Song of Oestend (29 page)

After eating, they went to Aren’s house and Aren went upstairs for his comb while

Deacon stoked the fire. Aren got on his knees on the cowhide behind Deacon. His own hair had long since dried, but Deacon’s thick, black hair was still slightly damp, and Aren combed it until it shone.

“I’ll make a mess of it if I try to braid it,” he said.

“I’ll do it tomorrow.” Deacon turned to look at him, his head cocked to one side,

seemingly lost in thought. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life as I was today,” he said finally. Aren felt himself blush. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but Deacon wasn’t finished yet. “You’re really all right?” he asked. “You seemed sort of freaked out at the time.”

“I was,” Aren said. “I’ve never seen anyone killed like that before. Only Miron, and

there was so much else going on that day…”

“Most men get sick first time.”

“It was a close call for a minute there,” Aren confessed.

Deacon continued to look at him, his eyes thoughtful. “Can’t believe how wrong I was

about you when you first got here.” He shook his head. “When I picked you up at the inn the first day, I thought, ‘This one won’t last a month.’”

“I wasn’t so sure myself.” Aren thought about that night at the inn, how he’d wondered if he’d made a mistake in coming to Oestend. He never wondered anymore. He knew he was finally where he was supposed to be. “You think I’ll make it another month?” he teased Deacon.

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Deacon smiled. “If you want to, you will. You’re damn stubborn.” Aren laughed but

Deacon’s eyes were serious. “You’re different now, you know.”

“Different how?”

Deacon shrugged. “Lots of ways. You even look different.”

“I do?”

Now it was Deacon’s turn to laugh. “Don’t you have a glass here?”

“No.” Mirrors were expensive. He’d long since learnt to shave without one.

Deacon reached over and took Aren’s hand. “When you first came here you were pale.”

He ran his fingertips up Aren’s arm, from his wrist to his shoulder, raising goosebumps and making Aren shiver. “Now you’re kind of golden.” He looked up into Aren’s eyes. His cheeks were red, his eyes shy, but he kept talking. “Your hair was sort of not-quite-brown and not-quite-blond.” He reached up and ran his fingers through Aren’s curls. “Now it’s lighter. And when the sun shines on it, it’s almost red.”

“It is?” Aren asked, reaching up instinctively to feel his hair, as if it would somehow feel any different.

“You were kind of skinny,” Deacon went on. “But the ranch has made you strong.” His

finger brushed over Aren’s cheeks. “It’s made you beautiful.”

Aren didn’t feel strong. He certainly didn’t feel beautiful. But when he looked into

Deacon’s eyes, he knew the big ranch hand meant every word he was saying.

“And,” Deacon went on, “when you came here, it seemed like you swung back and

forth between being sad and being pissed at everyone you saw. But now?” His thumb

brushed Aren’s lips and Aren smiled. Deacon smiled back. “Now you seem happy.”

“I am,” Aren said and he meant it. Never in his life had he felt so much joy just waking up each day. “The BarChi makes me happy.”
You make me happy.

He leaned near and brushed his lips over Deacon’s and Deacon pulled him close and

kissed him, his strong arms wrapping around him and holding him tight. Aren pushed him backwards onto the rug, kissing him harder. He ground himself against Deacon’s hard body and was thrilled at the feel of Deacon’s cock quickly growing hard against him.

He broke their kiss, breathless already, and looked down into Deacon’s dark eyes.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No hint of doubt in his eyes.

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“Would you let me tie you down again?”

Deacon’s eyes closed and his breath caught. He moaned, gripping Aren’s ass with both

hands and grinding his erection against him. When he opened his eyes again, Aren could see naked desire burning in them. “Yes,” he said, his voice husky. “
Please
.”

The sheer need Aren heard behind that one word thrilled him. It made his cock ache. It made his heart pound. He rolled off Deacon and stood up. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They stopped first to start the generator for the night, then Aren followed Deacon up the stairs. Watching Deacon’s firm ass in front of him, Aren couldn’t help but wonder if tonight he’d be able to fuck him. The idea thrilled him, yet not as much as he’d anticipated.

What he really wanted was to tie Deacon down and make him come undone. He wanted to

tease him until the big cowboy couldn’t stand it anymore. He wanted to make Deacon come so hard he saw stars.

