Tutus and Tinsel

by Rhys Ford

  “You’ve got your ruminating face on,” Lang said. He pushed his finger into the curve of Deacon’s mouth and lifted the corner of his lips. “What are you thinking so hard at?”

  He kissed Lang’s fingertip and smiled. “Do you really want to know?”

  “We’ve had a long day painting ornaments, finally decorating the big trees, and supervising an army of guys climbing all over the house so they can hang lights everywhere.” Lang saluted him with his wineglass. “I think I’d love to hear what’s on my husband’s mind after he and my daughter spent a long, drawn-out hour discussing the pros and cons of my light bulb choices and then ran off to work on a beat-up old motorcycle for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “It was a good day,” Deacon murmured. “Mostly I was thinking about where I was twenty years ago and how fucking wild it is that I’m here with you and Zig. If you’d asked me back then where I would be now, I’d have told you dead or in prison. Not that I didn’t stop there on the way.”

  He talked about the past a little bit here and there, but Deacon had always been reluctant to pull back the curtain on the cesspool he’d wallowed in for far too long. They talked about bits of it, usually lying in bed with the lights off, and Deacon found a bit of comfort in the shadows, especially when he bared the ugly bits of his soul. For a long time, he believed that Lang deserved better than a cast-off ex-con, and it took nearly losing both Zig and Lang before Deacon embraced the idea that he was being given a second chance at life.

  “Prison was… shitty, but honestly, it was a fucking picnic compared to growing up,” Deacon admitted. “First time I was popped for breaking and entering, I was tossed into juvie and got better food and someplace better to sleep than when I was with my mom. I hated being told what to do and when to do it, but that’s where I started to learn about engines and auto repair. That was really handy when I got out, because I learned how to hot-wire a car from one of the older kids.”

  “Probably not what the guidance counselors were hoping for,” Lang drawled.

  “Nope, probably not.” Deacon chuckled. “Juvie’s really where I learned I was good at something. I got a GED and got some community college courses in and got my feet under me. But see, I was still looking at angles, hedging around the system, because in my head, that’s how things were done—anything to get one up on the system. That’s what I knew. It’s all I knew. I wasn’t even operating on the level. People would bring me bikes, and I’d take in whatever pieces and parts were the cheapest, slap them on, and charge full price because it put money in my pocket—money I blew right away because I was shit at thinking ahead.”

  “When did it change?” Lang’s weight shifted as he put his wineglass down on the high table behind the davenport. “Because that’s not the guy I met and married.”

  “Well, not when the cops came knocking on my door with a warrant and a list of parts they were looking for,” Deacon admitted. He felt more shame now than he had then. A burn of red and heat crept up his jaw and then poured down his throat. Lang was still too good for him and always would be, but Deacon was working on at least making himself worthy of having Lang in his life. “I figured I’d go through the prison term, and when I came out, I’d just move and start up all over again. Then… I got out, and Zig happened. Shit got real. All of a sudden, I had a little girl sitting on my conscience and nowhere to put her. My life was shit. I was shit. And that had to change.”

  “Was prison hard?” Lang’s voice was a soft, gentle, painful prod into Deacon’s past. “I mean, I only know what I see on television, and well, if TV were right about booksellers, I should be solving a hell of a lot of murders with my trusty cat at my side.”

  “Your trusty cat can’t even pass a house plant without stopping to eat it. I can’t imagine the damage he would do to a dead body.” He snorted at Lang’s elegant shrug. “And prison wasn’t hard so much as…. It’s like Dante’s circles of hell. The guards had their own ring. Keep on their good side and just do as you’re told so you don’t get shit from them. First thing anyone going in will tell you. Doesn’t matter if it’s juvie or max, the guards keep you locked down. After that, there’s other circles, ones you stay clear of. Well, at least I did. Last thing I wanted was someone telling me how to dance and how fast.

  “Libraries help with that. They kept my brain going and out of trouble. I did more book work in prison than I did in school. Anything I could get my hands on, I read—anything. I’d help write letters or read them. I worked out some, but mostly I read.” Deacon pursed his mouth as he thought back on the months he spent with nowhere to go except for where someone in a uniform led him. “I promised myself I’d be smarter next time and not get caught. Never even crossed my mind to just not fucking do shitty things.”

