SleepyHollow2BookBundle (13 page)

“John.” Brom’s voice was rough too, almost rasping when he broke the seal of their kiss. His lips were inflamed from the force of their contact, and a little blood was smeared across their full lower swell. “Never. Never, John. I mean it.” He reached below, forcing a hand between their hips as he continued to mutter “never” under his breath.

John had intended to reply with words, but was rendered incapable of anything other than moaning when Brom gripped both their cocks, trapping them together in one large fist. He thrust his hand from their tips, down both their shafts, then up again with a little twist of the wrist that John had long since come to savor. His body arched instinctively in response, but he was caught beneath Brom, trapped against the hard plane of his chest. He pressed a hand against it and tossed his head backward, gasping. A hint of moisture smoothed Brom’s motions, allowing his hand to glide smoothly over stiff flesh – had it come from just one of them, or both? Brom seemed to know when John simply couldn’t endure it any longer, and stopped when John was on the verge of climax. Judging by the way he was breathing, Brom wasn’t far off either. Slowly, he unwrapped his fingers from around their cocks.

John gripped Brom’s shoulders as the man settled between his legs, preparing to enter him. There was only time for the crudest of preparations – Brom spit into his hand and smeared the moisture over his erection. John’s heart raced in anticipation of feeling Brom thrust inside, of being united with the man whose touch he’d thought he’d never feel again.

Brom exhaled, squeezed his eyes shut, and sank his cock into John’s body.

John gasped, gripping Brom’s muscular shoulders hard, thinking vaguely that there would be bruises there in the morning. He’d be sore himself, too – he’d feel this for a week, if he’d feel it for a moment. But he didn’t care. With each thrust, Brom’s words sank in a little deeper.
Never
.
Never
. In his mind, he heard the words repeated in Brom’s husky voice a hundred times.

They made love for a while, long enough that a light sheen of sweat slickened Brom’s body despite the cold. John ran his fingers through the dark hair on Brom’s chest, which had grown damp. He could feel the man’s heart beating, quick and steady beneath his palm. He closed his eyes and focused on the reassuring rhythm, losing himself in the feel of his lover, in everything from his pulse to the firmness of his muscles, which shifted beneath his touch. He was close to coming, and sensed that Brom was too, but held out for longer than he ever had because he couldn’t stand the thought of it ending.

Worry had just crept through the haze of John’s pleasure when Brom let out a long sigh – surely, the Jansens would be home soon. They should hurry now, and yet, Brom was still. The solid presence of his cock still lay deep within John’s body though, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
 

When Brom drove himself into John again, harder and faster than before, John stiffened, going tense beneath his lover. He could feel the hot burden of pleasure at the base of his spine, ready to be released. Brom was rocking into him at just the right angle, hitting just the right spot, proving that he knew just how John liked it. It was as if their bodies had been made for this, for togetherness and mind-numbing pleasure. His entire being tingled with the intensity, the perfection of it, and he began to lose himself.
 

His channel pulsed and tightened around Brom’s cock, and he squeezed his eyes shut, arching and tipping his head back against the pillow. Brom pushed into him, going even deeper, and silver stars burst against the backs of John’s eyelids. Each thrust demanded more of a reaction from his body, causing it to go tighter and tighter, reminding him of how thick Brom was, how hard. He was vaguely aware of a strange sound, and when the intensity of his orgasm faded, he realized that it was his own ragged breathing.

Brom was breathing heavily too, and his cock felt hard as steel inside John’s body. John marveled at the fact that Brom had managed to hold back as he himself had lost all control, his body tightening around Brom’s erection. A drop of moisture fell from Brom’s forehead and hit John’s shoulder – sweat. The man would freeze if he stepped outside, damp as he was. He needed time to dry before he left. With that thought in mind, John purposely tightened his passage.