“Get undressed,” he told Deacon once they were in the bedroom. He watched as

Deacon obeyed. He still found Deacon’s body amazing—his dark, scarred skin and hard,

bulging muscles. He ran his fingers down Deacon’s broad chest.

“Shall I tie you to the bed?” Aren asked, “On your back, like before?”

“Yes,” Deacon said.

“Or should I leave you standing and tie you spread eagled at the foot of the bed?”

“Yes,” Deacon said again.

“Or should I order you to your knees and tie you over the ottoman like I did the other day?”

And this time, he heard Deacon’s sharp intake of breath. It was almost a moan when he answered, “Yes.”

Aren used his foot to push the stool in front of Deacon, and Deacon immediately got to his knees.

“Wait,” Aren said, before he bent over it. He got to his knees behind Deacon, his

stomach against the big man’s back. He ran his hands down Deacon’s broad shoulders. He caressed his back, feeling the taut muscles under his fingers. He kissed his spine, loving the way Deacon’s breathing became heavier as he did. He slid his hand over Deacon’s hip, reaching around him to grip his large, hard cock in his hand. Deacon moaned as Aren started SONG OF OESTEND

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to stroke him. With his other hand, he explored Deacon’s chest and stomach. “Last as long as you can,” he said as he did. “You tell me when you get too close, so I can pull back.”

Deacon moaned again, but he nodded.

“Good.” He stopped stroking, and smiled when Deacon groaned in frustration. “Don’t

worry,” he said. “I’m not even close to being done.”

He stood up again and grabbed the rope, which was still lying on the floor from the last time he’d used it. “Bend over the stool,” he said, and Deacon did.

Aren went to his armoire and pulled out an old, black shirt. The ghost had ripped it

weeks before, making it useless as anything but a rag. Aren tore strips from it and used them to wrap Deacon’s wrists before tying them to the legs of the ottoman. When he’d finished, he moved behind him again. Deacon’s ass was a perfect invitation in front of him. Aren’s cock strained against his pants as he gripped Deacon’s cheeks and spread them wide. He saw the way Deacon’s entrance tensed, but he also noted the way his breathing sped up.

Aren leaned over and touched his tongue to the soft flesh between Deacon’s legs. He

started low, moving slowly up Deacon’s crack, and when he reached his entrance, Deacon gasped. He tensed, but Aren kept his tongue moving in slow, soft circles.

“Oh,” Deacon said, almost a whimper, and under his tongue, Aren felt the muscles of

his rim start to relax.

He kept his tongue moving, teasing around and around Deacon’s opening. He couldn’t

believe how turned on he was. He longed to do more. He wanted to spread Deacon’s cheeks and push his tongue deep inside, but he wasn’t sure Deacon was ready for that. Instead, he reached between Deacon’s legs and started to stroke his cock. The folds of his foreskin were wet, and Aren slid it backwards, brushing Deacon’s tip with his fingers. The low moan that escaped Deacon’s throat went straight to Aren’s groin. He’d told Deacon to last as long as he could, and now Aren found he was the one who might not be able to last.

He pulled away from Deacon and the big cowboy groaned again, in frustration. Aren

smacked him playfully on the ass as he stood up and was surprised that his slap caused a moan, too. “Hold on,” Aren told him. “I’m not even undressed yet.”

“What the blessed hell are you waiting for?” Deacon asked breathlessly, and Aren

laughed as he took off his clothes. Only an hour before, he might have felt inadequate next to Deacon, but he found he didn’t now. Deacon was right. The ranch had made him strong— SONG OF OESTEND

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not huge and hard like Deacon or Simon or some of the other men—but strong enough. And even if he didn’t quite believe he was beautiful, he believed Deacon thought he was. That was more than enough.

“What should I do to you now?” Aren asked.

“Anything,” Deacon said. “Everything.”

“Should I fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Should I make you suck me?”

“Yes.”

“Should I punish you again?”

And just as before, he heard the heartbeat of hesitation as Deacon thought about that, and the quiver of anticipation in his voice as he said, “Yes.”

Aren hadn’t actually expected that, but he grabbed the crop. It wasn’t like before. This was purely sexual, and while it seemed Deacon was asking for pain, Aren didn’t want to go too far. He tapped the end of the crop against Deacon’s ass and heard Deacon’s breath catch.

“Yes,” he said again, his voice low and husky.

