Song of Oestend (38 page)

something. He turned back and put his hand behind Aren’s neck, pulling him close for a moment. His lips brushed Aren’s ear, making Aren shiver. “I missed you,” he whispered.

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Aren closed his eyes as the feeling those words stirred rushed through him. They made him giddy. He felt so light, he imagined he might float away. Even after Deacon had let him go, Aren wondered at the sheer joy those simple words gave him. Deacon has missed him.

“I missed you, too,” he said, even though Deacon had long since walked away.

That night, Tama met them in the kitchen for supper. She was nervous. She kept

wringing her hands together. Deacon was clearly confused as to why she was there, but as they ate supper, Aren told him about Alissa. As he expected, Deacon started out sceptical.

Aren thought the man’s eyes might pop out of his head when he told him that Alissa

favoured women. Deacon’s cheeks turned red, and his eyes shifted to the side, and Aren knew he was imagining what two women might do together.

“I don’t see why she would be different than any of the other wives,” Aren said. “She won’t be encouraging them. It would only be an issue if one of them forced himself on her, but as long as they know how severe the consequences will be, I doubt they would. They’ve never raped any of the wives, right?” He turned to Tama. “Have they ever caused you trouble?”

“Nothing serious,” she said. “Nothing that wasn’t stopped by one of the other men

threatening to string them from the nearest tree.”

“See?” Aren said, turning back to Deacon. “She’ll be as safe as any of the wives are

now.”

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” Deacon said.

“And I think Olsa could use the help,” Aren said. They all looked over at Olsa, who had her back to them as she kneaded dough on the countertop.

“Olsa?” Deacon asked. “What do you think?”

“I don’t need any damn help,” she said with a stubbornness that made both men smile.

“But leaving that girl with her daddy and that foul sister of hers would be downright cruel.”

Deacon sighed heavily, looking at Tama with resignation. “Jay leaves for town the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Guess it’s easy enough for him to bring the girl back with him.”

“Thank you!” Tama squealed. She threw her arms around Deacon’s neck, and Aren

almost laughed at the alarm on the man’s face.

“You’re welcome,” Deacon said, pushing her gently off him and turning away. “No

need to get hysterical.”

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She smiled at him, and Aren laughed at Deacon’s discomfort, but the next second she

was hugging Aren, and Deacon was laughing at him instead.

“Thank you,” she said.

Aren patted her awkwardly on the back, glaring over her shoulder at Deacon, who was

still laughing. “You’re welcome,” he said, and was relieved when she suddenly let him go.

“I have to go tell Jay,” she said, rushing from the room.

“Blessed Saints,” Deacon swore after she’d gone, shaking his head. “I won’t be doing

her any more favours if that’s the kind of thanks I get.”

They walked back across the grass to Aren’s house. They still had two or three hours

before nightfall, and normally they spent at least some of that time talking before going upstairs, but it became clear as soon as they walked into the house that Deacon had no desire to wait. He grabbed Aren and pulled him into his arms and kissed him.

It was strange. His kiss was urgent, yet hesitant. Deacon gripped him hard, pulling

Aren hard against his body, and yet his hands didn’t stray anywhere else. He broke their kiss, his breathing heavy.

“Aren,” he said, and he sounded desperate. The word was almost a question, and yet

Aren wasn’t sure exactly what it was he was asking.

“Come upstairs,” Aren said, and Deacon smiled in return.

Aren led him up the stairs, but as they passed the door to his studio, Deacon stopped short. “What happened?” he asked.

Aren looked into the room. He’d cleaned up some of what the ghost had done, but he

hadn’t known what to do with the ruined paintings. He couldn’t fix them, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw them onto the trash pile either. They sat on his easels, and on the floor leaning against the wall, their tattered pieces hanging pitifully from the wooden frames.

“The ghost,” Aren said.

Deacon looked at him, his eyes wide with alarm. “It can’t be.”

“Forget it,” Aren said, taking Deacon’s hand and pulling him to the bedroom. Deacon’s kiss had stirred desires far more intriguing than anything his torn paintings had to offer.

