Song of Oestend (16 page)

than he knows.”

For the first time, Aren believed him.

It was the fourth day with the other men gone. The sun was shining, but the wind was

blowing in hard, cold gusts from the north, and Aren wrapped his coat tightly around

himself as he walked back to his empty house.

Inside, it was cosy and warm. The fire he’d left burning was down to smouldering

coals, and he stoked it back to a blaze. He was caught up with the books. The weather was too nasty to take his sketchpad outside. He poured himself a drink—the very last of his whisky until Deacon came back—and he wandered upstairs to his studio.

The light coming through the cloudy, bubbled glass of the window was golden.

Outside, the wind robbed it of its heat, but here, in the comfort of the house, he could feel its warmth. He positioned his easel so he could stand in the glowing rectangle it made across the floor. He put his drink down in the corner of the room where he wouldn’t spill it while lost in his art. And he began to paint.

He couldn’t have said when he’d decided what his subject would be. It was as if some

secret part of his brain had made that call for him. But as he mixed colours, as his brush moved with its own purpose over the canvas, the picture began to take form.

Deacon.

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It wasn’t a scene he’d actually witnessed. Not exactly. Yes, it was Deacon as he’d seen him many times, standing in the barn, hanging up tack as he teased Aren about some foolish thing he’d said. It was different, though, too.

He painted him bare from the waist up. He’d never actually seen Deacon shirtless, but that didn’t bother him. He knew the shape of Deacon’s body, the way his broad shoulders sloped, the way his torso narrowed to his waist. He knew the way his ass curved in his work pants and the way his pitch-black hair hung down his back. But there was more to it than capturing the man’s physical form. He also knew the spark in Deacon’s eye when he laughed, and the way his eyebrows went up slightly when he was amused. He knew the way he squared his shoulders when he was facing down his men, and the way he let them finally fall when he walked through Aren’s front door.

He painted for hours. He lost all track of time, as he often did when he was involved in his art. In the end he didn’t finish, but when he finally broke from his artistic trance, the sun had long since passed over the house and its golden light no longer graced his windowsill.

He noticed, too, that he was getting cold. The fire in the living room must have gone out. He retrieved his mostly-full drink from the corner of the room and stepped back to admire his work.

He liked it. He couldn’t say it was the best painting he’d ever done, but he thought he’d captured a little of what he’d been aiming for. Deacon looked strong and sure, mildly amused as he so often was in Aren’s presence. He looked alluring. He looked…

Way too damn sexy.

Aren sighed, shaking his head and turning away from the canvas. He drained his

whisky in one swallow, although it was a rather poor substitute for what he really needed.

He would not think about Deacon that way.

That was an easy enough resolution to make in the light of day, but once he was asleep, he had little choice. His subconscious took over, and it was obsessed with exactly one thing— sex.

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When he awoke the next morning he couldn’t remember the details of his dreams, but

he knew they’d been sexual and that Deacon had been involved. What he could remember

was nothing more than fleetingly sensual images—dark skin and callused hands and shared breath—and the overwhelming urge to come. The dreams left him feeling disoriented, and a bit off balance. And unbelievably horny.

He went to the barn again to help Frances and Simon with the chores, thinking a bit of good old-fashioned physical labour would keep his mind off sex, but he found it difficult to concentrate. He couldn’t stop thinking about the dreams. He couldn’t quite ignore the nagging ache in his groin. He found himself staring at Frances, watching the way his hips moved. He watched Simon, noting how the muscles in his shoulders bunched under his shirt as he worked. He even eyed Red and Ronin when they all ate supper together. He imagined getting them drunk and offering to go down on them. He’d learnt from experience that, especially in a place with a distinct shortage of women, there were plenty of men who couldn’t say no to such a thing, whether they actually preferred men or not.

He shifted in his seat, squirming in pants that suddenly felt way too tight. He gritted his teeth and did his best to think about anything besides sex.

He failed.

It was a good thing Frances didn’t notice his twitchiness, or if he did, he didn’t

recognise the signs. If he’d made his offer again, Aren would not have been able to say no, whether he thought it was wise to fuck the kid or not. In truth, at that moment he would have begged any one of the ranch hands to touch him, to use him, to take him any way they pleased. He would have thrown away his dignity to even be allowed to suck one of them while he jacked himself off.
Anything
to alleviate the terrible pressure in his groin.

That night, he took out the salve Olsa had given him. He lay naked in front of the fire on the cowhide rug Deacon had given him. He greased both of his hands well. And he gave himself over to self-gratification.

He fucked himself with the fingers of one hand while stroking his cock with the other.

He resisted the urge to rush right for his orgasm. Instead, he did his best to make it last, taking himself to the edge, then backing off to make it last longer. He thought about Frances.

He thought about Simon. He thought about being shared by the twins in every conceivable way.

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He thought about Deacon. He thought about his dark hair and his laughing eyes and

his big, strong, work-worn hands. He thought about how good it would feel if the fingers moving in and out of him were Deacon’s instead of his own. He imagined what Deacon’s cock looked like, and the heat that might burn in his eyes when he came.

When Aren finally let go, when he finally pumped his shaft hard, letting his orgasm

release him from the tension he’d been living with over the last few days, he cried out with the sheer relief of it. And yet, afterwards, even as he lay catching his breath from the strength of his climax, he felt a lingering sense of disappointment.

He could no longer deny himself the pleasure of a partner. Once the men came back,

he’d do whatever he had to do. Whether that meant Frances, or whether it meant sacrificing his pride to one of the other men, he did not care. One way or another, he was going to get laid.

He felt better the next day for having indulged himself.

But only a little.

His resolution to find a willing sexual partner did not change. He spent the morning

debating which of the men to approach.

