Whiskey Dreams (7 page)

After a few more strokes, Brom reached around John’s hips and grasped his cock.

John swore and moaned, flexing his hips. The motion sent his shaft spearing hard through Brom’s fist, then caused his ass to slam back against Brom’s groin, burying Brom’s cock to the root.

Brom groaned, assorted profanities whirling through his mind and dancing on the tip of his tongue as liquid heat began to pool at the base of his spine. It had been so long, and it felt so, so good to be inside another warm body. John’s was perfect, and clearly aching for more of him, as was evidenced by the way his channel pulsed around Brom’s hardness, practically begging him to thrust harder, to spill his seed deep inside him. The way the man gasped and moaned as they fucked would have been enough to drive Brom to his knees if he hadn’t already been kneeling. He pumped his fist up and down John’s shaft, eager to make sure his lover came before he took his own satisfaction.

John lost himself in a hot rush, his seed spilling wet and plentiful over Brom’s fingers. His channel convulsed around Brom’s cock, so tight it would have hurt if it hadn’t felt so damned good. John cried out so loudly that they would have been in danger of being heard and discovered if they’d been anywhere besides the remote field they’d chosen. God, it had been so long since Brom had caused a man to lose himself, so far gone with pleasure that he was incapable of worrying who might hear. He and Henry had sneaked as far away from the army camp as they’d dared for their trysts, knowing how difficult it was to be silent when they were together.

Henry. The smell of gunpowder singed Brom’s nostrils, mixed with the phantom aroma of scorched coffee, strong and bitter. His stomach clenched, balling up inside him.
Christ. Fuck. No. No.
His own voice echoed inside his mind, a mantra of desperation and disbelief so loud it drowned out even John’s moans. He felt himself slipping inside, into the memory. The ground was bloody beneath his knees, his hands wet with all the things that should have been inside Henry, not spattered and spilled everywhere like red paint.

Christ. Fuck. No. No.
He tried to pull himself out of the recollection and focused instead on the sensations exploding below his waist, where his balls were tight and his cock was slamming into mind-numbing heat, pushing him over the edge. But he couldn’t ignore the blood on his hands. It was wet, warm and dripping from his fingers in incomprehensible quantities.
“Fuck. Henry.” He lost himself in a frenzy that was more desperation than pleasure, and released a ragged sigh.

A lark chirped, bringing Brom out of the haze and into sudden awareness of his surroundings. With horror, he realized that John lay beneath him, belly and face down against the earth. When had that happened – when had he fallen from his hands and knees? He didn’t recall the transition, which, judging by the way John was breathing – fast and hard, as if he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs – had been rough.

 Beneath Brom, John was tense and hard and not at all like the warm, receptive, moaning-with-pleasure man of moments before. Brom withdrew from the slick embrace of John’s channel and lifted himself off of him, collapsing in the grass at his side. His hand was wet – with John’s seed, not with blood. He wiped his palm slowly on the grass, resisting the urge to scrub it against the rough stalks, trying to rid it of bone fragments that weren’t there.

John wasn’t looking at Brom. His face was turned the other way as he continued to lie prone in the grass, his ribs rising and falling as he breathed. Brom’s stomach knotted with guilt. Was John hurt? He’d promised not to harm him, had never meant to harm him… “John.” He cupped the back of the man’s skull and threaded his fingers through his hair, using the hold to gently urge him to face him.

John obliged, rolling onto his side and facing Brom.

“Look at me.” At the moment, Brom didn’t quite feel like looking John in the eye, but knew it was necessary. He swept a curtain of mussed hair out of John’s eyes and met his gaze.

John stared back, a hint of defiance in his gaze. His grey eyes were extraordinary, mesmerizing … and slightly narrowed as he surveyed Brom with an air of wariness. A light scrape grazed one of his high cheekbones, and there was another, larger one on his chest – from where Brom had forced him against the ground. His stomach knotted as he took in the redness and the tiny beads of blood.

 “I’m sorry. Are you injured?” Other than the obvious scrapes, of course, Brom needed to know if John was hurt … inside. Clearly, he couldn’t recall anything that had happened during a period of time. Though he knew those forgotten moments must have been brief, they had apparently been intense. He didn’t know how hard he’d gone, but was sure that he’d ended things more brutally than he’d intended to. The fact that he probably weighed a time and a half as much as John, who he’d crushed and pushed hard against the ground with every mad thrust, hadn’t escaped him.

“I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel,” John said, his voice low. “I’d never done this before.”

The reminder was like a knife twisting in Brom’s gut. He wanted to reach out and somehow fix things – or better yet, go back in time and change what had just happened, to be a gentler lover for John’s first time. But each of those things seemed just as impossible as the other. Beside his scraped-up, hard-fucked lover, he felt like a beast – a dumb animal, brutish and selfish in equal measures. “What we just did… It should have been more pleasurable than painful. Was it?” He fought to keep his voice steady as his damp hand trembled, hidden from sight in the grass.

John’s lower lip dented as he bit it from the inside – burying an eyetooth in its softness, probably. “I haven’t decided,” he said after several long moments, and turned away, rising to his knees and beginning to gather his clothes.

****

Brom was not superstitious, and had never been one to carry a good luck charm, even during war. But Henry had been different. The green ribbon Brom held in his hand now had never left Henry’s pocket during their time in the army, except for when Henry had prayed each evening. His prayers had been those of a soldier: brief and to the point, entreating God for just enough mercy to keep his family safe and sheltered while he was gone. When he’d asked for those things, he’d taken the ribbon out and wound it around his fingers, where the rich green had stood in contrast to his suntanned skin.

