Song of Oestend (19 page)

Aren’s heart still pounded. His hands shook. He hated that Beth had unnerved him so

much.

“Did I interrupt something?” Deacon asked in amusement.

“Yes!” Aren snapped. He went to the bar and grabbed a glass. He poured a hefty shot

of whisky into it and slammed it back in one swallow. The warm liquor hit his empty

stomach, and he poured himself another. “Thank the Saints you
interrupted!
Why couldn’t you have
interrupted
ten minutes sooner?”

He turned to look at Deacon, and Deacon suddenly looked away. “Your pants,” he said.

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“Fuck!” Aren put down his glass and turned away to tuck everything back in place, but he didn’t bother tying his pants back up. His shirt hung down low enough to cover him. He picked his glass back up with a hand that still shook and drank the second shot of whisky.

“She had your pants undone and her skirt up, from the looks of her, and you’re
glad
I interrupted?”

“Extremely.” He poured another shot. After a moment of deliberation, he doubled it.

With no food in his stomach, he knew he was flirting with trouble. He knew he’d regret it in the morning. But he found he didn’t care. Getting drunk suddenly seemed like the best idea he’d ever had.

“Did she offer?”

Aren snorted at the sheer inadequacy of that question as he took another drink. “Yeah,”

he said. “She offered.”

“And you said no?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Do you not like sex?”

“Good grief, of course I like sex!” Aren said, glancing over his shoulder at Deacon.

“What do you think?”

“Then why did you tell her no?”

“Saints, why the hell do you care?”

“I’m surprised, that’s all. Are you worried about her dad?”

“Fred has nothing to do with it.”

“Then what—?”

“Why can’t you let this drop?”

“Why can’t you answer the question?”

“For fuck’s sake, Deacon! Because I don’t like women, all right? I like men!”

The words were out of his mouth before he knew it, and Aren was sure his heart

stopped beating when he realised what he’d said. Still, there was no taking it back. On one hand, he was relieved to finally have the truth known. He was tired of hiding. But more than anything, he was angry at himself for the way he’d let the conversation get away from him.

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He’d been so flustered by Beth, he hadn’t thought about what he should or shouldn’t say to Deacon. Afraid of Deacon’s response, he braced himself for what might come—the questions, or the derision, or the disgust from his one and only friend. The judgement from the one man on the BarChi whose opinion he valued.

But the only response was silence.

He swallowed the last of his whisky in one gulp and put the glass down on the bar in

front of him. His hands were shaking. Deacon’s unnatural silence was made worse by the fact that Aren couldn’t see his face. Aren splashed a tiny bit more whisky into his glass. He steeled himself for what he might see—confusion, mockery or disgust—and he turned to face Deacon.

What he saw surprised him. Deacon didn’t appear to be upset at all. He looked

nervous. But not only that. He looked…

Intrigued.

When Deacon finally spoke, his voice was low and husky. “You have sex with men?”

Aren felt his pulse speed up, but this time from excitement. Was he reading Deacon

wrong? Was his judgement skewed? He quickly considered how much whisky he’d

slammed in only a few short minutes, but he didn’t think that was to blame.

“Yes,” he said, watching closely for Deacon’s reaction. “I like to fuck men.”

Deacon’s breath caught for only a moment. His cheeks flushed. His fists clenched

around the hat he held, almost twisting it in two.

“Oh, Deacon,” Aren breathed, feeling something that was part hope and part sheer

elation flare to life in his chest. “Tell me I’m not imagining this. Tell me you like men, too.”

“I don’t…” But Deacon’s words trailed away. He seemed unable to meet Aren’s eyes.

His gaze darted nervously around the room and his cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. He twisted the hat in his hands again. The crackling of the straw seemed unbelievably loud in the otherwise silent room. Aren couldn’t help but think he’d regret having ruined the thing tomorrow. He was debating asking Deacon again, but then he saw something that gave him the answer—the growing bulge in Deacon’s pants.

“Oh, thank the blessed Saints,” he said. And in the very next moment, he lost all sense of himself.

