17. Omar
Chapter seventeen
Omar
Matty was laid up on my couch when I got home. A glass of almost untouched wine sat on the side table nearby. His eyes were closed, and his breathing showed the steady, slow rhythm of a man asleep. I expected he might freshen up, but his hair was as limp as wilted lettuce. He’d probably filled his glass and passed out the moment his legs stretched across the couch.
Poor thing had a rough day, which made the idea of taking care of him that much more appealing. The last guy I dated—a banker who lived in Sandy Springs—was ten years older than me and wanted to be the Daddy in his relationship, literally, as in putting a collar on me and everything.
Now, let me be clear, I have nothing against those who like to role-play or live a role or whatever one calls such an arrangement, but that isn’t me. The whole dom/sub culture remained one of the great unexplained mysteries of life, at least in my book. And the idea of calling someone “Daddy” made me giggle far too much to take the arrangement seriously.
But to take care of someone else? To minister to their needs and make them feel safe and wanted, even desired? That sounded like perfection in a bottle, and Matty needed a little TLC.
Insert Omar Gamal, RN and caretaker to the stars, reporting for duty, sir!
I smiled, as I tossed off my shoes, padded past him, and stepped into the kitchen.
An hour later, the sensual scents of cumin, crispy caramelized onion, and ground coriander filled my apartment. Tomato sauce bubbled in a pot, while rice and lentils simmered in a sauce pan. Another larger pot gurgled with boiling pasta water, perfectly seasoned to an ocean-like salinity.
“What in the name of Martha Stewart are you cooking? My stomach growls every time I take a whiff.” A bleary-eyed Matty strolled into the kitchen on sneaky socked feet and kissed the back of my neck. His stubble tickled just enough to make me crane my neck. He was usually shaven and smooth. He must’ve had a rough day to let his beard begin to poke free.
“It is called koshari . Think of it as the Egyptian national dish. At least, that is how street vendors speak. It is a bit like the French ratatouille, but Egyptian style.”
Matty’s chin rested on my shoulder as he took in all the pots and pans.
“This doesn’t look anything like ratatouille I’ve eaten.”
I nuzzled him with the side of my head and stirred the tomato sauce.
“It is Egyptian comfort food, and it’s relatively healthy. I think you will love it.”
Matty’s hands snaked between the stove and my beltline as he pulled me against him. The feel of his warmth, his touch, his body pressed against mine, gave me more comfort than I could remember feeling in far too long—and his stiffening erection nudging my backside caused an entirely different sensation to tickle my skin.
“Would you mind setting the table?” I asked, desperate to get him away before I popped a stiffy of my own.
“Want some wine?” Matty asked before nipping my ear and stepping away. The loss of his heat was immediate—and very unpleasant.
“Matthew Vance, that may be the silliest question you have ever asked me.”
His smile thrilled me.
“That’s me, Silly Matty, the wine god, filling glasses for the pleasure of wanton men.”
I snorted. “I am not wanton. Besides, how many men’s glasses are you filling these days?”
He cocked his head, as if thinking or counting, then closed the gap between us and kissed my lips. “Only one.”
I released the spoon and cupped his face with both hands, kissing him. “Only one.”
He stepped back and screwed up his face. “I need to pour the damn wine before all this sweetness invades my bitter shell. This is a saccharine overload waiting to happen!”
Most of dinner was eaten in silence, save the sounds of spoons clanking against bowls and wine refilling stemmed glasses. I think we were both too tired and hungry to resort to something as pedantic as conversation. We didn’t need words in those moments. Our presence, together, was enough.
That was a startling realization.
We didn’t need words. We’d grown to a place where being together was more important than talk or banter. It offered a shelter in life’s storm, a bit of peace in a sea of foam and froth.
Matty offered me that. In mere weeks, he’d become more than just a friend, more than even a boy I wanted to date. Matty consumed my dreams. He invaded my waking thoughts. A glimpse of blond hair made me whirl about, hoping to see his smile headed in my direction. This ridiculous, incredible, beautiful man had become . . . What had he become to me?
