Song of Oestend (20 page)

“Stay with me tonight.” He saw the near-panic in Deacon’s eyes, and he rushed on

before Deacon could interrupt. “Just one night. That’s all I ask.”

“Then what?” Deacon asked as he set his empty glass down on the floor next to his

chair.

“What happens tomorrow is up to you. We can do it again, or we can pretend it never

happened. Or anything in between. I’ll leave it completely up to you. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t chase you or pressure you. I won’t ever mention it again, if that’s what you want.” He was getting through to him. He could see that Deacon was thinking about it. “Please, Deacon,” he begged, looking up into Deacon’s dark eyes. “Please don’t leave me yet. Please, just give me tonight.”

He saw the hesitation in Deacon’s eyes. He knew he was considering it, and his heart

skipped a beat at the thought. “I don’t know how it works,” Deacon said, his voice so quiet that Aren had to strain to hear him, even though he was only inches away. “Not with a man.”

“I do.” Aren tried to fight back his hope, lest he be disappointed. He tried to fight back his arousal, because following it had ever led him astray. He tried to concentrate on the reassurance he knew Deacon needed to get past this moment. “I can make it so good for you.

I promise you won’t regret it.”

He waited, watching Deacon while Deacon watched him. His heart was pounding in

his chest. He was excited, and a bit scared, unsure what Deacon would decide.

He saw the change when it happened. He saw in Deacon’s eyes the very moment he

stopped fighting and decided to take a chance. Still, he hesitated, waiting for Deacon to say the words.

But Deacon didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached up and slowly brushed Aren’s hair out of his eyes. Aren smiled at the gentle sensuality of the gesture. Then Deacon hooked his hand behind Aren’s neck, and he kissed him.

Kissing was the one thing Aren had very little experience with. It was something the

boarding school boys avoided. Even Birmingham had never truly kissed him. It was such a simple thing, something he’d never thought much about, but when Deacon’s mouth claimed his, it seemed as if every nerve in his body responded. Deacon’s lips were soft and warm.

Deacon’s tongue seemed to ask for permission to enter, and Aren granted it. His tongue SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

133

pushed gently into Aren’s mouth, tasting of whisky, and Aren heard himself whimper. He’d let his body be invaded many times, but somehow this felt different.

Aren wrapped his arms around Deacon’s neck and let himself be drawn in deeper. The

pure sensuality of being kissed amazed him. He wondered how an act which involved only their mouths could be so unbelievably arousing. It didn’t matter that he’d spent himself less than half an hour before. His cock was already growing hard again. Every part of him ached to feel Deacon’s hands, or his mouth, or his skin. He wanted to own Deacon, or be owned by him. He hardly cared which. He only wanted it to be soon.

Aren found the queue of Deacon’s hair, tied with thin strips of leather. One by one, he pulled them out until Deacon’s hair flowed through his fingers, thick and coarse in his hands. One of Deacon’s hands was still on the back of his neck. He used his other hand to lift Aren’s shirt. He caressed the small of his back, and Aren heard himself moan. He marvelled at how good that simple touch felt. Deacon pulled him tighter against his body as his kiss became more urgent. The hand on Deacon’s back slid down to explore what lay below and Aren whimpered again.

Aren’s hand travelled down Deacon’s broad chest. Deacon moaned as Aren’s fingers

slid over his stomach. But when Aren began to slide his hand into Deacon’s still-unbuttoned pants, Deacon stopped him, grabbing his hand as he broke their kiss.

Aren moaned in frustration. He didn’t want to stop. He knew at that moment he’d do

anything Deacon asked just to keep the cowboy there. There was no limit to how much he’d debase himself simply to be allowed the pleasure of one night with him.

He looked up at Deacon. They were both breathing hard, and Aren imagined he could

see the conflict raging in Deacon’s eyes again. “Please,” Aren begged. He didn’t care if Deacon thought he was weak or pathetic for it. His desire was, now as it had ever been, far stronger than his pride. “
Please
, Deacon,” he said again.

Deacon smiled but didn’t release his hand. “Can we go in the bedroom?”

“Is that what you want?”

Deacon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I want to undress you.”

