"I am." He looked up at Othello, his eyes reflecting how happy he felt. "I guess this bed is ours now, right?"
"I'm a man of my word, Tesoro," Othello told him.
"And whose apartment will it be going to?" Des inquired, his curiosity piqued and anticipation evident in his voice, but he hoped Othello didn't get the wrong idea. He liked the man andwanted their relationship to blossom, but he wasn't ready to move in with him.
"I can have it sent to yours," Othello stated.
"Really?" Des asked, excited. He really liked the bed, and the artist in him couldn't let it go to someone else. But the significance of keeping the bed he and Othello made love in made him feel warm and tingly inside and out.
"Yes." Othello chuckled.
"You continue to impress me, Mister Moor."
"I aim to please."
“But when did you plan all of this?"
"While you were napping." Othello dragged his tongue along Des's neck, sucking up a mark before settling back into his pillows, holding Des tighter.
"Was I sleeping that long?"
"Mm." Othello chuckled. "Are you in any pain?"
"A little, but you were gentle."
"We should head home so I can get you in the tub. Then put some more ointment on it." Othello made to get up, but Des stopped him.
"No, not yet." Othello looked at him. "I'm not ready to leave yet."
"Are you sure?" he asked.
Des nodded. "I want to stay in your arms a little more."
Othello palmed one of his cheeks, then leaned down and kissed him. "Okay, we'll stay a little longer."
He settled back into bed with Des in his arms like before. Sighing happily, Des clasped their fingers, admiring the tattoos on Othello's fingers that were in Portuguese, but meant death, and a passage in Arabic on the backs of his hands.
"What does it say?" he asked Othello, rubbing the tattoo.
"Never forget, never regret, never forgive," Othello answered.
"Does it say the same thing on both hands?"
"No." Othello kissed him on his shoulder. "The other says no regrets, no hesitation."
Des turned his head and observed Othello's handsome face, wondering what could have made him make those personal vows.
"What?" Othello quirked a brow, looking at Des.
"I want to know everything about you," he said. "I know we talked a lot before we got together, but we've kept some personal stuff from each other. If this is going to work between us..." He chewed on his bottom lip, staring at Othello, not sure if he should continue or if he was asking too much.
"What do you want to know?" Othello asked.
"Where were you born?"
"Here in Verona Heights. My real parents died when I was young."
"Wait, I thought..." He stopped speaking, brow furrowed, showing his confusion.