On one hand, Frances was the obvious choice. He’d already made an offer. Taking him

up on it would have been the easiest solution. The thing was, Aren was pretty sure that in this case, the easiest path was also the worst. The kid was fragile. He might develop a dependence upon Aren which Aren did not want to foster. He did not want to do to Frances what so many men in his own past had done to him. Also, Frances’ position with the other hands was going to be precarious at best. If they suspected he was willingly sleeping with another man, it was likely to make things worse.

Having ruled out Frances, the next logical choice was Sawyer. Although he didn’t like the man, there were benefits to be had. For one, he knew Sawyer was willing to fuck men, and as crude as it was, that simple fact was critical. Second, he knew Sawyer didn’t want the other hands to know about that particular habit. That meant he wouldn’t tell anybody. And third, it occurred to him that if Sawyer had a willing victim, he might stop forcing himself on SONG OF OESTEND

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an unwilling one. By having sex with Sawyer, Aren might actually be helping Frances in a round-about way. Yes, he found the man despicable. But he knew from experience that with the right motivation, he could forget such things for a while. Specifically, for as long as it took him to come.

There were other men he would have preferred—Simon or Garrett, who were both

kind; Calin, whom he knew from his days in the barracks was particularly well-hung; or Deacon, who…

He couldn’t think about Deacon.

The logical choice was Sawyer.

That decision made, he moved on to debating his approach.

He could choose to eat with the hands, sit next to Sawyer at supper, initiate some

unnecessary physical contact and see if the man took the hint. He doubted he would, though.

Sawyer didn’t seem overly bright.

He could invite him to his house some night, ply him with whisky and take him by

surprise. Of course, that course of action would be made more difficult by the fact that Deacon was usually at his house in the evenings. That was a problem he could solve when the time came. But inviting Sawyer to his house invited a certain intimacy Aren did not want.

He did not want the man invading his space. He certainly did not want to give him any reason to think he could use their relationship to gain anything, like more pay or lighter chore duty. It was best to keep things as impersonal as possible.

What he needed to do was get Sawyer alone some time during the day, outside, while

doing chores. He wondered what Deacon would say if Aren asked him to put Sawyer on

duty mucking out stalls with him one day. The two of them would be alone in the barn. It would be unbelievably easy after that. But such a request was bound to make Deacon suspicious. Most of the other chores were done in pairs or teams. They wouldn’t provide a means for him to get Sawyer alone unless he offered to help with some of the harder duties, like stringing barbed wire. But again, that would mean asking Deacon. And Deacon would want to know why.

He was still debating it when he was startled by a knock on his door. He was so lost in his thoughts that he was a bit surprised to open it and find Deacon standing on the other side. There was a blush under the dark skin of Deacon’s cheeks, and he smiled nervously.

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“Brought your whisky,” he said, holding a bottle out to Aren. “You ready to quit being mad?”

“I…” Aren’s sentence died away, because he had no idea what he’d intended to say. He

couldn’t think at all. Every rational thought he might have had was eclipsed by Deacon.

The man was gorgeous. He was sexy. He was big and strong and the very image of

masculinity. All the half-remembered images from Aren’s dream two nights before came

back to him in a heartbeat—the feeling of callused hands on his skin, the sensation of a weight against his back, fingers groping between his legs.

“Aren?”

Holy Saints, stop!

Aren shook himself, trying to shake the dream memory from his brain, trying to regain his composure. He felt his cheeks turning red and was glad for it. Better the blood flow there than where it had been headed a few seconds earlier. Deacon, his one and only real friend, was apparently back at the BarChi, ready to resume the comfortable, easy friendship they’d shared before the incident. It was something Aren wanted, too, but it certainly wasn’t going to work if his cock grew hard every time Deacon looked at him. He had to get a grip on himself.

It’ll be better when I finally get laid
, he thought to himself. Sexual frustration had him tied in knots, but once it had been alleviated, he’d be back to normal.

Deacon was still watching him with obvious confusion. “I’m sorry,” Aren said. “I just wasn’t expecting you. I lost track of the days.”

Deacon’s hesitant smile faded. He looked sceptical and more unsure of himself than

Aren had ever seen him. “You
are
still mad, aren’t you?”

Deacon was so strong with everybody else, but the insecurity he seemed to feel with

Aren was endearing. Aren felt a smile spread across his face. “No,” he said, and he was pleased to realise he was telling the truth. He opened the door wider and stepped aside, inviting Deacon in. “I’m glad you’re home.” The words clearly made Deacon uncomfortable.

He was suddenly shoving his empty hand in his pocket and looking down at the floor, and the shyness of the gesture made Aren laugh out loud.

“Come on,” he said to his friend. “Let’s have some of that whisky.”

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It felt unbelievably good to pour a drink for them both and sit down in front of the

fireplace with Deacon once again.

“I brought you two more bottles, too,” Deacon said as Aren handed him his glass. “Left them in the barn, but I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

“Are you making up for future transgressions?” Aren asked, smiling.

Deacon smiled back. “Wasn’t sure how mad you were.”

How could something so simple feel so good? Aren found he couldn’t stop smiling.

Even the sexual frustration of the last few days paled next to the pure happiness he felt at having Deacon home. “How was the trip?” he asked as he sat down in his usual chair across from the big cowboy.

“Fine,” Deacon said. “Hired two more hands. New one you said I could hire and one to

replace Miron.” He looked down into his glass, swirling the amber liquid in circles, avoiding Aren’s eyes. “How’s Frances?”

“He’s good,” Aren said. “He’s doing better.”

“Simon’s helping him?”

“He is.”

Deacon nodded, finally taking a sip of his drink, and for the first time Aren thought about everything Deacon had done for Frances since the incident. Yes, he’d beaten him up.