Brom growled, the sound rising from deep within his chest, and rocked his hips, thrusting fiercely. John bit down on his inner lip, holding back a cry of his own. He wanted to listen to the rough scrape of Brom’s wordless voice and the heavy rhythm of his breathing without distraction. He reveled in the sounds for a few moments, reaching up impulsively and pressing a hand against the back of Brom’s skull, burying it in his dark locks. When Brom was finally still, he remained inside John for a little while before withdrawing and sitting up on the edge of the bed with a sigh, his shoulders bowed.

“You shouldn’t dress without drying first,” John said several moments later when Brom plucked his breeches and stockings from the floor. “You’ll dampen your clothing, and freeze for it.”

Brom didn’t let go of his garments, but made no objection when John picked up the quilt and draped it over his shoulders, letting the fabric absorb the sheen of sweat that caused his muscles to glisten in the moonlight. He was powerfully built, and every inch of his body still felt tense despite his recent release. It was no wonder, given the night’s events. Memories rushed through John’s mind, inciting a powerful avalanche of angst, resignation and a dozen other emotions he couldn’t quite identify. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them, or what had happened, save for that he certainly didn’t feel
good
. At the moment, the only thing that felt quite real was the ache in his body, where Brom had been moments before.

Brom rose abruptly, only half-dry, and began to dress with haste.

Without Brom’s heat, a shiver wracked John. He clamped his jaw firmly shut, determined not to let his teeth chatter or give any other outward sign of discomfort.

Brom couldn’t be fooled. “Dress before the cold makes you ill,” he said, tossing a bundle of clothing at John.

He caught the garments, clutching the crumpled fabric of his breeches, shirt and stockings against his chest, feeling sick already. He was sure that the temperature had little to do with the feeling of malaise, but he dressed anyway, more slowly than Brom. By the time the other man was fully clothed, John was still half-naked, his skin prickling with gooseflesh.
 

Brom pulled on his coat last of all; it was the fine one with the silver buttons that he wore on special occasions. A weight seemed to settle into the pit of John’s stomach as he eyed the gleaming buttons, aware that Brom had worn them to celebrate not just the harvest, but his engagement to Katrina.

“The Jansens will arrive at any moment,” Brom said, craning his neck toward the window, as if expecting them to appear.

John nodded wordlessly. As he watched Brom prepare to leave, the weight in his middle grew heavier, vying for prominence with the internal ache his lover had left him with.

“I’ll see you again soon, John,” Brom said, striding for the door. It was a statement, imbued with Brom’s usual certainty, and the look he cast over his shoulder was almost stern.

John sat perched on the edge of the bed, motionless. There were many things he could have – perhaps should have – said, but none of them would come forth. His tongue lay in his mouth, heavy and silent as a millstone. Perhaps Brom felt the same way – a peculiar set of expressions flashed across his face, then resolved into a sort of grimace as he set his jaw stubbornly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” John said, but Brom was already gone.

John drifted to the window and stood with his nose a few inches from the pane, watching until Brom and his horse appeared. He rode at an imprudently fast pace for nighttime, and quickly reached the road at the edge of the Jansens’ property. A sense of alarm, as strange as it was sudden, gripped John as he watched him ride along the edge of the forest. He half expected one of the shadows he’d imagined earlier to dart out of the woods and snatch Brom away. There was no sign of anything unusual though, and several moments after Brom disappeared from view, John released the breath he’d been holding. It fogged the glass and reminded him of the feel of Brom’s breath rushing hot against his cheek.

* * * * *

Brom rode hell-for-leather, pushing his horse into a mile-eating run. They thundered across the covered bridge that spanned the stream at the edge of the forest, and then trees blurred past, indistinct figures in the moonlight. Though they sped as if racing, there was nothing waiting at the end of their brief journey – no prize, only an empty farmhouse. Brom stiffened in the saddle at the thought of returning home to the many cold rooms and his even colder bed. An empty home was no place for a man of his age and station in life – or so many of the townspeople said. He needed a wife, they all claimed, and he had agreed – until tonight.