  “Until Zig,” Lang whispered.

  “Yep, until Zig.” Deacon scrubbed at his face and then took a deep swig of his whiskey. Its smoky heat left a hot sear on his tongue and down his throat. “I ignored the calls, you know? Came up on Caller ID as California, and I figured it was either someone calling to hunt me down because I owed them money or it was my mom or sister looking to score something. Then one day I figured I’d answer and tell whoever it was to just fuck off already, but….

  “Jesus, Lang. That woman started to talk, and I immediately needed to throw up. My stomach was a knot, and I could see her… see Zig in my head… going through all that shit, and I knew right then I couldn’t let her go down the same path I’d been on.” His hands shook, and Lang gently took the tumbler from his cold fingers and placed it on the table next to his wineglass. “No choice. Didn’t even question it once the idea grabbed my brain and sunk in. I was going to have to go back to SoCal and find a place she could be safe. So she wouldn’t end up like my mom or sister. So she wouldn’t end up like me.”

  Lang slid over onto his lap before Deacon could take his next breath. Lang’s weight was comfortable on his hips, and the familiar and sensual slight press on Deacon’s crotch eased a bit when Lang rested his shins on the couch. They sat in the quiet, whispering night, their foreheads touching long enough for Deacon’s breath to steam up Lang’s air-chilled glasses.

  “I love you, Ludo.” Lang sat back, took off his spectacles, and laughed at the smudges across the lenses. “And if Zig turns out to be even half the person you are, then she’s going to be okay.”

  “Even if I’m an ex-con?” Deacon cocked his head back and studied Lang’s face. “I just don’t want her to have to learn what’s important in life when she hits her thirties. I want her to… be better than me. Go farther.”

  “You have come so far, done so much. I’m in awe of how strong you are and what you’ve done to make our daughter’s life glorious.” Lang bent forward and whispered against Deacon’s lips, “I don’t know what I did to make life lead you to my doorstep, but I thank God every single damn day that Artie sold his business to you. I’m eternally grateful you rented that silly yellow house across the field, and I’m beyond ecstatic that a rough-and-tumble little girl with a riot of curls, heavy boots, and a bright tutu came through the door of my bookstore. I fell in love with both of you from nearly the moment I saw you two together. And I still do. Every day.”

  “How about if we take that gratitude of yours upstairs so I can return it and not get arrested for indecent exposure for what I want to do to you right now?” Deacon nibbled at Lang’s throat and bit hard enough to bring a gasp to Lang’s parted lips. “Because, babe, the things I want to do to you….”

  IF LANG had any regret in his life, it was that he couldn’t sculpt or paint. He made passable attempts with watercolors, mostly capturing landscapes and beach scenes. To call it dabbling was to give his efforts much more credit than they deserved. He enjoyed the art he created even though he knew he was never going to set the art world on fire, but there were times when his lack of innate talent pained him to the core.

  He watched Deacon get undressed as the golden light from their bedroom fireplace curved over his
muscles and striking face, and he longed to capture what he saw in some way.

  It was a body that life had touched. There were mottled patches where he’d laid down his bike on rough ground and more than a few scars—mementos of hot metal and cold knives. There was a triangular divot on the small of Deacon’s back, right above his left asscheek, that Lang loved to lick and bite. There was a bit of hair on his chest and down his belly where another thin scar curved over his hip bone. Deacon never talked at length about some of the marks on his lean body, but Lang knew every story, how every slice added to Deacon’s past, and all the bits of pain that made him the man Lang fell in love with.

  Deacon wasn’t perfect. They argued over stupid, silly things like socks not quite making it to the hamper or allowing Zig a cup of coffee and sweetened steamed milk an hour before bed, but Lang adored the gruffness laid over Deacon’s velvet-soft soul. His flaws and imperfections made Deacon a real true-to-his-word man who would swear when he barked his knuckles trying to fix Lang’s bike when it stalled on the side of a coastal highway and who laughed uproariously as Lang fought off a furious goose intent on driving him out of a Solvang bathroom.

