Cowboy, It's Cold Outside

by Lori Wilde

  His identity cracked, shattered. He was laid bare and raw and vulnerable. Cash, the brand. Cash, the musician. Cash, the man. Dispatched.

  Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

  In place of that old false sense of self was pure essence. He was flooded by blinding white light shining from every pore. Glowing from his cells. Lifeblood. He was vibrating to a higher frequency, true and real and priceless.

  He tried to swallow, couldn’t. Couldn’t breathe either. Couldn’t do anything but absorb her.

  The smell of her hair, floral and sweet. The touch of her skin, radiant and silky. The taste of her lips, sugared and certain. The sound of her voice, soft and urgent.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please, please, please. Cash, please, please me.”

  A chant. A mantra. A prayer. A request of the highest order.

  He was her knight. He would not fail her.

  Love her, sang his heart. Love her like she’s never been loved. Give her your mouth, your tongue, your hands, your fingers.

  Show her.

  Lead her.

  Cherish her.

  Protect her.

  A song. It was a new song. Inspired by her trembling beauty. Notes and chords danced in his head. A wizardry of pattern and rhyme. Melody. Harmony. Beats and cadence. A measure.

  They were wrapped around each other. In each other.

  The song played on, poignant and moving. He loved her with his mouth, kissing every corner and alcove. Finding the spots that made her wriggle and sigh. Touching and fondling. Pulling exquisite sounds from her.

  Building. Growing. Expanding. A tower of song.

  He shivered. Delighted and bedeviled.

  When he headed for the most delicate part of her, she sucked in a deep breath and put a hand on his head, stopping his progress.

  “Wait.” Her voice came out high and nervous.

  He raised his head. “What is it, sweetheart? What’s wrong?”

  “I . . . no one . . . I’m . . .”

  “You’ve never been pleasured like this?” he guessed.

  She nodded.

  An inordinate joy spread through him, unraveling like a black velvet ribbon inside him, dark and mysterious. He would be her first in one way. So special. Such a gift. He was humbled and that startled him. This pious feeling of gratitude.

  “Shh, shh,” he soothed. “No worries. You lay back and let me take care of everything.”

  She nibbled her bottom lip, her insecurity so adorable it socked him squarely in the solar plexus. She wanted to trust him. He could see it on her. But she’d been hurt, burned. This secret place where he wanted to go would expose her fully. She was scared.

  “It’s okay if you’re not ready,” he said, pulling back, giving her room, even as her feminine fragrance urged every masculine instinct in him to dive in, dive deep, conquer her. “It’s okay.”

  He curled up next to her, pulled her into his arms, and held her. Just held her until after a while she reached out to stroke his face and whimper, “I want it. I want you. Please go there.”

  Cash smiled in the dark. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to give everything to her. His mouth. His skill. The moon on a string. Anything and everything.

  At last she relaxed and let him go where he wanted so badly to go. She dropped her legs, opened her playground to him.

  Her noises directed him. He was attuned to her every nuance and sound. She smelled of heaven and earth. Ethereal and light, rich and lush.

  She tasted like country-and-western music, lively and honest, real and rooted, ageless and timeless. As he savored her, Cash thought dizzily: bluegrass, rockabilly, western swing, zydeco, honky-tonk. The twang of guitars strummed in his head. The fast friction of fiddles. The swing of strings, banjoes and mandolins. He heard harmonicas and washboards, cowbells and tambourines.

  In her body he supped the history of song. The Celtic footprints of reels and ballads. The drunken beat of tribal drums. The mournful sigh of bagpipes, and the hopeful wheeze of polka accordions. The haunting wistfulness of a forest dulcimer. The sweet, easygoing autoharp.

  Reeds slipped in. The shiny tin of woodwinds. Moist mouths. Hot skin. Flutes and oboes, clarinets and bassoons.

  Then the bold blast of brass, the sympathetic vibration of lips. Labrosones, resonated and pitched. Slides and valves, crooks and keys. He shifted and changed. Lip tension, air flow. Embouchure.

