Until today, I thought I was the ranch. I mean, it felt like that’s what my whole existence was for.
But Tina….
She’s just gone and turned everything on its head, and without even saying a word to prompt any of these feelings and thoughts I know are going to haunt me when I try to sleep later on.
The lifting fog and rain that disappears as quickly as it started seems to show me that at least one thing’s clearer: the way back to the ranch.
But my little stroll’s done nothing to change how I feel or give me any clearer insight into how to even begin to find out if Tina feels the same, let alone tell her how I feel about her.
It’s later than I figured by the time I make my way inside, peeling off my wet clothes as I head for the shower.
Even setting the usually piping hot water to freezing cold does nothing to shrink what feels like a permanent erection courtesy of our latest guest.
But the thought of taking care of business myself, as tempting as it is, and as much as I know would give me some relief….
I also know it would be useless.
My own hands aren’t what I need.
I need her hands on my swollen length.
Tina.
I want her hands and that hot little body of hers pressed up against me while I fill her balls deep with my seed.
Not wasting a drop anyplace else.
So, it’s with the same hardness and another groan of frustration that I put on some fresh jeans and a shirt, setting about trying to distract myself with chores instead of what or who I know I’d rather be doing right now.
I set all the gear out, ready for tomorrow and once I do a final sweep of the stock yards closest to the house, I figure I’d better go get some food in my belly and call it a day.
Feeling the heat of exertion flushing my face once I step into the ancient kitchen at the rear of the homestead, Mrs. Corbett has a plate ready she’s about to keep warm in the oven.
“I was just getting things set for tomorrow,” I let her know, always feeling a stab of guilt when I don’t show up when she has dinner ready.
“Well. You’re not finished yet,” she clips in her broadest accent.
The one she keeps for when she’s pretending to be mad at me.
I raise my brows in a question. Feeling all my impulses finally simmering down and the gnawing hunger in my belly is the only thing aroused now once I smell the heady aromas of her usual perfect home-cooked meal. But I know it’s going to have to wait.
“It’s the contest couple,” she sighs, wiping her hands down her apron again. Forever wiping away a stain that isn’t there or a crease that’s never existed.
I swallow. Hard.
So much for trying to forget about Tina.
“What’s up?” I ask, meaning to sound casual or even disinterested. But my brain’s snapped into action mode.
Already hoping that Tina’s alright.
That she’s safe.
“Oh! It’s that old window again! Jammed tight in this weather. Mrs. Tanner asked if someone could take a look,” she sighs, eyeing the clock and then my tin foil covered plate, which looks more like a tray in her hands.
“It’s Ms. Tanner,” I correct her sarcastically, smiling when she makes a face and pokes her tongue out at me.
“I see you’ve gotten to know her well enough,” she says, clicking her tongue. Not even needing to remind me not to take too long.
“I can’t keep it warm forever,” Mrs. Corbett cautions me, unhooking her apron as she silently signals to the whole world that she is definitely done for the day.
And at her age, I’m amazed she can do half of what she does around here.
But she nor I would have it any other way.
“I’ll go take a look,” I reply, failing at hiding the smile that creeps into my features. Just the thought of having a reason to go to Tina’s room is enough to reignite every feeling I’ve been kidding myself I was free of until just now.
Mrs. Corbett gives me a knowing look. But she’s never been one to really tell me what to do.
And something about that canny old woman tells me she can see things a lot clearer than even I can when it comes to our lucky contest winners.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tina
“Just leave it, Mom,” I say with irritation.
“No, I won’t just leave it!” she snaps back at me, straining her whole body as she tries to budge the biggest window in our room open.
“It’s like a god-damned oven in here…I need…some…fresh…air!” she gasps.
Her hands slipping again, this time the sickening sound of those claw-like acrylic nails scraping up the aging woodwork.
“Great! Now I’ve broken a nail,” she snarls. Heading for the room’s equally ancient telephone, which looks like something out of a museum.