As a real cowgirl

She climbed on like she meant it. Thighs parted, hips rocking against the leather, she rode that saddle the way a cowgirl owns a stallion—steady, hungry, never off-beat. Her hand stayed sure when she reached for the steel speculum, holding it like she knew exactly where it belonged. The metal parted her slowly, deliberately, every click echoing off the walls as she eased it deeper. Blonde hair spilled over one shoulder; a darker strand from her friend clung to her damp skin. Lace still framed her hips, pulled aside just enough to let the tool do its work. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t hurry. She just kept riding, breath catching every time the cold steel kissed another inch inside her, turning that saddle into her own private rodeo.