  From the seat of his spine to the top of his head, he buzzed with tempo and note. Passed the hum on to her through his lips and jaw. The puff of his cheeks, the gentle blow. The six-holed serpent deep and low. Saxophone jazz. Didgeridoo. Coronet. Zink. Conch and lur.

  The thump of percussions pounded through him. Tap and pace. Tension and pressure. Bongos. Conga. Box drum. Snare drum. Kettle and jug.

  He rocked it. The greatest sexual performance of his life. Rocked her.

  Hard.

  A rambling, shambling, rocking, knocking concert of love. In his deep dive with Euterpe, he found the meaning of everything and it was music. The one constant, through the rise and fall of nations, that made life worth living.

  Music.

  And she was his never-ending song.

  He could listen to her music to the end of his days and die happy with a smile on his face.

  The symphony unfurled in his head. Rising. Rushing. A garden of tune and verse, expanding and growing. Reaching for the sky, the stars, the universe.

  She busted, burst. Cried out. Grasped his hair in her fingers. Clutched and groaned.

  He tasted her release, organic and awesome. Rolled in it. Reveled. His heart sang out with his accomplishment. Proud and cocky.

  She whimpered and quivered, shaking and sweaty.

  Grinning, Cash lay beside her, hooked her to him with his elbow. Held her close. Peppered her with kisses.

  “I was . . . that was . . . you were . . .” she gasped.

  “Shh.” He squeezed her softly. Pressed his lips to the top of her head. Felt the frantic skip of her galloping pulse begin to slow.

  They lay curled together in the middle of the bed. Two spoons snuggled together. Her in front, he behind. His arm around her waist. His face buried in her silky hair.

  Precious. This moment was so damn precious. She was precious. The world was precious.

  It was a word he never used, and yet, now that’s all he could think. Precious. Precious. Precious.

  They were connected. Linked. It didn’t matter if she was the only one who’d found release. He had taken her there and he could not have been more satisfied. This was a gift of selflessness. The noble feeling of putting her needs ahead of his. Hell, his needs were paltry in the face of hers. Didn’t matter one whit.

  She was the Alpha and Omega. The beginning and the end.

  It was powerful and scary because his feelings were so powerful. But he tightened his grip around her. Held on.

  After a while, she’d caught her breath, regained her composure, and whispered, “What were you like as a kid?”

  “Huh?” he asked drowsily. He’d almost fallen asleep.

  “I’m trying to imagine you as a kid. What were you like? Did you collect things? Like to climb high up on things? Were you the ringleader? The class clown?”

  No woman had ever asked him this question and he had to think about it. Mostly, he didn’t dwell on the past.

  “I lived in my head,” he said. “Got called out on daydreaming in school. A lot. Loved to pretend to be superheroes. I was particularly taken with Batman. When I was three Lorena could not keep me out of my Batman costume.”

  “You called your mother by her first name?”

  “She wanted it that way.” He felt her tense beneath his arm, wondered why.

  “No siblings?”

  “Nope.”

  “Just you and your mom?”

  “For the most part,” he said vaguely, evasively. Licked the back of her neck, hoping to distract her.

  She wriggled. Giggled. Squirmed away.

&
nbsp; He drew her back.

  She leaned against him. “When did you get interested in music?”

  “I guess I was always interested. Loved to bang on pots and pans. Loved to sing. Instead of bedtime stories, I wanted bedtime songs.”

  “So your transformation into a musician was organic?”

  “My mom was an aspiring musician. There were always instruments lying around. Musicians, too, for that matter. Lots of late night jam sessions.”

  And lots of mornings stepping over whiskey bottles and bongs and people passed out on the floor, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. The last thing he wanted was her pity. Pity was not sexy.

  “I bet you were an adorable kid.” She ducked her head to kiss the back of his hand.

  The touch of those lips sent a hot shiver shooting through him. She’d had her release. He was still a loaded gun with a hair trigger.