Deacon’s distraction lasted only for a moment. Aren pulled him into the bedroom and

kissed him, unbuttoning Deacon’s shirt as he did. Deacon held him tight, kissing him

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hungrily as Aren began to undress him, but Deacon never reached to remove any of Aren’s clothes.

Aren wasn’t sure what to think of Deacon’s reluctance. On one hand, there was no

doubt the big cowboy was turned on. His moans and the urgency of his kisses would have told Aren that if the giant erection that ground against Aren’s hip wasn’t enough. But Aren didn’t understand the way Deacon seemed to be holding something back.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

Deacon gripped Aren’s shoulders hard. He leant down and put his forehead against

Aren’s. “There are two ways we can do this.” His voice shook, and Aren recognised the desperation in it. “There’s the way I know you deserve after I been away. The way I think it should be the first night I’m home. But there’s the other way…”

Aren smiled, comprehension finally dawning. “The way you
need?
”

Deacon’s fingers clenched tighter, digging painfully into Aren’s flesh. “Please.”

Aren kissed him first, gently, acknowledging the sacrifice Deacon thought he was

asking him to make, but Aren didn’t see it that way. Yes, they could make love, slow and gentle while Deacon whispered in his ear. Aren loved the way Deacon made him feel cherished and beautiful when they did that. But he didn’t mind waiting for it, because more than anything, what he loved was knowing that Deacon needed him. He loved being able to give him something nobody else could. He loved that by tying him up, by pushing him down, by making him beg, he was giving Deacon the strength he needed to go on the next day.

He stepped back from Deacon, out of arm’s reach. “Take off your clothes,” he said, and he saw the relief on Deacon’s face. He watched Deacon undress, contemplating how best to give them each what they wanted.

When the last of his clothes had been tossed away, Aren led him to the foot of the bed.

“Spread your legs,” he said. Deacon had to spread them wide in order for Aren to tie his ankles to the legs of the bed. Deacon was taller than him, but making him spread his legs so far brought him lower, which would make it much easier for Aren to fuck him if he so desired. Deacon’s front was towards the bed, his groin a few inches above the mattress.

“Grab onto the posts,” Aren told him, and Deacon obeyed.

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Aren had the black strips of cloth ripped from his old shirt, and he used them to wrap Deacon’s wrists before securing them to the bedposts with the rope. When he was finished, he sat back to look at his lover. Deacon looked amazing, tied spread eagled to the bed, his cock hard and heavy between his legs. Aren wrapped one arm around his neck and kissed him, stroking Deacon’s erection with his other hand. He couldn’t decide what to do to Deacon. The possibilities were too many—fuck him, or be fucked by him, suck him, or be sucked by him, use the crop on his back, use his own fingers to penetrate him. He wanted to do it all, and he moaned against Deacon’s lips as he considered his options.

First, though, he had to get rid of his own clothes. He let Deacon go, smiling at the groan of frustration he elicited. He was just standing up to pull his shirt off when somebody knocked on his front door.

“You’re not going to answer that, are you?” Deacon asked.

He sounded so desperate, and it made Aren feel wickedly devious. “I think I am,” he

said. “You stand here and think about all the things I might do when I get back.”

Deacon groaned again, and Aren laughed as he went down the stairs to answer the

door. He made sure his shirt was covering his groin before he opened it. It turned out to be Frances on the other side.

Frances was smiling, the wind blowing his sandy blond hair. “Can I come in?” he

asked.

Aren thought of Deacon, tied up in the bedroom. He wondered how long he could

leave him there and have it still be erotic rather than simply uncomfortable. “Sure,” he said, stepping aside so Frances could come inside. “Do you want a drink?” He asked the question from habit as much as anything, and he was a bit relieved when Frances shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know if Deacon told you or not, but I’m leaving tomorrow.

Going back up north to help Simon. I only came back to get our things. I wanted to say goodbye.”