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Aren’s not-quite-empty glass shattered on the floor behind him, but he didn’t give it a second thought. All he could think about was getting his clothes off and Deacon’s, too. Not necessarily in that order. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” he said as he ripped Deacon’s shirt open and started to push it off him. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out.”

Deacon’s chest was broad and scarred, and Aren put his nose against Deacon’s dark

skin and breathed deeply. It was intoxicating. After Beth and her soft, pale skin, her vanilla scent, her undeniable femininity, Deacon seemed like absolute perfection. He was strong and big and not soft at all. He smelt like hay and horses and something that was so unbelievably
masculine
, it made Aren moan. His hands moved to the buttons on Deacon’s pants.

“Aren, wait!” Deacon said. “I can’t…”

Aren flicked his tongue over Deacon’s nipple as he slid his hand into his pants,

caressing Deacon’s cock. The feel of it in his hand made him weak at the knees. It was thick and hard, and Deacon’s words died, trailing away into a deep moan.

“You can,” Aren said, as he started to stroke him.
Please. Please!

“No,” Deacon whispered, but it was a weak protest at best.

“Have you ever been with a man before?”

A heartbeat of hesitation, and Deacon shook his head. “No.”

“I can make it so good for you.” He tongued Deacon’s nipple again as his fingers

played over his foreskin.
Please don’t say no.

“No,” Deacon said again, but his body said otherwise. His hips began to move and he

thrust into Aren’s hand.

“I haven’t had sex in months,” Aren told him. “You can’t say no now.”

“Oh, Saints, Aren…”

Right or wrong, Aren’s patience was at an end. He wasn’t interested in Deacon’s

protests. He wasn’t interested in talking him into it. He didn’t want to waste time persuading Deacon it would be all right. The only thing he wanted was to finally alleviate the terrible pressure in his groin. He pushed Deacon roughly back against the wall. He dropped to his SONG OF OESTEND

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knees, pulling Deacon’s pants out of the way as he did, and he swallowed Deacon’s cock all the way down to his root, because he knew it would put an end to Deacon’s half-hearted protests.

“Ohh,” Deacon moaned, and just as Aren had expected, all the fight went out of him.

He arched his back against the wall, pushing his hips out and his cock deeper into Aren’s mouth.

Sucking a man’s cock was an act Aren had always had mixed feelings about. On one

hand, he liked it. It turned him on more than he could say. He liked the feel of another man’s hard shaft against his tongue. He liked the musky smell that clung to their hair. He even liked the taste when they came. He liked the moans, and the way he could make them fall apart using nothing more than his mouth.

What he didn’t like, with Birmingham at least, was the way Dean had gripped his head

and fucked hard into his mouth, whether he was ready for it or not. He didn’t like the way, when it was over, Dean would pat him on the head and say, “Good boy.” He didn’t like the fact that Dean never returned the favour.

But doing it for Deacon was something else entirely. Aren pulled back up his length,

sliding his tongue into the pocket of Deacon’s foreskin as he sucked hard on his tip. Deacon gasped and grabbed Aren’s head, and although his fingers tangled in Aren’s hair, he seemed only to be hanging on, not taking over. Aren released Deacon’s tip and swallowed his length again, caressing the underside of his shaft with his tongue, and the moan it elicited from Deacon was almost enough to make Aren come.

He continued to move on Deacon. His own pants were still undone and it was easy to

pull his erection free. His own hand had never felt so good as it did at that moment. He moaned against Deacon’s flesh as he stroked himself, and he sensed more than saw Deacon looking down at him.

“Aren,” Deacon gasped, and the urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

A little longer
, Aren thought, as he stroked himself fast.
Just a little longer, please!

He sped up, both his hand on his own cock and his mouth on Deacon’s. He loved the

way Deacon smelt. He loved his deep-throated moans, and the feel of his strong, muscular thigh under Aren’s free hand. He loved that he was a
man
, and not just any man, but one who was strong and virile and sexy and the very image of what masculinity could be.