  Lang couldn’t do anything but swallow to get moisture back into his throat as Deacon unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down his lean hips and over his tight ass. Deacon’s thighs and calves bulged and gave with his movements, and his belt buckle rattled against itself when Deacon kicked his jeans to the side. Lying on his back and propped up on his elbows, Lang eagerly drank in the sight as Deacon bent over to grab his pants off the floor.

  “Leave them,” Lang ordered and gave his head a slight jerk to the right. “This side of the bed’s kind of empty.”

  “You hate clothes on the floor.” Deacon’s low purr blew the ember of desire banked in Lang’s belly into a full, raging fire. “Just trying to—”

  “Babe, if you don’t get over here in the next few seconds,” Lang growled, “you’re going to get dragged across the floor and into this bed.”

  “So, you think you can take me?” Deacon eyed Lang with a playful skepticism in his slow grin. “That I’d like to see.”

  “It might take me all night,” he warned, “and possibly conking you on the head, but I’ll get you here. You’d be useless to me, but you’d be here. Forget the jeans and just come here.”

  Those broad, scarred hands whose touch Lang craved were gentle when they cradled Lang’s face. Deacon skimmed his cheek with his callused fingers and left a soft burring sting in their wake. Deacon grabbed the lube from the nightstand, tossed it near their bed pillows, and then joined Lang. The bed dipped under Deacon’s weight, and his knees and hands dimpled the mattress. Lang caught the lube bottle and secured it between folds in the sheets before it could roll off the bed.

  There was a lot of laughter in their lovemaking—small chuckles and sometimes a gasping chortle when an elbow or knee went awry. Their ease softened Lang’s insecurities and the chorus of voices that scraped his healed-over wounds until they were raw again. He’d constantly bled inside before he met Deacon. He’d never been good enough, smart enough to gain his family’s respect or affection, and he was cast adrift after the only anchor he had—his grandmother—left him. Despite being his twin, West tangled with his own monsters and felt driven to prove that he needed no one—not even his gentle-souled brother. They fought in ways only brothers could and unerringly found chinks in their already battered armor. But Deacon pulled Lang from those skirmishes and laid down a path for West to walk on should he decide to embrace Lang’s new family.

  His family—Lang murmured to himself—he, Deacon, and Zig in the house where he’d first discovered he was loved and whose halls now echoed with the busy chatter of people living out their lives to the fullest. The ring on his finger was a constant reminder of what he’d found in Half Moon Bay—not just the love of his life, but also himself, a man who’d come far despite the stumbling blocks thrown in front of him and who deserved every bit of passion and contentment Deacon offered him.

  Lang cupped Deacon’s crotch and smiled when Deacon sucked in his breath and his length thickened in Lang’s grip. He really liked what Deacon had to offer him, and in a few minutes, he hoped to give as good as he got.

  “Look at you,” Deacon whispered. “God, you are so fucking beautiful.”

  “I think your opinion’s influenced by the fact that I’ve got you in my hand,” Lang replied as he stroked with his thumb at the damp slit in Deacon’s cockhead.

  He pressed down into the soft skin and got an immediate response from Deacon, who hardened with each pass of Lang’s fingers down his shaft until Deacon couldn’t take it anymore—or so Lang figured. After one particularly satisfying upward motion of his hand, Deacon suddenly pushed him down into the bed and kneeled between his parted legs.

  “You’re driving me crazy,” Deacon accused in a soft voice. His teeth were sharp as he nipped at Lang’s throat and then across his collarbone, and the press of Deacon’s lips against his skin was a momentary soft relief from the pleasurable agony of Deacon’s trailing bites. “The things you do to me.”

  Deacon roamed his hands across Lang’s rib cage in a tantalizing, erotic skim of rough and soft over his skin. Need touched at Lang’s nerves, and his body ached. Already his ass clenched when he thought of Deacon pressing into him, the familiar stretch of Deacon’s girth sliding in, and Lang swallowed and reached for the lube.

  “Hey, I had plans.” Deacon’s words blurred in Lang’s ears when he pressed his lips against Lang’s nipple and sucked the already hardened tip into the moist heat of his mouth. “There’s going to be foreplay here, Sir Didy.”

