Adding to the Collection

By BA Tortuga

Rancher and homebody Derrick loves going to the bullriding finals in Vegas, especially when he gets to see his favorite rider, Stone. This year he gets way more up close and personal with Stone than he ever expects, and all of his fantasies come true. After Vegas, though, Stone has nowhere to go for Christmas, so he shows up at Derrick's ranch, knowing there's something about Derrick that makes him think of settling down. Will Derrick panic and send Stone away, or will he add the rodeo cowboy to his collection?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turtlehat Creatives
• Release date: Jul 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781942831372

Book preview

1

Derrick Stahlman thought Stone Haverty was the hottest bullrider he'd ever seen. That statement meant a lot, considering he had a thing for bullriders. Ridiculous, that a closeted queer rancher from California had a jones for roughstock riders, but there it was.

And Stone, well, for Stone Haverty, Derrick had not only descended on the Finals in Vegas, but he'd also descended from the cheap seats to the front row of the fanclub section. That way he didn't have to use binocs or a long range lens to watch his obsession.

Short and lean, but not bird-like, Stone was a little nut-brown dynamo with a pair of blue eyes that looked like lasers, glinting from under the brim of that straw hat. That callused, scarred hand worked resin into glove and rope, up and down, mimicking an action that made Derrick's mouth dry.

Shelby Lane and Eldridge Butler were pulling rope and holding on, Shelby talking hard, as Stone wrapped the rope through his fingers. The man pounded the rope into place, El climbing over the fence, Shelby holding Stone's vest until the man nodded his head.

Tumbleweed came flying out, the damn bull in a tight spin before his ass end truly left the chute. The bull's back feet slammed the gate all the way to the fence and dirt went flying. That stunning pocket cowboy held on, hand staying in the rope, balancing on the broad back of the bull. Hell, Stone even managed to start spurring with one leg.

Derrick was up on his feet, hooting and hollering, by second seven. Come ON. Ride, man!

The whole crowd shot to their collective feet when the clock hit eight, cheering. Which covered his hooting and hollering just fine.

Stone came off the back of the bull, the man almost cartwheeling off onto the dirt, coming to land at the bullfighter’s tennis shoes. Then Stone popped up to his feet, fists pumping in the air, that hat going flying. Oh, he was so fucking pretty. Derrick wanted a piece of that.

Those blue eyes looked like they were looking right at him, just staring him down. The illusion was enough to get his cock hard as a rock, filling out the placket of his Wranglers.

The score was announced -- ninety one -- and Stone started dancing, ass shaking madly.

Oh, fuck-a-doodle-doo. The man had the hips of a Brazilian. They went 'round and 'round, and Derrick couldn't help the fantasy that popped into his head. Stone fucking him like there was no tomorrow.

Hell, they could take turns. It would be amazing. First though, he wanted to suck the man dry, no question.

He licked his lips, the very idea making him crazy. He moaned, so turned on he could barely stand it. God, it had been too fucking long since he'd gotten laid. Derrick just needed to control himself.

He sat down, fanning himself with the day sheet. God, he needed a beer or a good, stiff drink. Something harsh and burning. Oh, who was he kidding? He needed a good, hard, wanting man.

Maybe he could find both after the show. None of the other guys were as beautiful as Stone Haverty, but that didn't mean he wasn't sticking around to watch them.

Who knew, maybe someone would be interested in a quickie. Something one night only.

Something worth jacking off to when he got home.

2

Stone sat on the rail against the wall, sipping his beer and humming along with Alan Jackson.

He was in the money tonight, and that was the third round he'd ridden. It wasn't going to win him a championship or any such shit, but it was going to get him to January, God willing and the creek didn't rise, and it was going to keep him in the top twenty, which meant sponsorship money come next season. Praise Jesus and bull ropes.

The crowd was jumping like a frog in a skillet tonight -- the buckle bunnies out in spades, all glitz and sparkle and more fake boobies than you could shake a silicone stick at. Sometimes he wondered what made anyone work so hard to look so fake, then he remembered how much money he spent on getting his jeans starched and he'd feel like an asshole. Still, those spider eyelashes scared the living fuck out of him. They looked like they could cut a man. Flap, ow!

Now, that big old boy who just walked in wearing Wranglers and a pressed, snap-button shirt? He wasn't scary a bit. No, sir. He was pretty with a capital P. Solid and broad, with hands that would be rough and hard on a man's skin -- that was just Stone's type. Sometimes a cowboy needed a good, hard ride. This one looked like he didn't get to town much. Oh, the boots were clean, and the hat was obviously expensive, but the guy