Song of Oestend (32 page)

“So,” Deacon said at last, “that’s what this is about.”

“What?” Aren asked, even though he knew exactly what Deacon meant.

“The McAllen farm,” Deacon said, and although Aren had his back to him, he could

hear Deacon’s heavy footsteps as he crossed the room. “The women.”

“No,” Aren said. “They have nothing to do with anything.” His voice betrayed him,

though. He knew he didn’t sound convincing.

Deacon’s strong arms wrapped around him from behind. “You’re lying,” he whispered

in Aren’s ear before flicking his tongue over it.

It made Aren shiver. Being in Deacon’s arms and feeling his broad, strong body against his back stirred his blood, but not enough to overcome the heaviness of his heart.

“You want me not to roll with any of the maids?”

Just the image those words brought to mind made Aren’s heart clench inside his chest

and tears sting behind his eyes. He couldn’t help but picture Deacon’s hands on some

woman. His lips on her throat. He imagined Deacon whispering in her ear, telling her that she was beautiful, that she was perfect, saying all the things he said to Aren when they made love. He pictured the way Deacon looked when he was lost in pleasure, only this time it was a girl who straddled his hips. It was her name he cried as he came.

“It’s none of my business,” he said, although the words came out a whisper.

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“Why isn’t it?” Deacon asked. One rough hand pushed Aren’s hair off his neck, and

Aren felt his warm lips there.

“I can’t tell you what to do.”

Deacon chuckled throatily against Aren’s neck. “You tell me what to do all the time.”

One strong hand travelled down Aren’s stomach to stroke his half-erect cock through his pants. “Have you forgotten how much I like it?”

Aren fought to keep his mind on what he was saying and not on what Deacon was

doing with his hands and mouth. “In my bedroom, yes, but this is different.”

“How so?”

“It just is.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

He hated that Deacon was pushing him. He hated that he was making him face it.

Deacon nipped at his neck, and prodded him again. “Tell me why you can’t order me to keep my pants tied.”

“I don’t own you!” Aren relented. “That’s why!”

Deacon froze, his arms still around Aren and his lips still on his neck. Aren wondered if he’d somehow upset him. But only for a moment.

Deacon made a sound against his neck—something that was more growl than moan. “Is

that what you think?” he asked. His hand on Aren’s groin became more aggressive. He

ground himself against Aren’s back. “Because I think you might be wrong. I think you do own me. I think maybe you own every single inch of me.”

“No,” Aren said. Or tried to, although Deacon’s hand and his mouth and his body were

quickly robbing him of the ability to think.

Deacon turned him around, his grip strong and his hands rough. His usual gentleness

was gone. He pushed hard against Aren, grinding his erection against him, shoving Aren backwards against the bar. He bit at his neck. One of his hands squeezed Aren’s ass, making him gasp.

“Do you think I let anybody else tell me what to do?” Deacon asked. His hand moved

around to the ties on Aren’s pants, ripping them open. “Have you ever seen me take orders from anybody but you?”

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“No.” Aren’s eyes drifted closed. Deacon’s hands felt so good. His lips felt so good. His weight as he ground against him felt like heaven.

“You think I’ve ever let anybody else tie me up?” Deacon asked.

“No,” Aren gasped.

Deacon’s hand slid inside his pants, gripping his cock hard and pumping it. Aren was

sure his knees had stopped working. It was only Deacon’s iron grip on him holding him up.

“Do you think I’d let any other man in the world tie me down and whip me with a

crop?”

“No.”

Deacon growled again. His arm tightened around Aren and he lifted him, shoving him

backwards onto the bar, sweeping everything else off it as he did. The glasses Aren had begged from Olsa shattered on the floor. The whisky bottle hit the wooden planks with a thud. Deacon ignored them. He climbed on top of Aren, grinding hard against him, still stroking Aren’s cock with his other hand.

“And if they did hit me with a crop, you think I’d beg them to do it again?” he asked, breathless. “You think I’d beg anybody for
anything
the way I beg you each and every night?”