Something more?
More than what, I had no clue. Certainly more than a coworker or friend. More than a date, even? What came after that? I’d never experienced whatever came next. I wasn’t even sure how to name it, but I knew, in my heart, I wanted to with Matty.
How had I not seen it before?
“What’s going on in that noggin of yours?” he asked, swirling wine in his glass before downing the last of it and sitting back.
I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and tossed it onto my now-empty plate.
“Why don’t we leave all this?” I motioned across the table. “I can clean up later. Let’s settle into the couch and watch our show.”
Our show.
Even words as simple as those carried the weight of expectations, the weight of togetherness. They were stunning and brilliant . . . and I reveled in speaking them aloud.
Matty sat on the couch in his usual spot on the end, sitting upright and setting his wine back on the side table. I bent down, leaning over him, and set my glass beside his, then grabbed his arms.
“Whacha doin’?” he asked.
Without answering, I laid on my back on the couch and pulled him so he stretched out on top of me, his chest to mine. We snuggled every time we were together, but Matty had respected my desire to wait to become intimate. In fact, he hadn’t even brought it up since our first date. Of all the things that impressed me about the guy, that topped the list. How many other gay men would wait for sex? How many would respect boundaries and not even press for what all men—especially those of us in our twenties—wanted?
Every moment we were together, Matty proved himself to be even more special and unique than I’d originally believed.
And I was falling for him.
“I think,” I said, brushing his hair back and trying to breathe with his full weight on me. “I am crazy about you, Matthew.”
God, his smile shone at a whole new level.
He made to speak, but I covered his mouth with my fingers.
“I need to say this. Just . . . let me get it out.”
“Okay,” he said, tentatively.
“Matty, you are the kindest, funniest, smartest, most caring man I know. I see it in how you treat your patients, but it is also clear in how you love your friends.”
“Well, they are—”
“Jujj.” I covered his mouth again. “Still doing the ‘get it out’ thing over here.”
His eyes sparkled, but he clamped his lips closed.
“I like you, Matty. I mean, I really like you. A lot. More than a lot. Like seriously. Oh, bollocks.” I pressed my face into the space between his shoulder and neck to hide my embarrassment. Why was it so hard to just tell someone how you felt? Did everyone throw up on their shoes when declaring their . . . What was I declaring? I hadn’t defined it before leaping off the cliff and opening my big, fat mouth.
Oh hells.
Once chastised, Matty kept his mouth shut and stared.
Well, here goes nothing . . . and everything . . .
“What I am trying to say is I think I’m falling for you.”
Matty didn’t say a word. He just lay there, crushing the life out of my lungs, staring with those sparkly eyes that looked like stars on a moonless night, all glittery and happy and . . . fuck! Why wasn’t he saying something? Anything? Even to tell me I was crazy and then run out of my apartment, never to look back? Or to tell me it was too soon, and he was scared or whatever?
What if I just bared my soul and he didn’t feel the same about me? What if he liked me just fine but didn’t want more than friendship? I didn’t think that was the case. He acted like he wanted to gobble me up every time we saw each other. Even in the hospital, the most clinical setting possible, the heat in his eyes was almost too much to take.
But he was so quiet, and his stare bore through me. Was he fucking Superman with laser beams shooting out of his eyes? Would I stand to find irreparable holes in my chest and head where he zapped me? Was that even the right term Superman would use?
Speak, man! For the love of king and country, open your ever-loving mouth!
“Can I say something now?”
Well, bugger me running. I’d told him not to talk.
“Yes, please do.”
As quick as a blink, he gripped my head in his hands and kissed me like his life depended on finding the deepest part of my soul with his tongue. I wanted every part of him, his passion, his heart, his warmth and touch. I wanted to feel him and know he wanted me in return. And, based on the tightening in my jeans, I wanted so much more.
He came up for air a moment later, and I said in a breathy voice, “I think it is time we explored each other . . . a bit more thoroughly.”