  She turned into his arms, to face him. Cupped his cheeks with her palms. Kissed him long and deep. Then from underneath the pillow, she withdrew a condom, wagged it in his face.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Hid it there while you were getting busy down below.” In the dim light he could see her blush, and he loved that telltale sign of her inexperience.

  “Foxy sly.”

  “You game?” she asked.

  “Gimme that.” He reached for the condom.

  In under a minute he had the condom on and Paige charged up and ready and calling his name.

  It was energizing. His name on her lips, chanted like a song. When she begged him to get inside her, he was already there. Sliding into her warm sweetness like a baseball player sliding home on a steal.

  Safe!

  He sunk in. She squeezed him with her arms and her inner muscles. Welcoming him. Hello, big guy.

  He penetrated to the core of things, to the core of her.

  And surprisingly, startling, to the core of himself. A cracking sensation in the center of his chest, felt heat and energy pour out. Flow from him to her and back again.

  She made a happy noise, full of punch-drunk jubilation. He felt it bubble in him. The same effervescent glee. He strummed with it. Resonant and lingering as a single guitar string plucked in an empty concert hall.

  He planted his face against her neck, breathed her in as their bodies snuggly joined. Their tempo was perfect. Moving as a seamless unit. The two of them gliding on rainbows and moonbeams.

  It felt like the most natural thing in the world. As if they’d been waiting all their lives to dance this way. To sway and thrust. Slide and swim.

  He was a musician and she was a dancer. The two of them in perfect sync, absolute timing. No missteps. No falters.

  It started off as a waltz. Romantic and smooth. A flirtation. Soon slowed into the rumba. Passionate and sensual. A languid flirtation of rolling hips, sways and twists. Seduction. From there things progressed into a steady 4/4 mambo beat. Quick, quick, slow. Rising action. And the foxtrot. Building heat and friction. Headed for the top. Finally, the samba. The height of their joining. Quick beats. Fast movements. Acrobatic feats.

  Their bodies shook.

  The bed shook.

  Hell, the whole damn boat shook. Rock and reeling. Dance and rhythm. It was the most erotic thing Cash had ever experienced.

  The blissful, mysterious, crazy alchemy of great sex.

  At the crescendo, the completion of this dance to end all dances, another song came to him. Exquisite and full-blown. It pushed at the envelope of his mind. Left him stunned and staggered. Barely able to come down with her.

  Once he quieted his breath, he gave her a quick hug, kissed her forehead, slung back the covers, and jumped from the bed.

  “Huh?” She sat up, looking dazed and mused. “What’s happening? Where are you going?”

  “To write all this down before I forget it.”

  “The sex?”

  “No, the music.”

  “What music?”

  He leaned across the bed. Tousled her hair. Kissed her. “Your music.”

  She sat up in bed, tucked her legs underneath her, pulled the sheet to cover her nakedness. “What does that mean, my music?”

  “The music that pops into my head whenever I’m with you. It was pretty intense just then.” He waved at hand at her, the bed, the sheets.

  “Everything was pretty intense just then.”

  “You heard music too?”

  “No, but I’m not a musician. Is it always like that for you? Tunes running amok in your head?”

  “Rarely. Usually writing a song, lyrics, melody, it’s pretty painstaking. But when I’m with you it’s . . .” He shook his head as if some long-held misbelief had shattered.

  “What?” she asked, intrigued.

  “Free, easy. Like magic.”

  “So this is how it is? One or two quick ones and it’s off to write music?” she teased.

  “I wouldn’t say they were quick ones,” he drawled. “But yeah, kind of.”

  “Righteous,” she said in gleeful booming voice.

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I’m honored.” She made shooing motions. “Go write. I’m just gonna snooze.”

  With a serene smile on her face, she flopped back down onto the mattress, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

  Cash plunked down at the desk, reached for his journal and pen. Drew notes. Flats and sharps. Let the beat flow from his mind down his arm to the pen. He doodled and scratched. Wrote and scribbled, filled page after page.

  Half an hour later, he stopped, turned to look at Paige sleeping in the middle of his bed. It would be so easy to abandon his project and crawl up beside her. He was torn between his work and her allure.