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He wished he had more time. He wished he could undress Deacon and see every piece

of him. He wished he could explore every inch of his body. He wished he could push him down on the bed and spread his legs. He wanted to prove to him how good sex with a man could be. He wanted, more than anything, to fuck him. To grip his hips and drive into him and hear him cry out from the pleasure of Aren’s cock inside him.

Aren’s orgasm hit him fast. He closed his eyes, leaning into Deacon’s body, still sucking him as he worked his own cock with his hand, stroking his climax free. Deacon looked down at him and moaned.

“Aren!” Deacon gasped, and his fingers clenched in Aren’s hair just as his first shot filled Aren’s mouth. Aren sucked hard, swallowing fast, loving the desperate sounds Deacon made as he did.

When Deacon was done, Aren lay back on the floor, breathing hard, almost laughing

with relief. “Blessed Saints, you have no idea how much I needed that!” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He knew he was smiling like a fool, but he didn’t care. He revelled in the sated, heavy feeling he hadn’t felt in far too long. He laughed out loud at the sheer joy of it.

He heard Deacon leave his place against the wall. He heard his footsteps as he crossed the room, and the sound of him collapsing onto one of Aren’s wooden chairs. But Deacon didn’t say a word.

Aren cracked his eyes open and glanced over at Deacon…and his heart fell. Deacon was

bent over, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “Aren,” he whispered, “that shouldn’t have happened.”

“Shit,” Aren mumbled, mostly to himself, trying not to be annoyed that his post-coital bliss was apparently going to be cut dreadfully short. “It’s fine,” he said to Deacon. “You don’t need to freak out.”

Deacon didn’t answer. He only shook his head.

Aren sighed, pushing himself up off the floor. He did up his pants. He pulled his

kerchief out of his pocket and used it to wipe up the mess he’d made. He was stalling, hoping Deacon would pull himself together, but when he turned to look at him again, he still hadn’t moved. Aren stood up and went to the bar. He poured a generous shot of whisky into a glass. “Here,” he said, handing it to Deacon. “Drink this.”

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Deacon’s hands were shaking when he took the glass, but he obeyed, tossing the

alcohol back in one shot.

“Better?” Aren asked.

“No.” Deacon shook his head. “Oh, Saints,” he moaned. “I should go.”

He tried to stand up, but Aren put his hand on his shoulder and pushed him back

down. “No,” he said. “Not yet.” He wasn’t exactly sure what he hoped to gain by keeping Deacon there. He only knew that it seemed like a bad idea to let him leave when he was so out of sorts. And it felt selfish not to try to help. He poured another drink for Deacon and handed it to him. This time, Deacon only swallowed half the glassful before leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed. He sighed heavily.

“You all right?” Aren asked.

“Yes,” Deacon said, although he didn’t sound very convincing.

Aren was beginning to feel guilty for having pushed Deacon. It was a new feeling for

him. He’d felt guilty many times for allowing
himself
to be persuaded into sex that he later regretted, but he’d never been the one on the other side of the equation before. “I’m sorry,”

he said.

Deacon shook his head. “Don’t be.” He sat up straight. He rubbed his hands roughly

over his face. “I really should go,” he said again, but he didn’t attempt to stand up.

“Finish your drink.”

Deacon sighed, but he swallowed the rest of the whisky and handed the glass to Aren.

“More?” Aren asked, and Deacon nodded.

“I don’t know what happens now,” Deacon said as Aren handed him the glass again.

Aren thought about that as Deacon sipped his third drink. He wasn’t sure what would

happen, either. He didn’t know if they’d become lovers, or if it had been a one-time thing. He didn’t know if tomorrow they’d have breakfast together like they always did, or if Deacon would suddenly avoid him. Those things, it seemed, were up to Deacon, and Aren couldn’t change them. What he did know was it was possible that, starting tomorrow, he’d be right back where he’d been before, with no sexual partner except his own hand. And if that was the case, he didn’t want to let Deacon walk away quite yet.

He got down on his knees in front of Deacon, so that he could look up into his eyes.

Deacon’s cheeks turned red, and he looked half-scared, but he met his gaze.

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