creepy-moustache-guy behind the counter decided he’d watched the
Big Girl and Cowboy Show
for long enough. In a voice that could not have been more monotone if he was actually, literally, the embodiment of a dial tone, he quite handily burst the bubble of discovery we had just found ourselves in with a “What kind of donuts would you like?”
“Oh, right . . . donuts,” I half-heartedly muttered. Donuts were no longer nearly as exciting as they had been a couple of minutes ago. “I’ll have a double chocolate and a cherry-filled, please.”
“Anything for you?” mumbled creepy-moustache-guy, with a barely perceptible nod of his head toward my new favorite cowboy. Granted, I had no other cowboys on any kind of
list—I had no
at all for that matter—but if I had, this guy would have just rocketed to the top at a staggering pace.
“My order is separate, thanks. We’re not . . .” began the cowboy, but I cut him off.
“No, no. Go ahead. It’s on me.” As I spoke, the voice in my head silently, but lasciviously, suggested that he too, could be
without the slightest objection from me. My cheeky gaze up at his deep brown eyes, however, most certainly betrayed my quiet
and must have surely let on that I was rapidly approaching a state that was less than pure.
“Why thank you . . .” he trailed off, clearly waiting for me to fill in the blank with my name.
“Connor,” I said. “Connor Lyall.”
He dutifully ordered a large black coffee, but quickly turned his attention back to me. “Connor Lyall, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, I do declare!” I hit him with my best Scarlett O’Hara, which admittedly wasn’t great, and fanned myself as daintily as one is able to with a bag of donuts. “And you, fine sir? Do you have a name or do people just call you cowboy?”
As I handed a five-dollar bill to, by this point, the rather disconcerting creepy-moustache-guy, and mumbled
keep the change
—a monotone thank you emanated from behind the counter as we turned and walked away—the cowboy let out another of his knee-wobbling, honeypot-filling bass line chuckles and said, “Yes ma’am, I do have a name. And no, it isn’t cowboy. My name is Randall Hemming, but my friends, and you may also, if you wish, call me Randy.”
My goodness, he certainly does speak cowboy well.
Well, by now he most definitely wasn’t the only one you could call
! He had a way about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on yet, but I was certainly hoping I would get a chance to. Put my finger on him, that is. And more.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Randall,” I replied. My eyes were firmly locked on his, and I could tell that he appreciated my choice to use the long form of his name by the slight curl at the corner of his lips.
was cute, but I liked the sound of his name unabridged.
While Randall and I had been introducing ourselves to each other, a young man had entered the coffee shop and positioned himself just behind and to the right of Randall. “Excuse me, Mr. Hemming. Sorry to interrupt. You’re going to be late for your three o’clock if we don’t leave now.”
“Thanks, Quinn. I’ll be right out.” The young man turned and exited the coffee shop as quickly as he had come in.
“Well, he couldn’t possibly be a friend of yours. He didn’t call you Randy.” He knew I was teasing him. I got the feeling he liked this. In fact, I was getting the distinct impression that not many people challenged this man.
He’s gonna love me
, I thought.
I’m crazy good at being challenging.
More chuckling. By now, each bassy soundwave that came out of Randall’s mouth flew through the air and landed directly between my legs with more accuracy than William Tell at an apple convention.
“That was Quinn. He’s my assistant. He makes sure I get to wherever I need to be whenever it is that I’m supposed to be there.”
“So, employees can’t be friends?” I prodded him a little more since he had clearly enjoyed the first bit of teasing.
“No, no. That’s not it at all. He has actually turned into a very dear friend, but our relationship began as employer, employee. I’ve asked him—told him, even—many times to call me Randy, but he prefers to keep things old school and maintain the hierarchy.”
Interesting choice of words
, I thought.
He continued, “Now, unfortunately, I really should be on my way. Nobody wins when Quinn gets stressed out.”
I smiled at his joke about Quinn—I think it was a joke—but inside I felt like someone was about to steal the rug right out from under me and soon there would be nothing left from our little coffee shop rendezvous except for the fading, but delicious, memory of
Randall the Super-hot Cowboy
An all too brief moment passed where we just stared at each other, tied together in some kind of suspended knowingness. Both our faces were painted with the slightest of goofball grins as we each admired the other and took in the feelings of goodness that were raining down upon us from this chance meeting.
Not being interested in having to kick myself in the ass from now until the end of time for not finding out, I decided I had better act quickly and ask Randall how I could contact him. I started to open my mouth, but he beat me to the punch and began to speak first. “Hey listen. Connor. You have to know that I can’t leave here without telling you that I
to see you again.” He paused briefly—I’m assuming he noticed my eyes widen—collected the rest of his thought, and continued. “And I understand that I am being a hair presumptuous in assuming that my choice of words won’t make you run for the hills, but it’s real important to me that you know that. That I
to see you again.”
It’s safe to say, even though we had so very obviously connected in a way that felt way more fairy tale than anything I was used to, that I was more than a little gobsmacked by his most recent proclamation. Strangely though—I say strange because I couldn’t imagine anyone else telling me that they
to see me again after having just met me a few minutes prior and me not thinking they were a little insane in the membrane—I felt something akin to a wave of relief roll over me as I got this confirmation from him that he was feeling the same way I was.
“Here,” he went on, “take this card.” His hands easily swallowed mine as he held my right hand in his left and placed his card flat on my palm with the other. His hands were now gently, but firmly, cupping my left hand. More shocks of electricity fired through my whole body, this time with even more intensity than before. He did not let go as he continued to speak. “This is my personal contact information. Please use it. It does not matter to me what time of the day or night you may feel so inclined as to make that phone call, but I assure you, whatever time, whatever day, I will answer that call. I am a patient man, Ms. Connor Lyall, so believe me when I tell you this . . . From this moment on, this cowboy will be waiting for you for as long as it takes.”
Who talks like this? A girl sure could get used to hearing all this cowboy-ese.
. Were someone to ask anyone I know if I was ever one to be at a loss for words, the answer would unequivocally be a resounding
! And yet, here I was, essentially mute, save for a tiny, “Thanks,” that I managed to get past my lips.
Randall let go of my hand and took a short step back. He drew in his breath, and proceeded to turn his cowboy-level up to eleven as he tipped his hat and let out a deep, molasses-smooth, “Ma’am,” that made my knees buckle more than a little. And with that, he turned and walked out of the coffee shop.
Sweet baby Jesus!
I exclaimed in my head as I came to my senses and watched him leave.
As I shut the front door to my apartment behind me and kicked off my shoes, I looked up and noticed the clock on the wall read eight p.m.
On autopilot now, I made my way to the kitchen to pour myself a well-deserved big-ass glass of Shiraz.
Mommy missed you today
, I purred at my brimming Riedel. With the clarity that the first sip of wine always brings, I realized that I had not yet thought to take a closer look at Randall’s card. Hard to believe, I know, but having been drunk as a skunk on hot cowboy pheromones since our meeting at the coffee shop, the rest of my day was pretty much equally divided between deciding on how soon was too soon to call Randall, and thinking,
Oh my god if I don’t get home and get to work on releasing some pressure from my vajay, I am going to blow up like a cheap balloon at a clown college.
As I took his card from the inside pocket of my purse, a feeling of excitement, of purpose, crashed over me. It didn’t particularly make any sense, but it seemed like this little piece of card stock meant more than just a way to contact Randall. It felt like I had just taken a key out of my purse, rather than a business card, and I was about to use it to unlock something more than just a conversation.