23. Omar
Chapter twenty-three
Omar
By the time we both finished our shifts, showered and changed out of our scrubs, and made our way out the doors of Piedmont, I was dead on my feet. Someone had dosed the Atlanta water system with a magic potion that caused half the women in the city to give birth—all on the same day—and the NICU was a complete and utter madhouse. Thankfully, most of the births were uncomplicated, and the babies who entered the world were mostly healthy.
But there were always exceptions.
That meant Level One was inundated with new patients. My little corner of the medical world, designed to house six babies but usually only accommodating two or three, was maxed out. The rooms to my left and right were equally packed with squalling bundles of newborn joy.
I’d never begged for so many burps or changed as many diapers as I did that day.
By the time I peeled off my scrubs, they were coated in dried-on baby gunk, most of which was spit-up that made it past carefully placed blankets and towels. There was no avoiding a baby intent on projectile vomiting into another universe.
Matty looked as wrung out as I felt.
“Can we just order pizza or Chinese? You don’t look like you’re in any shape to cook, and, well, we both know what happens if I step into the kitchen.”
“Small children in third-world countries die of starvation?” I quipped.
He laughed and bumped me with his shoulder, nearly knocking me into an ambulance as we strode into the parking lot.
Matty didn’t ask if we were having dinner together. We both assumed as much. The only real questions were around whose apartment would play host and what was on the menu. In the blink of an eye, we had advanced beyond the casual dating stage and accepted our place in the world as a matched pair. Sure, we were still learning each other, figuring out how to communicate, what our favorite things were, what we disliked. We had a very long road ahead, and neither of us wanted to jump the gun and label whatever we were as anything in particular.
However, in my heart, I already knew Matty was more than a boyfriend. He was my best friend. He was the guy I wanted to call when anything happened. I needed to know what he thought, how he felt. I needed to hear his support and concern and every other emotion that might flow out of his highly combustible multiple personalities.
That was not a clinical diagnosis.
He didn’t need a psych referral.
Matty was just . . . complicated.
And I think I loved him for it. At least, I liked him a lot. Like seriously. A lot.
Mucho like-o.
That made me giggle.
“Something funny?” he asked, brushing my shoulder with his again. I loved it when he did that, when his body pressed against mine, and I felt his warmth. Just knowing he wanted to touch me sent a thrill through me in ways I’d never imagined possible.
Matty made me smile.
He made me happy.
Moreso, he made me feel confident, like I could take on the world if only he stood by my side. I’d never felt that before. Hell, I’d hidden inside my comfortable shell for so long that it still felt like my eyes were adjusting to the bright new world I saw before me.
That confidence first appeared the night I stripped him down and tried to drain his life force through his penis. I’d never been shy about sex. That was an American phenomenon. I had, however, been reserved about giving my naked goodness to just any man who happened to breathe or waggle his pee-pee in my direction.
I was selective with my pee-pee pleasing.
What shocked Matty—and surprised me, again, if I was being honest—was just how aggressively I dominated Matty and seized control. It was so out of character. I was never aggressive or assertive in other areas of my life. I’d been raised in the ultimate submissive posture, walking one step behind and to the right of my father.
Olivia had even made notations on my ninety-day evaluation that I needed to be more proactive and use my voice. Little did she know, I would take her advice to heart when I got home and Matty stood before me.
God, it was a thrill. Matty’s eyes popped wide, and his boner popped, well, longer? It throbbed and raged against his underwear until I removed that useless garment and chucked it across the room to rest on the floor where it belonged. If Matty never wore undies again, I would be pleased.
We were midway through the Matthew suck-off when I realized just how much I’d bossed him around. By then, neither of us cared or were in any frame of mind to examine the efficacy of me going “full Egyptian” on him. That was what he called it afterward. It was the perfect explanation.
We walked in the door to Matty’s place around seven thirty. The sun was setting in heavily clouded skies. Thunder rolled in the distance.
“Pizza or Chinese?” Matty asked.
“Let’s do Chinese. I’m craving hot and sour soup, and you love those crab Rangoon.”
He turned and paused, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“You know what I like in my Chinese order?”
I shrugged. “So?”
He tossed his backpack on the couch and closed the gap between us, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I love that you know I like crab Rangoon. That might be the sexiest thing anyone’s said to me in, well, ever.”
“I’ll recite the menu if it gets you hard.”
He snorted and buried his face in my neck, then mumbled, “You’re impossible.”
I kissed his head. “But you love me.”
Oh, shit.
Did I say that out loud? Was that my inside voice, the one in my head that told me I was out of milk or needed to pee? Or was that my actual voice where the rest of the world could hear my random thoughts? Fuck my life. Had I just told Matty he loved me?
