Page 7 of The Cowboy's Close Quarters Claim

Didn't help matters any that when I finally managed to guilt her into giving me a bite of that dinner of hers, it was the best steak I've had in my life.

My mind is all kinds of messed up tonight, thinking about putting a ring on that woman and chasing her around the house for the next forty or fifty years.

Thoughts like this never got in my head before. Why now? Why does it have to be a woman who can barely stand me?

No point settin' here, making myself any crazier than she's already got me.

With a grunt to punctuate my frustration, I get to my feet and head for the outhouse out behind the shack. I figure it's been long enough since Clementine tapped out that she should be asleep by now. No chance of running into her tonight.

That's a good thing. The way she's got me feeling about now, I'm not sure I could control myself if I caught a glimpse of her in her night clothes. Even if she sleeps in long johns.

Visions of Clem in long underwear swim in my brain as I pick my way back from the outhouse, my eyes not quite adjusted to the dark of the moonless night after staring at the fire for so long.

I imagine her in my kitchen on one of the cold mornings that have had the last few winters feeling lonelier than I remember them when I was a younger man, in a set of thermals and the thick hunting socks I bet she likes, and that thick hair of hers falling wild and tangled over her shoulders from a morning romp while she cooks up some breakfast steaks.

The whole picture is too damn clear in my head. From the way her heavy breasts would look swaying free under her shirt, to the little noise she'd make, pretending to be mad at me, whenI come up behind her to give 'em some attention while I nuzzle into her neck.

By the time I get to the big, live oak outside the window of the little shack, my dick's hard enough that I'm damn near about to stand still and take care of it right here.

That's when I hear her.

The back window of the little cabin is open and, from the sound of it, I'm not the only one that's got an itch to scratch tonight.

Without a single fuck given to the woman's privacy, I creep closer to the open window and treat my ears to the unmistakable sounds of Clementine taking care of a need that I'm desperate to handle for her.

Before I know it, I'm leaning up against the outside wall beside the window with my hand around my cock, stroking myself in time to her hard breaths and the little moans she's doing such a damn fine job of muffling.

If I was out by the fire still, I wouldn't have a clue what she's up to in there.

Grinding my molars, I make my best effort at unloading my balls without making any kind of noises that might alert Clem to the fact that I'm eavesdropping on the sound of her sweet climax while I come all over the fucking dirt thinking about licking her cream off her fingers.

As much as I want to stay here, hoping she'll give me more of those stifled little moans to torture myself with all night, it's well past dark on a summer night, we've got a lot of work to get done tomorrow, and I'm not about to let that woman catch me asleep past sun-up.

She'll probably throw a bucket of water on my head if she catches me sleeping in.

Zipping up, I curse under my breath as I make my way back to where I left my sleeping bag spread out at my campsite beside the fire ring.

I need a good night's sleep. Tomorrow, we'll be too damn busy working for me to stay distracted by that woman. Or her feminine curves or that sarcastic tongue that I'd like to put to better use than giving me shit all day.

Turns out, I'm plenty distracted tonight though.

I smothered the fire pretty damn well before I left it and now, with the moonless night and my forgetting to take any sort of flashlight with me, there's not enough light for me to see the shovel and bucket of water beside the fire ring before I step on the shovel.

The damn thing goes out from under my boot, straight into the side of the bucket, which tips over, sending water pouring onto the dirt and right for my things.

But that's not my biggest problem.

No way.

The biggest problem is the small, furry, creature I can now see in the middle of my sleeping bag.

"Fuck." It's the only appropriate word there is when you're scrambling backwards as fast as you can to get out of the line of fire.

The noise and the water and my heavy footsteps are more than enough to scare the skunk into attack mode rather than giving it time to move along on its own.

"Dammit!"

I don't care how loud I'm being at this point. I managed to escape the blast, but I won't be sleeping in my own sleeping bag...probably ever, to tell the truth.

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