Chapter 22
With one final thrust, Hank’s body goes rigid and he throws his head back, mouth wide. “God,” he moans, his hips twitching as he gets off deep within Delfino. A few hard jerks of Hank’s hand and Delfino’s climax erupts from him, as well, ropy strands of thick, white come splattering the stall door. At the sight of the two men locked in passion, I find release, too, my hand growing slick with my own juices as the musky scent of spunk wafts up to hit me in the nose.
I’m just about to sit back when Delfino glances my way. Despite the distance separating us, despite the stall hiding me, his eyes meet mine for one heart-stopping second. The faintest trace of a grin slips across his lips and he looks back at Hank. I’m so sure this is it, I’m caught out, he’s going to say something and Hank will know I know his secret, Delfino hasto point me out…
But he doesn’t. Instead he leans over, reaching for his pants, as Hank steps back, his now limp cock slipping free from between Delfino’s cheeks. “Muy bien,” Hank mutters, slapping Delfino’s bare ass before he pulls up his own jeans. “Gracias, chivato.”
Delfino looks my way again and winks. Winks. The gesture spikes through me like lightning during a prairie storm. If he’s going to point me out, it’s going to be now.
Instead, he stands as he tugs up his pants. “Anytime, Mr. Hank,” he murmurs in that soft-spoken way of his. I hear insinuations in his tone, promises of more, an invitation almost. But he doesn’t mention me to Hank, and doesn’t spare me another glance as he follows the ranch foreman back to the squeaky barn door and out the way they entered.
My knees ache from being forced to squat for so long. I let myself fall back onto the ground, my hat brushing against the mare’s belly. She whinnies in protest and moves away. Seconds stretch into minutes as the blood rushes to my lower legs, awakening them. I lay back, wipe my come-covered hand in the nearby hay, and tuck myself into my jeans. I can’t get Delfino’s gaze out of my mind. He saw me, me
And almost smiled.
* * * *
For the next few days, I avoid Delfino and his friends. It isn’t hard to do—I don’t really pal around with any of the other ranch hands, and the Mexicans all keep to themselves. But I can’t shake the image of his tawny round ass in the air as Hank’s long, slim cock plowed into it. Every time I close my eyes, he’s there behind them with a secretive wink sealing the moment between us. His heavily hooded eyes and simmering smirk burn through my dreams. He wants me, I tell myself when I’m alone in one of the shower stalls behind the bunkhouse, where I can let myself touch the places on my body I long to feel his hands. He wants me, not Hank. That wink confirms it.
Or maybe, it’s me who really wants him
About a week or so after the incident in the barn, I get a chance to find out.
Most of the ranch hands are out in the lower fifty, where an enraged bull tore through one of the fences and scattered the herd. I spend most of the afternoon with the other cowboys, riding hard to wrangle the smaller calves back onto the Swanson property. When I grow saddle-sore, I swap places with a fella who’s been splitting posts to help fix the fence. With a full crew of men working steady for several hours, we manage to secure the fence and round up the cattle. Hank’s right there with us the whole time, throwing logs or roping alongside his men.
Delfino’s there, too, his strong shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his work shirt like pistons in an engine, never tiring, never failing. I watch him covertly whenever I can, riding my horse around behind him as he works on the fence so I can get a good look at the way his body moves. I imagine those muscles clenching around me, holding me tight, my mouth and hands on that ripe, firm flesh. I flush at the thought, and play it off by wiping my bandanna across my forehead to chase away the sweat. Once Delfino even glances up at me as I pass, but his gaze doesn’t meet mine.
It doesn’t meet Hank’s, either. If I hadn’t seen them together, I would never know they spend any time together after hours. Hank gives orders and Delfino follows them, same as the rest of us. There’s nothing else between them, nothing romantic, nothing special.
After the cattle are corralled, Hank dismisses us. Most of the guys spur their steeds down the dirt road heading back to the bunkhouse—in a half hour, the supper bell will ring, and they want to wash up before they have to jostle for a place in line. The Mexicans head in with them. Hank takes an extra few minutes to check the new section of fence before mounting up and heading in, too. When he sees me hanging back, he tips his hat my way before riding on. He knows I don’t like to crowd in with the rest of them.