Aren brought the crop down. Not across Deacon’s back this time, but across the firm

round globes of his ass. Not as hard as he could, by any means, but hard enough that a red mark formed beneath it. Deacon gasped, straining against his ties, then collapsed against the ottoman with a moan. Aren smacked him again.

“Holy Saints,” Deacon breathed. He was writhing, squirming, bucking his hips, and

Aren knew he was trying to find a way to rub his hard cock against the ottoman.

“Do you like that?” Aren asked him.

“Yes!”

Aren smacked him again.

Deacon gasped, arching his back. He held his breath for just a moment, and when he let it go, it came out a moan. “It hurts right at first,” he said breathlessly, “but then it changes.”

Aren smacked him again, and again Deacon’s gasp of pain trailed away into a deep-throated moan. He tried again to push his hips towards the ottoman, but he couldn’t reach.

Aren loved to watch him—the way the muscles in his back bunched and relaxed, and the

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motion of his ass as he strived to find some release. When he’d used the crop before it had been different, but this time he found it unbelievably arousing.

Aren hit him again.

Deacon arched again at the pain, but his breathing was heavy, his hips still moving as he fought to rub his cock against something. Aren reached down with his free hand and gripped his own cock, gasping at the pleasure of it. As he stroked himself, he hit Deacon with the crop again.

“Aren,” Deacon cried, and the sheer desperation in his voice made Aren’s legs go weak.

He fell to his knees in front of Deacon, grabbing his head, pulling desperately on his hair, and Deacon knew what he wanted. He opened his mouth and Aren drove his cock inside.

He almost came. After the intensity of their foreplay, having Deacon’s warm mouth

around his aching cock was almost more than he could bear. He held Deacon’s head against his pubic bone, frozen with his cock deep inside Deacon’s mouth. He forced himself to wait there until the urge to climax abated. He made himself take three deep breaths. When he had control of himself again, he began to thrust into Deacon’s mouth. He closed his eyes and gave himself to the sheer relief of that warm, wet heaven. He held on to Deacon’s hair. He listened to his lover’s laboured breath. His hips moved faster as he drove in and out of Deacon’s mouth. He wasn’t sure anything had ever felt so good.

A moan from Deacon brought him back from the brink. He forced himself to slow

down. He tamed the urgency of his thrusts. He looked down at Deacon’s broad, scarred

back. He eyed the globes of his ass, now streaked with red welts.

The relief he found in Deacon’s mouth was exquisite, but he didn’t want to finish quite yet.

“Stop,” he said, pulling back, pulling his cock from Deacon’s reach.

“Please,” Deacon collapsed onto the ottoman and let his head hang down between his

bound arms. “Please, please, please…”

Aren ran his hands down Deacon’s back. By leaning forwards, resting against Deacon’s

bowed head, he was able to reach his ass. He ran his finger down Deacon’s crack, and

Deacon’s pleas came faster.

“Please, Aren, please, Aren, please…”

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Aren let him go. He pushed himself to his feet, smiling at the moan of frustration it elicited from Deacon. “I need the salve,” Aren told him and Deacon moaned.

He found the jar and took it with him as he knelt behind Deacon. He gripped Deacon’s

cheeks again, spreading them wide, and this time, Deacon didn’t tense. Aren leaned over again to tongue him and was thrilled at the way his rim remained soft and inviting. He circled his rim as he’d done before, teasing at his entrance. The sounds Deacon made drove him wild. The fact that somebody so big and so strong could whimper and beg like Deacon was doing turned him on more than he could ever have expected. He lapped at Deacon’s body until Deacon gasped out, “Please, Aren,
please!
”

He reached between Deacon’s legs and gripped his cock. Deacon’s cry was hoarse and

breathless. His hips bucked as he instinctively fucked himself into Aren’s fist, and as his hips came up and back, Aren let his tongue push past Deacon’s rim.

“Awww!” Deacon’s cry was more than a moan, less than a scream, undeniably a sound

of wanting, of needing, of finally receiving, and Aren took it as an invitation. As Deacon fucked his hips up and down, sliding his cock through Aren’s hand, Aren pushed his tongue as deep as he could. He used his free hand to hold Deacon’s ass. His thumb pressed against Deacon’s rim, opening him wider so his tongue could caress inside. Deacon writhed and squirmed and panted and whimpered in pleasure, and Aren spread him wider still, moaning against his wet flesh as he tried to reach deeper.