Aren had no argument with that at all. He didn’t care where they were, as long as

Deacon kept touching him and allowed Aren to touch him back. He took a moment first to go out to the back porch and start the generator so they wouldn’t have to worry about it SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

134

later, then he took Deacon’s hand and led him upstairs. While Deacon lit a lamp and turned the wick down low, Aren dug in a drawer and found the salve Olsa had given him weeks before.

When he turned around, he found Deacon staring at him. He’d removed his boots and

his shirt. Only his pants remained, still unbuttoned, his erection peeking through the open fly. His long hair hung loose and dishevelled around his shoulders. Lamplight seemed to caress the muscles of his chest. It accentuated his deep, dark skin. Aren could see the scars more clearly now—two thin lines stretched across his ribs on the right, and another reached from his left collarbone almost to his navel.

“Blessed Saints,” Aren breathed, “you’re amazing.” He tossed the salve onto the bed for later. He reached out and traced a fingertip over one of Deacon’s scars, and Deacon’s breath caught. “What happened?” he asked.

Deacon shrugged. “Just ranching.”

Aren circled him, trailing his fingers over Deacon’s dark skin. There were more scars on his back. Two were smooth, thin lines. One was wide and mottled with scar tissue. The one scar he expected to see was missing, though.

“No brand?” he asked.

“Not for me.”

It was ironic that so many hands would wear the mark, but the one person who seemed

to belong to the BarChi through and through didn’t.

Aren circled to stand in front of Deacon. The tip of Deacon’s erect cock seemed to tease Aren from inside the flaps of his open fly. Aren wanted to see more of it.

“Take off your pants.” Aren didn’t realise until the words were spoken that they

sounded like an order, but Deacon didn’t hesitate. He pushed them off, kicking them out of the way, and stood naked for Aren’s inspection.

He was big. Looking at his engorged cock, Aren was a bit surprised he’d managed to

swallow it all. He wanted to do a great deal more with it now. He started to slide his hand down the cowboy’s stomach, wanting to feel it again in his hand, but Deacon grabbed his wrist, stopping his caress. Aren looked up into his dark eyes. “Now you,” he said.

Aren couldn’t help but feel a bit inadequate next to Deacon, but he did as Deacon

asked, slowly pulling his own shirt off over his head and removing his pants. Deacon

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

135

watched him with naked desire in his eyes. It surprised Aren how quickly Deacon had shed his reservations about being with another man, but it seemed now he’d made the decision, he was determined not to waste time looking back.

Aren found himself smiling as he turned to face Deacon again. “Can I touch you now?”

he asked.

Deacon reached out and took his hand. “Yes,” he said as he pulled Aren into his strong arms and kissed him hungrily, pulling him down onto the bed.

If kissing Deacon before had been good, it was nothing compared to the way it felt to kiss him now, while every inch of their bodies was in contact. The simple pleasure of feeling skin against skin was so sensual, so wonderfully erotic, it made Aren breathless. Still, as much as he loved it, he was ready for more, and as they kissed, it became increasingly clear that if he waited for Deacon to make a move, he’d be waiting half the night.

Aren broke their kiss, rolling them over so he was on top. He grabbed the jar of salve.

Having never been with another man before, he knew there was no way Deacon was ready

to be entered. He spread the salve on Deacon’s shaft and smiled as Deacon moaned, pushing himself into Aren’s hand. He groaned in frustration when Aren released him. Aren could see the impatience in Deacon’s eyes as he straddled him, but Deacon didn’t grab him. He didn’t try to make him hurry. He lay there, breathing hard, his eyes half-lidded as Aren moved into position atop him.

Deacon was large—larger by far than Birmingham had been—and Aren took his time as

he pushed down onto him, slowly allowing Deacon’s cock to fill him, slowly allowing his body to adjust. Deacon’s eyes closed, and he moaned deep in his chest. His hands gripped Aren’s thighs, his strong fingers digging into the muscles. But Deacon didn’t push. He let Aren go at his own pace, slowly sinking down until Deacon’s cock was buried in him to the hilt.

He stopped there, and Deacon’s eyes snapped open. He grabbed Aren’s arm and pulled

him down so he could kiss him again, his lips gentle but insistent. “Aren,” he said. He sounded desperate, and Aren knew the word was a question. He could see it in Deacon’s eyes.