  “Deke, I can’t get any harder.” Lang gasped at the sudden touch of Deacon’s fingers along his taint, followed by the slight scratch of his blunt fingernails running up the length of his cock. “God….”

  “Yeah, I think you might be able to get harder, but that’s something I can work on in a bit,” he promised as he took the lube from Lang’s shaking hand. “Why don’t you just hold on to the bed and let me get you started.”

  The slick liquid was still cold when Deacon slid his coated fingers over Lang’s entrance. It warmed quickly as he spread it around the tight ring and continued his slow assault on Lang’s nipples. Each clench of teeth on the tender points drove Lang’s hips up, and he groaned at Deacon’s gentle intrusion and sucked in his breath while Deacon explored with his fingers.

  “Can’t last long,” Lang ground out, trying to talk around the dryness in his mouth. It was getting hard to think, especially when Deacon seemed to find every sensitive spot on and in his body. “Deacon….”

  He was past the point of thought, and even words seemed beyond Lang’s ability to pull together some string of sense. When he felt the push of Deacon’s cock against him, Lang grabbed Deacon’s shoulders and braced himself for the overwhelming sensation of their joining. Deacon’s push into his flesh always humbled Lang. It grabbed him by the core and shook him beyond speech.

  The initial push in brought a familiar burn, the tug of his flesh catching on Deacon’s head. Deacon slowed and eased back on the pressure, but Lang needed more, needed to have Deacon fill him. He tightly clenched Deacon’s shoulders and hooked his legs over Deacon’s hips, urging him forward by tightening his knees.

  “Tell me what you need, baby,” Deacon murmured as he licked at Lang’s mouth. “Talk to me.”

  “I want you to fuck me,” Lang growled back. He nipped at Deacon’s lower lip when he chuckled under his breath. “Now.”

  “I love when I get you so hot you forget your manners.” Another kiss, this one hot enough to curl Lang’s toes, and Deacon thrust his hips forward and impaled Lang on his length. “Here we go.”

  The rush of flesh piercing him was exactly what Lang needed, and he arched his back and canted his hips to take Deacon in. Their rhythm became a frantic pace but a bit off sync, frustrating Lang until Deacon shifted his weight and clasped his hands on Lang’s hips.


  Lang pulled Deacon down, suckled at a spot on Deacon’s neck, and held him close to keep Deacon’s brawny body spread over him. He loved Deacon’s weight on him, the stretch of hot skin on his and the press of muscle and bone pushing him down into the bed. He needed Deacon against him that night, needed to feel Deacon’s body move beneath his hands while Deacon drove into him.

  “Love you,” Lang murmured into Deacon’s ear, his words scattered into bursts. His shoulders were against the headboard, a pillow scrunched up beneath his neck and head. Deacon’s hips pounded against his clenched ass, and his arms were wrapped around Lang’s torso, the embrace nearly too tight for Lang to breathe.

  “Got you, babe,” Deacon promised, his hazel eyes draped in shadow from the fall of Deacon’s hair across his face. “And God, I’m just stupid for you.”

  The thrusts slowed and fell into a long, deep roll, hitting Lang’s sensitive spots every time Deacon’s cock glided in and out of him. The power in them remained, hard and forceful enough to ride Lang up the bed if Deacon hadn’t held him. Lang cried out when the tingle in his balls grew to a sparking crest and his cock whetted to a sharp edge from Deacon’s stroking fingers. The tip was damp, soaking wet by that point, and it left salty kisses on Lang’s belly and smeared trails across Deacon’s abdomen.

  Lang moved his hips quicker, forcing Deacon back into a frenzied rhythm, and then he clenched, unable to hold back his climax anymore. Deacon throbbed in him, surrounded by Lang’s stroked-hot body. A few more long pulls and Lang began to tremble and fall apart from the surge of energy that roiled through him. His back tightened, and his legs stiffened and clamped down on Deacon’s hips. Lang reached up and worked his fingers through Deacon’s thick hair, tangled his hand through the strands and knotted them around his knuckles. The tug on his scalp was enough to drive Deacon over the edge with him, and they fell—or flew. He soared through a weightless, sweat-soaked nirvana filled with the taste of Deacon in his mouth and the hot release of Deacon’s cock buried deep in him.