Aren was beyond words. He couldn’t think at all. Deacon’s hand continued to move on

him. His weight was solid and heavy on Aren’s body, and it felt unbelievably good. Aren had had men be rough with him before. He’d had men hold him down. But always, it was so they could take. Always, it was their own pleasure they sought and even though Aren had usually been willing, to some extent at least, never had he had a man be so aggressive in order to bestow pleasure upon him. It made him breathless.

“You
do
own me, Aren,” Deacon said. “Tell me what to do.”

Aren knew exactly what he wanted Deacon to do. He put his hand on Deaconn’s head

and pushed, and Deacon went where Aren directed, down Aren’s body. He moaned when

he got to Aren’s groin.

Aren’s fingers clenched in Deacon’s long hair. Deacon’s warm mouth closed around

him, his tongue caressing his aching erection, and Aren cried out. His back arched, and Deacon began to move up and down Aren’s cock. One strong hand pushed between Aren’s legs. Aren’s pants were still on, only open at the fly, but he felt Deacon’s fingers grab him SONG OF OESTEND

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through the thin fabric, squeezing his cheeks, pushing in between. His touch was rough, violent, almost painful, and it tipped Aren over the edge. His orgasm tore through him, taking him by surprise, taking with it all his anger and all his strength. He shot into Deacon’s eager throat, again and again, and when he was done, he collapsed back on the bar, breathing hard.

Deacon loomed above him, his lips moist and red and his eyes serious. “Those maids

got nothing I need,” he said. “I only need you.”

Aren had pulled half of Deacon’s dark hair out of its queue while Deacon sucked him.

He reached up and brushed the loose strands out of Deacon’s face. He traced his thumb over his wet lips. “You might change your mind once you’re there.”

Deacon shook his head. “I won’t.”

Aren wished he could believe him, but he didn’t. It wasn’t that he thought Deacon was lying to him—not really—it was only that he didn’t expect the big cowboy’s resolve to last long when presented with the soft, smooth flesh and open legs of the McAllen maids.

Deacon must have seen the doubt in his face, because he leant down and kissed Aren,

his lips gentle. “You could come with me,” he said.

That was true. He could. But he’d only be in the way, and the idea of having to fight the maids off without Red knowing, or of watching as Deacon gave in to temptation was too much to bear. “No.”

Deacon watched him for a minute, thoughtful, then he broke into a mischievous grin.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Soon as I get home, I’ll come get you and we’ll go straight to Olsa.

She’ll know if I rolled with a maid or not, and you know she won’t hold back about it, neither.” Aren laughed despite himself, and the smile on Deacon’s face became more genuine. “There’s nothing they can offer that’s worth making you mad,” Deacon said. “I mean it.”

Aren sighed. “Fine,” he relented, wrapping his arms around Deacon’s neck. “I believe

you.”
I think
.

Deacon smiled down at him. “You’re done being mad?”

“It seems like I am.”

“Hmm…” Deacon nuzzled Aren’s neck. “That’s too bad. ‘Cause I sure wouldn’t mind if

you took some of that aggression out on me.”

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“Oh, really?” Aren teased. “Are you saying I should make use of that rope?”

“Mmmm,” Deacon said, grinding his erection against Aren’s thigh. “I think so.”

“And the crop?”

Deacon groaned, grinding against him harder. “Yes, please.”

“You broke all my glasses. You’ll have to bring me more.”

“I will,” Deacon said, as breathless now as he’d been before. “Aren,
please
.”

“Fine,” Aren said, laughing. He pushed Deacon up off him, although he made sure as

he did to caress the large bulge in his lover’s pants, just to tease him. “Let’s go upstairs.” He pushed himself off the table and turned to follow Deacon out of the living room door, but something caught his eye.

There was somebody looking in at the window!

A face! He was sure of it, but when he turned to look again it was already gone.

“Wait!”

Deacon stopped and turned to look at him over his shoulder. “What?”

“I thought I saw something.” Aren said, but he was already doubting himself.

“Somebody at the window.”

“Who?”