  He paused, watching her, listening to her slow, even breathing. She lulled him. Cash yawned. Fought off drooping eyelids.

  Contemplated just how special it had been.

  Unique.

  Sex with Paige had been utterly unique, unlike any sexual experience he’d ever had. He had no idea why it was different, just knew that it was. Maybe because it was the first sex he’d had in over a year. Maybe because Paige was so easy to be with. Maybe it was because he liked her.

  He really, really liked her.

  Maybe, and this was the dangerous thought, what he was feeling was much more than just intense like.

  How could that be? He didn’t even know her. What if she was just like the other women who were attracted to his money and fame and not for who he was?

  Didn’t matter. He wanted her anyway.

  That was messed up.

  It still didn’t matter.

  She was his muse. She lit his fire, his heart, and his creativity.

  He wanted her.

  What now? Where did he go from here? What did he do with these feelings? The last time he’d felt this inspired—well, let’s be honest, he’d never felt this inspired—but the last time he’d even come close was when he’d fallen for Simone, and look how that stumbled.

  Overthinking, whispered a tiny voice in his brain. Get out of your head. Feel the experience. Turn it into song. Work.

  So he listened to that voice that never steered him wrong. The voice that often got buried during the hubbub of life. He listened and he wrote, and by morning, Cash has created his opus. A song unlike any other he’d ever written.

  And as dawn broke and Paige awakened, Cash went back to bed and made love to her all over again.

  Chapter 15

  Deceptive cadence: A chord progression that seems to lead to resolving itself on the final chord; but does not.

  Cash drove Paige to her job at Froggy’s the next morning. Even though she was exhausted from their wild and wondrous night, Paige grinned her way through her shift. Cash returned home, and spent the day perfecting the song that had come to him in the midst of their lovemaking. Cemented it. Got it prepped to send it to Sepia.

  They were worn out by the end of the long day, and ended up sleeping in their own houseboats, sending goo
d-night texts to each other.

  The next morning, Cash called her to tell her he’d booked a band and recording studio in Austin for preproduction and would be gone for a few days. Paige tried not to be disappointed that he was leaving right after they’d had sex, but she knew he was excited about his new songs.

  He texted her several times a day while he was away, keeping her up-to-date on how the recording was going. She lived vicariously through his stories. He sent her gifts. Flowers showed up at the day care. A beautiful winter bouquet of red and white roses, smilax, ranunculus, festival bush, tulips, poppies, astilbe, peonies, and amaryllis.

  While the flowers were lovely and she enjoyed them, she couldn’t help thinking of all the showy bouquets Randy had sent her when he was trying to woo her. She pushed that worry aside. Cash was not Randy. No comparison.

  He sent her a basket with hot chocolate mix, a Christmas mug, gourmet popcorn, a flannel blanket, and a DVD of her favorite Christmas movie, The Christmas Card—how had he known?

  Emma. He must have asked Emma.

  And then, when the temperature dropped into the twenties on the third day he was gone and she was bundling up to ride her bike to work, a knock sounded on her door. It was a car service driver, sent by Cash to chauffeur her around town. The gesture touched her more than any of the other gifts. He’d been thinking of her comfort.

  She texted him to thank him and they had a Skype session. It was so good to see his face pop up on her phone screen. He was enlivened. Animated. He looked so happy, and she was happy for him. He would finish the recording sessions on Friday, send the finished product off to his manager, and drive back to Twilight.

  They made a date for his return. Friday, December 15, a week after their tryst on the turquoise houseboat. They planned to hook up for drinks at four-thirty after Paige got off work from the day care center.

  She wrangled the afternoon off from her second job at the theater—Jana Gerard offered to stand in for her. Flynn agreed to look after Fritzi, and optimistic that their evening together would lead to bigger things, Paige had asked her uncle Floyd if she could work the Sunday morning breakfast shift instead of Saturday.

  That afternoon as she rushed across the square to meet him, Paige felt fizzy, dizzy, and giddy at the thought of seeing Cash, and the anticipation of making love to him again.