Carla Vs. Cowboy

5

Carla

“Beeeeeccccccaaaaaa,” I whine.

God, I hate my whiny voice. I bet you Becca hates it even more. But I can’t help myself.

“I fucked it up. I fucked it all up. Me and my mace. Why do I think I need to carry mace, anyway?”

I prop my chin on my hand, staring off into the distance, remembering his dark brown hair, the way it curled over his forehead, and his gorgeous blue eyes.

A cowboy. A real life cowboy! Here, in New York City!

But it’s been three days, and I haven’t seen him since. It seems like I should’ve been able to run into him – surely a guy riding up the street on a horse would catch someone’s attention, right? – but all the videos on YouTube just show what happened on the street that day, when he’d saved me and more importantly, my Louis Vuitton purse. Nobody seems to know his name anymore than I do.

So, have I watched and re-watched those videos on YouTube? You betcha.

God, now I’m even starting to sound like a cowgirl! Pretty soon, I’m going to be chewing on straw and wearing overalls to work.

The thought makes me smile. At least something is making me smile.

“Well, he shouldn’t be hard to find, Carla. I mean, how many cowboys could there possibly be in New York City?”

“It isn’t that there’s so many to look through, it’s that I don’t know where to start looking!” I wail.

“Did someone say they’re looking for a cowboy?” Biff, our Rodeo Manager, asks, walking through the door to the conference room. In behind him, trails two cowboys.

Very handsome cowboys.

And one of them, I already know.

I stare in shock at his face, something I’d already memorized from hours of watching YouTube videos – the square chin, the cleft, the dark hair, the scruffy beard.

It’s him! Oh god, oh god, oh god, it’s him!

I’m not sure if I was going to faint from embarrassment or excitement…or both.

6

Chase

Biff introduces us to Becca, who is the lawyer for Madison Square Garden and has drawn up all of our contracts, and Carla Roman, the event planner for the MSG.

Carla.

I roll the name around in my head, loving the sound of it.

We stare at each other. I’m not sure who’s more surprised—her or I. She’s even more gorgeous than I remember, with her blonde hair, falling carelessly over her shoulders in waves. All I want to do is bury my hands in her hair.

Or my face in her tits.

Or my dick in her pussy.

I can feel my dick grow hard and I try to swallow the lust building inside of me. I can’t actually fuck her over the conference table, right?

Right?

My dick sure is begging me to.