“What do you want?” Aren asked him.

“To be on top.”

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

136

Aren tried not to be disappointed. This was how it always was, men wanting to fuck

him their way. But he wasn’t about to tell Deacon no and risk having him leave. “That’s fine.”

Deacon smiled. He pulled Aren down and kissed him again, slow and deep, his tongue

gently tasting Aren’s. Deacon rolled them over, kissing Aren’s neck as he did, their bodies still locked together.

It wasn’t at all what Aren was expecting. Deacon didn’t stop kissing him. He didn’t push Aren’s legs into the air so he could fuck him. Instead he continued to hold him close.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered in Aren’s ear as he began to move in and out of his body. “You have no idea how beautiful you are.”

At any other time, from any other man, Aren might have been offended. “Beautiful”

was a word he likened to femininity, and femininity was something he hated to be associated with. But somehow, when Deacon said it, the word didn’t bother him. Maybe it was the note of awe he detected in Deacon’s voice. Maybe it was the way he caressed him. Maybe it was nothing more than the fact that being fucked by him felt so unbelievably good.

Deacon’s thrusts were long and exquisitely slow, and as he moved on top of Aren, he

never stopped kissing him. He kissed Aren’s lips and his neck and his shoulders. Deacon’s hands were everywhere, stroking and exploring, and Aren couldn’t believe how good it felt.

Deacon’s fingers were hard and work-worn, but his touch was soft and very gentle.

Aren had wanted to be Deacon’s guide, to show him something new, but he realised

Deacon was doing the same thing for him. Aren had been fucked many, many times in his life, but nobody had ever made love to him with the slow deliberateness Deacon was

showing him now.

This is what it feels like to be a woman
, Aren thought. Not the penetration—that had nothing to do with it. It was the way Deacon touched him and seemed to cherish him. It was the way Deacon whispered his name as they moved together. And in the end, although Aren had expected to lead, he gave up. He wrapped his arms and his legs around Deacon’s strong body and let the tide carry him where it would. And when they crashed upon the shore, both of them spent, still Deacon held him close, caressing him and kissing him.

Aren wrapped his arms around Deacon and held him tight, wondering if, when

morning came, he’d be expected to let him go.

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

137

“What’s that?”

He recognised the voice, but it took Aren a moment to claw his way up out of his

perfect, sated sleep into consciousness. Next to him, Deacon was sitting straight up in bed, his eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” Aren mumbled, or tried to. He still wasn’t awake enough to form

completely coherent words.

“I heard something,” Deacon said. “There’s somebody knocking on the front door.”

“There’s not,” Aren assured him with a yawn. “It’s just—”

The pounding started again, louder than before. Aren hadn’t realised how used to it

he’d become. It rarely woke him anymore.

“Who could it be?” Deacon asked.

“It’s only the house,” Aren told him.

Deacon looked over at him. “You mean it really is haunted?”

“I guess so. It’s just noises. It can’t hurt you.”

“How do you know?”

Aren shrugged. “It hasn’t hurt me yet.”

“You told me there’d never been any trouble.”

“I lied.”

Deacon shook his head in amusement. “I’m not surprised.”

“She’ll start crying next,” Aren told him.

That seemed to trouble Deacon. “It’s a woman?”

Aren shrugged. “I think so. It sounds like a woman.”

“What else is there besides the noise?”

“Not much,” Aren said. “Not when I’m here, anyway.”

“What you mean, ‘not when you’re here’?” Deacon asked. He seemed confused, and

Aren couldn’t figure out why.

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

138

“I mean, sometimes she does stuff during the day when I’m not here. Breaks glasses or moves things around. Remember the penknife?”

“Yes.”

“That was her. I came home and found it smashed to pieces.”

“But,” Deacon said, seemingly even more confused than before, “that doesn’t make any

sense.”

Aren wasn’t sure what about it didn’t make sense—it was a ghost, after all, and as far as he knew there weren’t rules dictating their behaviour—but he wasn’t interested in discussing the house any more. “I get you all night, right?” he asked, teasing.