The Cowboy's Curvy Pen Pal's Rain-Drenched Reunion Ride
Curvy romance writer Lila finally gets pounded hard by her flirty cowboy pen pal during a rainstorm.
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The rain came down in sheets, the kind of Texas gully-washer that turned dirt roads into chocolate milk and made every romance novelist’s “stranded in the storm” fantasy feel a lot less sexy and a lot more like drowning in a lukewarm bath. Lila’s ancient rental car had given up with a pathetic cough and a hiss of steam, leaving her stranded on a lonely back road ten miles from nowhere. She sat behind the wheel in a soaked sundress that now clung to every abundant curve like a second, very unhappy skin, cursing her decision to wear white.
Headlights cut through the deluge. A big black pickup slowed, then stopped. The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out, hat brim dripping, white T-shirt already plastered to a chest that looked illegally carved from Texas longhorn and stubborn pride.
Lila’s stomach flipped. She knew that silhouette. She’d been fantasizing about it for two solid years.
Jake sauntered up to her window, water streaming off the brim of his Stetson, and gave her the slowest, filthiest grin she’d ever seen in real life.
“Well, hell, darlin’. Looks like my favorite dirty-minded pen pal finally decided to deliver herself in a rainstorm. You gonna sit there lookin’ like a drowned cupcake, or you gonna let me rescue you proper?”
Lila laughed despite the fact that her nipples were trying to cut through both her bra and the soaked fabric. “If I’d known all it took was breaking down in a monsoon, I would’ve done it months ago, cowboy.”
He opened the door and offered a big, calloused hand. She took it. The moment their palms met, something electric snapped between them—two years of increasingly filthy handwritten letters suddenly made flesh. Jake’s gaze dropped shamelessly to the way her heavy breasts strained against the transparent dress, then flicked back up with zero shame.
“Jesus Christ, Lila. Letters didn’t do you justice. You’re even prettier when you’re soaked and scowling.”
“Flattery won’t get my car fixed, Jake.”
“No,” he drawled, tugging her toward his truck, “but it might get you bent over my kitchen table in about twenty minutes if you keep lookin’ at me like that.”
Her laugh came out shaky. The nervous, giddy kind. She was really here. He was really real. And he was looking at her like he wanted to eat her alive in the best possible way.
The drive to his cabin was short and thick with tension. Rain hammered the roof of the truck cab. Jake’s big hand rested on the gear shift, occasionally brushing her bare thigh when he shifted. Every touch felt deliberate. By the time they pulled up to the small but tidy log cabin tucked back in the pines, Lila’s pulse was hammering between her legs.