He could still see John standing by the edge of the forest, his hair whipping wildly about his face as he raised the gleaming barrel of a pistol to the side of his head. The image haunted him, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He never would have imagined that the news of his engagement would have resulted in him having to wrest a gun from John’s grip, but shortly after speaking with him, he’d felt the wrongness of the night in his gut. And so he’d followed his instinct outside… Pure fury rushed through his veins as he imagined what would have happened if he hadn’t, or if he’d been a moment too late. He could imagine scooping up John’s lifeless body from the cold earth all too easily, and it caused bile to rise into his throat.
 

He’d almost lost John. The bitter knowledge of that fact rushed through his mind anew with every heartbeat, with every breath. He thought it might choke him, but instead it fueled his ire, causing his heart to hammer inside his chest. He felt ready for a brawl, or fucking. Again. That was why he’d left – the nearly overwhelming urges to either strangle John with his bare hands or take him to bed again had tortured him. Either would have been disastrous – the first for obvious reasons, and the second because the Jansens would surely have arrived home during the tryst, and he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to make himself stop. It had been difficult enough to end it the first time. A part of him wanted to claim John, to tether him to life by the sheer force and realness of physical contact. On the other hand…the urge to throttle the man was still strong.

A shrill wind whistled down the path and through the barren trees, screaming like an overheated kettle. Brom’s horse, Torben, snorted in irritation but didn’t slow. Even the wicked wind reminded Brom of John – the sound of it tearing through the dark forest would have scared John stiff in his saddle. Brom almost chuckled, but his anger wouldn’t allow it. John was one of the most superstitious people he’d ever known, so it was no news to him that the man was prone to ridiculous ideas. But to think to kill himself… Brom tensed unconsciously, and Torben gave another snort, thundering ahead.

The short ride was over too soon. Brom would have liked to urge Torben around and tear off into the night again, but he’d seen the merrymakers readying to leave the Van Tassel farm when he’d passed by and knew that he’d raise questions if he rode through the darkness like a madman. So he took his horse around his own property, cooling him by walking in large circles around his empty house. When it was finally time to put Torben away for the night, he unsaddled and stalled him silently, with a bitter taste in his mouth. He would not sleep well this night. Thoughts of John and Katrina would keep him awake, and if he finally did fall asleep, they’d haunt his dreams – that, he was sure of.

CHAPTER 2

Katrina lay in bed, warm beneath layers of thick blankets. Everyone in Sleepy Hollow had attended the harvest celebration, and it had lasted late into the night. Gazing through the window, the gibbous moon was clearly visible, hanging proudly in a cloudless sky, surrounded by countless diamond pinpricks. The revelers had long since made it home by its light, and yet, she lay restless. How could she sleep when she’d seen one of her closest friends on the verge of suicide?

Yes, she was sure of what she’d seen. Brom’s statement had fooled everyone but her. She knew Brom and John both well. Their faces, and the sound of the pistol firing, had said far more than words. Burying an eyetooth in her lower lip, she pressed a hand over her heart, willing it to slow. She’d been on the brink of panic ever since she’d heard the shot, which had occurred shortly after her and Brom’s engagement had been announced. After rushing to the horrific scene at the edge of the wood, she’d drifted back to the house at her father’s side and suffered through the rest of the celebration. Dozens of people had congratulated her, but she couldn’t remember exactly what any of them had said. She’d been worried to distraction, unable to think of anything but John. Her only comfort had been the fact that Brom had taken him home.

She had no doubt that if anyone could handle John, it was Brom. The two men shared a deep friendship, and she’d observed the unspoken closeness between them on many an occasion. What had transpired between them at the Jansens’ empty farmhouse? Had Brom managed to speak some sense into John? She seized a corner of her quilt and twisted it nervously between her fingers. Of course he had. Brom wasn’t the sort of man who’d leave a friend in danger. She smiled a little at that – she was engaged to a wonderful man, indeed. If only the night had gone as planned, she would have drifted off easily into sleep and dreamt of her husband-to-be. As it was, John dominated her thoughts, and she feared the nightmares that might come when she closed her eyes.