Aren hadn’t quite realised that Frances and Simon were leaving the BarChi for good.

The thought made him a bit sad. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

Frances smiled, and Aren found himself thinking how much the boy had changed since

the accident with Miron. He was more sure of himself. He was confident without being

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and Simon smiling. “I wanted to thank you,” Frances said, “for being my friend when there was nobody else.”

“You’re welcome.” Aren had reached out to Frances because he’d known how it felt to

have nobody to turn to. Yet now, they’d both found other people. Aren had Deacon, and Frances had Simon. “Do you love him?” Aren asked.

Frances blushed, looking down at the floor, which was an answer in and of itself.

“Does he love you?” Aren asked.

Frances shrugged. He shook his head, looking up at Aren. “Not like you mean,” he

said. “But I think he needs me, and I guess that’s enough.”

“I can understand that.” Although Aren wondered how long Frances could live with

‘enough’.

Frances smiled at him, cocking his head to the side. The slight bend in his nose made him look less innocent, more rakish. He stepped closer to Aren so he was standing only an inch or two away. His eyes were playful. “You turned me down once before,” he said, “and I’m glad. But I wondered if now, you might change your mind.”

Aren felt himself blush as Frances’ meaning dawned on him. He wondered how

different things might have been if it had been
this
Frances who had offered himself so many months before, rather than the Frances who was broken and scared. “I’m no longer in a position to accept your offer,” Aren said.

Frances was still smiling at him. “Because of Deacon?”

“Because of Deacon.”

Frances stepped back a bit, giving Aren more room. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed nervously. “Saints, Aren. It’s been a blessed long time! And looks like not much chance anytime in the near future, either.”

“Not with Simon?” Aren asked.

“I wish!” Frances said, shaking his head. “He’s not like us.” He smiled again at Aren.

“I’d be happy to find anybody right now who was willing.”

Aren thought suddenly of Deacon, still tied to his bed upstairs, and he felt himself

smile. “Wait here,” he said. He didn’t wait for Frances to respond, but ran quickly up the stairs and into the bedroom.

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“Holy Saints,” Deacon swore when he walked into the room. “You’re killing me here!

Who was at the door?”

“Frances.”

“What did he want?”

Aren didn’t answer as he climbed onto the bed. He put his arms around Deacon’s neck

and looked into his eyes. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

“You got me naked and tied to your bed,” Deacon said, smiling. “What do you think?”

“I want to try something new,” Aren said. “Something we haven’t done before.” He

saw the curiosity in Deacon’s eyes. Aren ran his hand down Deacon’s chest and wrapped his fingers around Deacon’s cock. His erection had gone down as he’d waited, but it responded readily to Aren’s touch. “Do you trust me?” Aren asked again.

“Yes.”

Aren grabbed the largest strip of black cloth and used it to blindfold Deacon, tying it behind his head. “I’ll be right back,” he said when he was finished. “Wait here.”

“Where the blessed hell you think I’m going?” Deacon asked, and Aren laughed as he

walked back out of the door and down the stairs to where Frances waited.

“Come on,” he said, taking Frances’ hand. “Come upstairs with me.”

Frances’ cheeks immediately turned red, but he smiled. “What about Deacon?” he

asked as Aren led him up the stairs. “Last thing I want is to have him mad at me.”

“He won’t be,” Aren told him. He stopped at his bedroom door and turned to look at

Frances. He could see the arousal in the boy’s eyes, eager anticipation clearly written on his face. “Promise me you’ll follow my lead.”

“I’ll promise anything you want. Long as you don’t change your mind now.”

Aren stopped before opening the door, struck suddenly by a memory—the memory of

being blindfolded and tied to a table in Dean’s study. The memory of Dean bringing other men into the room without asking Aren first. Aren had never known who they were. He’d never even known for sure how many of them there were. They’d used him in every conceivable way, and on some level, Aren had enjoyed every minute of it. He’d climaxed more than once. But later had come the shame, and the regret, and the anger Dean had waved away with a flick of his manicured hand.