|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
I'll Be Home For Christmas
Reviews for I'll Be Home For Christmas
Excerpt from I'll Be Home For Christmas: Destrie had thought he was looking at an apparition brought on by his deep meditation when Benedict appeared at the opening of the tent. And then when he'd realized his cowboy was really here, he knew it was right that he share this night with the man he loved more than any other on earth. How many times had he lain awake in another tent thinking about the man now seated across from him? Too many. He couldn't help thanking the spirits for sending Benedict to him on this night of all nights. "I've at least found some peace," Destrie finally answered. "I accept who I am." He reached up to stroke the beaded necklace around his neck. He saw Benedict's eyes follow his movement. Brief flashes of memory were about all that he had left of his real mother. "You found out who he was—your real father?" The necklace was all he had left linking him to his heritage. It was the only thing he had to go on. His mother had been Mexican. He was told the car had skidded into a guardrail on the interstate outside of Coyote Forks. His mother had been mortally injured. Her blood still tinged the necklace. He didn't remember how he'd gotten out of the seat—he'd only been five at the time and probably traumatized, but apparently he'd scrambled across to the front in order to reach her. The rescuers found him curled up next to the body of his mother, both of them covered in blood. He remembered the sight and smell of the blood. That was something that had been burned into his memory as well. One flash of memory was his mother, with shaky hands removing the necklace from around her neck and placing it around his. "This was your father's, Destrie," she had whispered. "It's all we have left of him. You'll be a good boy, whatever happens. Forgive me. I didn't mean to&ldots; I had to find a way to take care of you after your papa died. Promise me you'll remember us. Remember that we loved you." Tears had clogged his throat as he had made her the promise. And then she had died just as Destrie had heard the cry of the police siren—too late to save her. In the next flash of memory he had been sitting in a cold, hard yellow chair at the hospital, hand gripping the necklace, feeling more alone than he could imagine. That was where he was when the Carsons had come to take him home. He remembered Ray's strong arms as he'd picked Destrie up and hugged him close. Yes, Ray had been a good man—a good surrogate father. But Destrie had always known there was more—some journey he had to make to discover who he really was. He saw Benedict lean forward, his eyes dark, the shadow of firelight pouring over him as he studied the necklace around Destrie's neck. Then he looked at Destrie. "Is that what this is all about?" He swept his arm in an arc, indicating the tent. Destrie's hand dropped away from the black and red beaded necklace. "I met a man on my first tour overseas who knew the symbols on the necklace. It's Arapaho." Something flashed in Benedict's eyes. "Were you lovers?" "It wasn't like that. He taught me many things. His grandfather lives on the reservation, and I went with him on leave a couple of times. I learned the things I've wanted to understand about myself." Destrie looked at Benedict. "I had a vision, and I followed a man who became two and then merged into one." He swept a hand across his eyes, and then he looked at Destrie. "I have a path to travel, and I know it's not going to lead me back here, to Coyote Forks. I've been a lot of places you don't ever want to be. Done things you can't ever imagine. I can't return." "You mean we can't go back." "Benedict, if I thought there was even the slightest chance that you and I could make it—be it here in this town or elsewhere, I would stay. But I don't think you have come to terms with the man you are. You're too busy trying to fit into the mold of the man your brother, and this town, wants you to be." There was a long, tense silence that broadened the chasm between them. Destrie knew they would never be able to reach common ground, and it was too painful for him to keep coming back to this place. Memories swamped him, both good and bad. "You have no idea who I am," Benedict said. Destrie sighed. Finally he picked up the flute. Playing the music of his ancestors was sometimes the only thing that soothed him. He could fall into the music so easily. It was a long time later that he set the flute aside. He threw more cedar onto the fire, and the fragrant, cleansing scent wafted into the air. It was time. He picked up the pot of paint resting next to him. He began to apply the red to his face. It was true, he'd taken some of the traditions of his father's people and twisted them a bit to suit his own purposes. Ray wasn't Indian, but maybe Destrie was mourning both his fathers and not just one. And now it was time to put the past behind him, to stop mourning, for Ray, for his own mother, for the father he'd never known. It was time to step into the sun. He had just finished one side of his face when a large, calloused hand rested over his, and he looked up in surprise to find Benedict sitting next to him. "Let me," he whispered as he looked deeply into Destrie's eyes. Destrie nodded. This would probably be the last time he would ever be with his first lover. It was Christmas Eve, and if there was one gift that Destrie would have ever asked for, he was sitting next to him right now. One last night to be with the lover he would never forget. As Benedict moved closer and lifted a hand to Destrie's face, Destrie reached into the pot for more paint and stroked a hand down the side of Benedict's face. He left a long streak of red, vivid against his cheek. Benedict drew closer. Mouths crashed together in a burning kiss that spoke of long years of yearning for the unreachable. Destrie fell back upon the blanket, the paint forgotten as Benedict spread himself over Destrie's body. His cock had come to full attention the moment Benedict had stepped into the tent, and now his stiff rod rubbed against Benedict's thick, hard presence. So much time had passed, and the need went so deep. He could feel it in himself; he could feel it in Benedict. This was coming home. This moment, this time, and most of all, this man. He rolled, and Benedict was beneath him. He lifted up and looked down at the man spread so temptingly across the blanket. Taut, mature, and rugged. Cowboy to his Indian. Yet they were one tribe, and no matter the distance, no matter the years, they would always be one. He thrust his hips and then felt Benedict's hard legs wrap around his waist as he thrust back. Destrie dipped down and pressed another hot kiss to Benedict's mouth, this time thrusting his tongue deep inside, tasting the man, thirsting for this cowboy. He bucked and thrust against him.
|
Return
to Home Page
|
Stories on this Site are the original works of Adrianna Dane Copyright 2005-2008 Adrianna Dane |
|
Content on this website copyright 2005-2008. All rights reserved. |