Protected in Henry’s pocket from the elements, the ribbon had remained vibrant and relatively clean. It had faded after his death, when Brom had doused it in water from his canteen and later washed it in a stream, scrubbing it more times than he’d been able to count in order to remove the blood that had stained one end of it, having soaked through Henry’s jacket when he’d been fatally wounded.

 Morbid as it seemed, Brom would have been tempted to let the stain remain, where it would have faded to a dull wine color that would have served as a vestige of his lost lover – a part of Henry, however pitiful. He didn’t want to see Henry’s spilled blood, but he couldn’t get it out of his head anyway, and the fact that Henry would never bleed again had made each red drop precious.

But Brom hadn’t intended to keep the ribbon for himself. No, he’d meant to take it to Henry’s family, and return it to Henry’s younger sister, who’d taken it from her hair and given it to him before he’d left to enlist in the army. So he’d scrubbed away the blood, used cold water to soak out the heat of Henry’s body and rubbed away all evidence of Henry’s touch. Then he’d finished his period of enlistment with the army and returned to New York.

Henry had come from the New York countryside as well, and it had been that fact that had originally sparked his and Brom’s friendship – and soon after, their deeper connection as lovers. Brom had gone to Henry’s home, to his family, but when he’d reached them he’d found that Henry’s sister had died of a fever a month before. So he’d returned to Sleepy Hollow, and brought the ribbon with him, tucked in his own pocket.

Though he’d kept it in the drawer of his bedside table instead of on his person, he’d developed a nightly habit much like Henry’s. Most evenings, he took the ribbon out, only instead of praying, he went inside his mind, forcing himself to confront the memories it conjured, as if facing them before bed would somehow make his nightmares less of a shock.

This would be the last night he’d indulge in that habit. It hadn’t been effective in the first place, and today, he’d slipped inside his mind without meaning to and had harmed someone else as a result. Someone he’d wanted to give pleasure to. Refusing to acknowledge the pang of regret it caused, he placed the ribbon in the back of the drawer and promptly closed it, vowing that it was for good. He’d grieved for long enough; it was time to finally meet the challenges of the present instead of languishing in the unchangeable past.

****

Brom wore the coat he reserved for special occasions, the one with the silver buttons. Tonight would warrant the care he’d taken in grooming and dressing, as he would be attending a party. It was to be held at the Van Tassel residence, for the purpose of celebrating the spring planting. Now that seeds had been sown in the fertile soil of Sleepy Hollow’s many farms, all the villagers would gather for one night of revelry before the long growing season began and ultimately culminated in a laborious harvest. He looked forward to the event, though he didn’t feel the same sense of light-hearted merriment he knew would saturate the atmosphere there. He was anxious because everyone in Sleepy Hollow would attend the event, and surely that meant that John would too.

After their disastrous tryst in the field the day before, Brom had shown John the schoolhouse, as he’d promised to do. Shortly thereafter, they’d met the Jansens – a family with four school-aged boys who farmed a large expanse of land, the outer reaches of which bordered the schoolhouse. The Jansens had invited John to stay with them during his time as schoolmaster in Sleepy Hollow, and John had agreed.

Leaving him there had been difficult for Brom to do, but what choice had he had, with Mr. and Mrs. Jansen watching him? So he’d made the journey home alone, mentally reliving what he’d done with and to John, wondering if there was a way he could have handled the situation better. He had apologized, and meant it, but John had seemed aloof, even cold, after what had happened. And Brom had left him that way, in the company of strangers. What must John think of him now?

Terrible things, surely, but perhaps he could change that – perhaps he could make up for it. He had to try – he owed that, at least, to John, who’d trusted him with his body and his inexperience. Straightening his coat, Brom turned on his heel and left his room, descending the stairs and exiting the farmhouse. Once outside, he saddled Torben in the fading daylight and rode for the Van Tassels’.

After placing Torben in a spare stall inside the Van Tassels’ large stable, Brom made his way toward the farmhouse, the windows of which were glowing with soft yellow light, a contrast to the dusky early-evening sky. Warmth, light and noise spilled from the door as he opened it and stepped over the threshold.

Many had arrived before him, and the large, open sitting room was crowded with chattering people. Everyone had scrubbed the soil of planting from their hands and donned their Sunday best. Most of the women wore dresses in slightly brighter shades than their everyday attire, and so many of them gathered so close together gave the impression of a flock of birds, colorfully plumed and happily chirping. Here and there, polished buttons gleamed in various metallic hues from the men’s best waistcoats. Brom scanned the gathering for any sign of John’s wavy locks, seeking him among the crowd.

Brom’s heart skipped a beat when he saw him, ladling punch into a cup. When he was done he raised it to his lips, and Brom’s mouth watered as he remembered crushing his mouth against John’s and tasting him deeply. Dodging a small group of racing, giggling children, Brom started across the room.

John turned slowly to face Brom and eyed him above the rim of his glass, his grey eyes half-hooded with creamy lids and dark lashes. “Good evening, Mr. Van Brunt,” he said, his tone calm and even.

Brom tensed, immediately noting John’s use of his surname, which felt like a slap across the face. One that he deserved. “Good evening, John.” He might as well make it clear that he didn’t intend to comply with John’s preferred method of handling conflict, which was apparently to pretend that whatever incident was bothering him had never happened.

A spark of surprise lighted in John’s grey eyes, and he raised his glass again, letting the rim part his full lips. “The punch is excellent,” he said after a few moments. “You should try some.” His gaze strayed to the other side of the room, but Brom shifted his stance, blocking his way before he could try to walk away.