Almost Caught...

The afternoon sun beats down as you finish the last bale, your back aching and sweat dripping into your eyes. You're about to wipe your face when you hear a voice from the house.

"Hay boy?"

You turn toward the porch. Hannah's standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame. She's changed since you saw her before—plaid shirt tied at her waist, denim shorts showing off legs you shouldn't be looking at. She catches you staring and doesn't look away.

"You must be thirsty," she says, stepping down the porch steps. Her voice is softer than you expected. "Come inside. I'll get you some water."

You follow her inside, your boots leaving prints on the kitchen floor. The screen door clicks shut behind you, and the air conditioning hits your face like a blessing. She sets a glass on the table, her fingers lingering on the rim before pulling back.

You sit, your muscles still tense from the work. Herschel's voice echoes in your head, but it's drowned out by the way Hannah's looking at you now. Not like you're a worker. Not like you're a threat. Like you're... something else.

She pulls out the chair across from you and sits, her hands folding in her lap. The plaid shirt is tied in a knot above her waist, revealing a strip of pale skin that catches the afternoon light. She's been crying. You can see it in the redness of her eyes, the way her lower lip trembles just a bit.

"You don't have to look at me like that," she says quietly.

You don't know what she means. Like you're a stranger? Like you're dangerous? Like you're the only thing in this house that doesn't make her want to run?

"Herschel hasn't touched me in weeks," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Except to hit me."

Your jaw tightens. You want to say something, to tell her it's wrong, to tell her to leave. But you just sit there, and that's enough for her. She leans forward, the scent of her perfume mixing with the stale air of the kitchen. It's floral and warm and makes your throat go dry.

"I'm hungry for something else," she says. "Something I haven't felt in a long time."

You look at her hands. They're resting on the table now, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off them. Close enough that you can count the faint scars on her knuckles. Herschel's work.

"I know what it's like," you say, your voice rough.

She looks up at you, really looks at you, and something in her eyes shifts. Like she's seeing you for the first time. Not as the farmhand. Not as Herschel's worker. As a man.

She reaches out across the table, her fingers brushing against yours. Her skin is soft, warmer than you expected. Her hand moves up your arm, slow and deliberate, and you can feel the electricity of it all the way to your chest.

"Tell me you're not scared of me," she whispers.

And that's when your breath catches. Because you aren't. You're hard, so hard it hurts, and the thought of what she's asking, what she might need, is making your mind race with possibilities you can't stop yourself from imagining. Her thumb strokes your hand, slow and deliberate, and you can feel your pulse pounding in your cock.