“I…” Aren’s words stuttered to a halt.
Who?
He had no idea. He hadn’t actually seen a face, he realised. He’d only had the impression of one. But it had been a mere glance, a fraction of a second at most as he’d turned past the window. He hadn’t truly been looking out of it. Had he imagined it?

“The wind’s blowing something fierce today,” Deacon said and it was true. It howled

outside, battering his shutters, making the tree branches creak. “You probably just saw a tumbleweed or a leaf blowing by. Could even have been a bird.”

“A bird,” Aren repeated, pondering. It seemed possible and far more likely than the

thought that anybody would be at his window when there was less than half an hour left of light.

“Aren,” Deacon said, pulling him into his strong arms. “There’s nobody there. Please

don’t make me wait any more. I’ll get down on my knees and beg you here and now if that’s what you want.” He squeezed Aren tight, pushing his erection against Aren’s hip. “
Please
come upstairs now.”

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Aren couldn’t help but laugh. He loved the way he could make Deacon desperate. He

loved to make him plead. And now that he’d already climaxed himself, it would be easy to spend hours making Deacon squirm, making him beg for more. The thought made Aren’s pulse race.

“Go upstairs,” he said, making his voice a command.

“What about you?” Deacon asked.

“I’m going to start the generator now so we don’t have to stop later.”

Deacon groaned against his neck, nipping at his ear. “Good idea.”

Aren reached down to squeeze Deacon’s groin, loving the deep-throated moan it

caused. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

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Aren didn’t go to the courtyard to see Deacon and Red off. They’d said goodbye in bed, Deacon dressed and ready to go, Aren still naked under the sheet.

“Don’t you worry about those girls,” Deacon teased as he kissed Aren goodbye. “I’ll be thinking about you every second of the day.”

“You better be.” Aren forced himself to smile. He did his best to smother the little voice inside him that still had doubts. “Hurry home.”

“Two days there, two days back,” Deacon said. “Can’t do it any faster than that.”

He paused in the bedroom doorway, turning to look back at Aren. His cheeks turned

red, and he put his hand on the top of his head, pushing his hat down low—except his hat was still hanging on the hook by the front door.

“Aren,” he said, “I…” His words died away. He stared down at the floor.

It made Aren smile. Deacon never did well with sentiments. Whether he’d been going

to say, “I’ll miss you,” or something more, Aren didn’t know. But he recognised the effort.

“Don’t forget my glasses,” Aren said, deciding to let Deacon off the hook rather than watching him squirm.

Deacon looked up at him in surprise. His face broke into a smile. “I’ll buy you the best crystal they sell.”

And so Aren was able to laugh as Deacon walked out of his door. “Don’t bother,” he

said to the empty room, still smiling. “The ghost will only break them anyway.”

He hoped he could keep his spirits up. He hoped he could maintain his optimism and

hold on to the trust he’d felt when Deacon was still in the room. He worried that the time spent alone would lead him down a path of doubt.

It turned out he’d have other things to occupy his mind.

He was surprised, when he finally wandered over to the house, to find that Olsa wasn’t in the kitchen. Tama was there instead. “She’s sick,” she said. She looked worried.

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“How sick?” Aren asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know much about fevers.”

Aren didn’t, either, but some sense of foreboding told him this was a situation he

couldn’t ignore. “Where is she?”

Tama led him through a hallway, then down a flight of stairs. The basement was cold

and Aren found himself thinking how cruel it was that Olsa was confined to the basement.

“We’ve offered her another room,” Tama said, as if reading his mind, “but she says this one is already hers.”

Aren could hear Olsa coughing from the hallway. “She seemed fine yesterday,” he said.

Tama shrugged. “She’s been coughing more and more. Mostly, I think she hides it from

Deacon.”

“Blessed fools,” Aren cursed. Olsa and Deacon both were stubborn to a fault. He

knocked gently on the door before going in.

Her room was small and tidy, with several dressers and cupboards. It smelt like

something earthy and herbal. It was also dreadfully cold. And in the corner, on a narrow bed, lay Olsa.

She was coughing, and when Aren touched a hand to her forehead, he found it hot, but