Anders
When I imagined Omar naked in my arms, it was never like this. To clarify, he’s even better in real life, but that’s…that’s not actually what I’m talking about.
The man stripped himself bare, sharing things I suspect he’s never told a soul outside of his therapist’s office. I know so many stories like his; young men raised to be killers, forced to destroy their own humanity with violence and death.
His pain cuts me to the core, and the sadness in his blue-green eyes tears a hole in my chest. He keeps pausing like he’s waiting for me to be an asshole, and the obvious joke would trip off my tongue so easily…but I can’t.
He’s not a joke.
He’s not a prank.
He’s not a robot.
He’s a real man, with real pain, and I don’t know why I never saw it before. I mean, sure, it’s obvious that his Vulcan exterior is just smoke and mirrors, but as much as I saw through the glamour, it hid so much more.
The anguish in his voice, the way he curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, just as a small child would…my instincts told me he needed to be protected, loved; his sadness runs bone-deep, and the mask he hides behind covers unfathomable pain. Loss. Betrayal.
Letting him hold me also revealed a different kind of layer. Undeniable, vibrating passion, just seeking an outlet. When he laid those soft kisses on the sensitive skin of my neck, my brain leaped forward to a future my heart is still stuttering to keep up with.
And that kiss…
His skin against mine…
His muscled, firm weight pressing down on me destroys my self-preservation. His hips piston against me, and I want him inside of me so badly, the words tumble out of my mouth.
“Fuck me, Omar.Please.” I bury my face in the small space behind his ear. “Need you inside of me.”
He pulls back, his eyes wide with surprise as he takes his turn searching for the truth in mine. “You’ll bottom for me?”
I panic, slightly. “I’m so sorry, this isn’t about me. At all. If you don’t want to…”
He quiets my babbling with a soft caress of his fingertips across my lips. “I want to. I just never thought…”
I kiss him again, pulling his weight down onto my body, opening my mouth to his searching tongue. I kiss a line from his square jaw to his ear, whispering, “I’ll battle you for top another day. But I need you inside of me now.”
He pulls back again and asks the questions that have been in his eyes since he told me about his teacher. “Why aren’t you giving me shit? Why aren’t you fucking with me?”
I kiss his neck until he arches for more. “Because I’m not really an asshole. Besides, I thought you hated that,” I say, laying kisses along his collarbone.
He groans as he presses us together. “Only sometimes.”
“Mmmm. I’ll keep that in mind for later.”
He kisses along my brow, and the non-hookup-ness of that gesture makes my heart pound. “It’s just…you had a bad dream, and I want to soothe you. Is that weird to say?”
He shakes his head, and the gratitude and affection in his eyes would weird me out if they didn’t grip an essential part of me.
I pat the bed for my discarded pajama bottoms and pull out condoms and a lube packet. He looks down at the supplies and lowers his head, touching his forehead to my chin, shaking with laughter.
“You came to bed with lube and condoms in your pocket?”
I shrug. “I wanted to be ready for all possibilities.”
“You are unbelievable,” he says, laughing even louder, the weight lifting before my very eyes.
I nail him with a comically arched brow. “Hate sex has always been on the table for us, so don’t even try to lie about that. Also, grief sex is totally a thing. There’s a reason why I bring condoms with me to every funeral.”
“Oh my god.”
