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 c**k 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