His head lifted from my neck, and our eyes met. The grin was gone from his lips. His gaze was more intense than at any time since we’d met. I was sure he was about to kick me out and tell me to get my own damn Chinese food, that he had no room in his life for a clingy man who threw terms around—
“I do love you, Omar. I know it’s too soon to say it or whatever, and I’m probably going to the seventh circle of gay hell—or becoming a lesbian; they’re the same thing decorated in the same knickknack—but I love seeing you when I wake up. I love knowing you’ll be there when I get off work. I love planning dinner and going bowling and talking and texting. Hell, Omar, I love everything about you.”
He sucked in a breath, giving us both a second to think, then added in a tiny voice, “Please don’t run.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “And here I thought I was the one coming on too strong.”
He blinked . . . and waited.
Crap. He told me he loved me, and all I did was make a joke. Now he was waiting for what? For me to say it back? Holy hells. Was I ready to say it back? Did I love him? Or was this a serious infatuation with my best friend whom I couldn’t stand to be away from and for whom I craved every moment of every day . . . and night. Very much nights.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I did love him.
“I . . . Matty . . .”
“You don’t have to say it back. It’s okay if you’re not ready or your don’t—”
“Shut up and kiss me,” I said, gripping his head (and probably squeezing a little too hard thanks to nerves that were now in overdrive). “I love you, you moron. I fucking love you.”
A passionate kiss grew into a tangle of arms and legs, grasping fingers and groping palms. I couldn’t get close enough, kiss Matty hard enough, feel his tongue inside me or taste him or smell him or . . . gah . . . I couldn’t get enough of him. There could never be enough.
I needed this man like I needed air to breathe.
“I want to be yours, Omar,” Matty said, his voice breathy. “I don’t want to date anybody else but you.” He kissed me again, then jerked back, panic in his eyes. “I haven’t, really, and I wouldn’t . . . I mean I don’t want to . . .” Another deep kiss. “And I want us to be real, like officially real, like a couple.” The kisses grew hungrier, like he was trying to consume me, starting with my lips. “I want to be your boyfriend for real.”
I held him back and stared into his eyes again. My heart pounded in my ears. I knew I was breathing heavily, but air refused to flow into my lungs. Then my cock throbbed, and all the desire I ever felt for Matty threatened to overwhelm my senses.
I had to say this now, before all sense left me.
“You are my boyfriend, Matty. I love you, only you, and I don’t want to share you with anyone. You hear me? You’re mine.”
His lips turned upward again, and his eyes did that sparkly dancing thing they did when he was happy—or up to something.
“I love it when you get bossy. You’re so hot when you take charge.”
On cue, my hands dropped from his head, gripped his wrists, and held them behind his back.
“In that case, boyfriend, I plan to make good on all those promises I made to Sierra today. If you’re—”
His eyes bugged. “Yes, please. God, yes. Whatever you want. Use me. Throw me against the wall. Make me feel you tomorrow morning.”
I grinned. “No take backs.”
His grin widened. “Never.”
“Fuck Chinese. I want Matty as an appetizer. Take your clothes off. Now.”
My boy was obedient—and quick. Damn. I’d barely unbuttoned my shirt before he was naked, even his shoes abandoned in the far corner of the den. His cock flopped against his stomach, erect and already dripping with anticipation. That made my own hard-on pulse.
“Rules? Boundaries? Anything I need to know?” I asked.
He cocked his head. Naked, it might’ve been the cutest thing I’d ever seen.
“You’re in charge. Your rules. My only boundary is pain. Not a fan. And I’m negative and on PrEP.”
I wasn’t asking that, but I appreciated his transparency.
“First”—I held up my index finger—“I will never hurt you. Period. If I do, you should tell me right away so I can fix it.”
He nodded, clearly wishing I would shut up and move on to the extracurriculars.
“Second”—I added a finger—“I’m negative, too. No PrEP, but tested every three months.”
He reached up and helped pull my shirt over my shoulders.
“Third”—a last finger rose—“I love playing the in-charge guy, especially with sex, but I want you to be happy and enjoy whatever we do. I don’t always have to be one thing or another, okay?”
His brows knitted. “Are you saying you’re vers?”
There he was with his bluntness again.
“That wasn’t what I meant, but the answer to that is yes. I’m mostly top, but for the right guy, I always told myself I would bottom.”
His eyes widened again. “You’ve never—?”
I shook my head. “Nope. The right guy hadn’t come along . . . yet.”
He thought a moment, then started unbuttoning my jeans. “Enough talk. More of the sexing. Be the ball . . . the boss . . . the man . . . fucking take me, Omar.”
I laughed and pulled his face into mine. “You don’t have to tell me twice!”