My Best Friend's Older Brother Came Home, And I Couldn't Keep My Hands Off Him

The air in the garage was thick with the smell of dust and decaying cardboard. Paloma coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as Sofia dropped another heavy box onto the growing "keep" pile, sending a fresh cloud into the stale, sun-baked air.

"I can't believe my parents are making us do this," Sofia groaned, wiping a smear of grime across her forehead with the back of her hand. "It's like an archaeological dig of nineties junk."

Paloma just smiled, pulling a dusty yearbook from a teetering stack. "At least we found your sixth-grade diary. 'Dear Diary, I think Jason P. is the cutest boy in school. His butt is sooooo cute in his soccer shorts.'"

Sofia snatched the book, her cheeks flushing. "Shut up. That's private!"

They fell into a comfortable rhythm of bickering and sorting, the heat of the afternoon pressing in on them. Paloma was just about to suggest a water break when the low rumble of a car engine cut through the quiet street, growing louder until it stopped in the driveway just outside the open garage door. A car door slammed shut.

"Is your mom home early?" Paloma asked, squinting into the bright sunlight.

Sofia shook her head. "No, she took my dad's car."

A shadow fell across the concrete, and a man stepped into the frame of the garage opening. He was tall, dressed in a simple black t-shirt that stretched across a chest and shoulders that were broader than Paloma remembered. Much broader. His jeans were worn, hugging his hips and thighs, and a dark scruff covered his jaw. He dropped a duffel bag on the ground and ran a hand through his dark, messy hair.

It was Omar.

Paloma’s breath snagged in her throat. Her entire body went still. This wasn't the lanky, charming boy who had left for an engineering project overseas two years ago. This was a man. The lines of his face were sharper, his presence was heavier, more solid. He looked tired from travel, but it settled on him in a way that was devastatingly attractive, making him look rugged and real. A hot, liquid coil tightened low in her belly. Fuck.

"Omar?" Sofia’s voice was a disbelieving squeak. In a flash, she was scrambling over boxes, launching herself at him. He laughed, a deep, rich sound that vibrated through Paloma’s bones, and caught his sister in a tight hug, lifting her off the ground.

"Surprise," he said, his voice a low rumble against Sofia’s hair.

Paloma stood frozen by a stack of old magazines, her hands suddenly feeling clammy and useless. She felt ridiculously young, covered in dust, her hair a mess, while he stood there looking like he’d just walked off a movie set.

After a moment, Omar set Sofia down, his gaze lifting over her shoulder. His eyes, a dark, warm brown, found Paloma’s. They held a flicker of surprise, then something else. A slow, lazy smile spread across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was a knowing smile, an adult smile, and it was aimed directly at her.

"Paloma," he said, and her name on his tongue was a physical touch, a spark that shot straight down her spine. "Still helping this one get into trouble, I see."

Hours later, Paloma found herself wedged between Sofia and Omar at the crowded dinner table. The dining room buzzed with the happy chatter of his family, everyone talking over each other to welcome him home. For Paloma, the noise faded into a dull roar. All her senses were zeroed in on the man beside her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his arm, a solid, living warmth that made the skin on her own arm tingle. His clean, masculine scent—something like sandalwood and soap—cut through the aroma of the roast chicken, invading her space and making it hard to concentrate on her food.

She’d managed a few stilted words, a "Welcome home," and "How was your flight?" each one sounding pathetic and childish to her own ears. He’d answered easily, his deep voice vibrating not just in the air but seemingly right through the chair and into her bones. Now, she just pushed a piece of potato around her plate, her throat tight with a mixture of terror and a desperate, aching want. She was acutely aware of the way his thigh pressed against hers under the table, a firm line of muscle and denim that sent jolts of electricity straight to her core. She imagined sliding her hand onto his leg, right there, with his parents just across the table. The thought made her cunt clench.

She risked a glance at him. He was laughing at something his dad said, his head tilted back slightly. The column of his throat was strong, a light stubble dusting his skin. She watched the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed a sip of wine and felt a wave of heat wash over her. Fuck, he was beautiful. So completely, unfairly beautiful.

Just as she looked away, mortified she might be caught staring, he turned his head, his full attention suddenly on her. The noisy family dinner seemed to recede, creating a pocket of silence just for them.

"So," he began, his voice low and for her alone. "Are you still into photography?"

Paloma blinked, the question catching her completely off guard. "What?"

A small smile played on his lips. "Photography. I remember right before I left, you were working all those extra shifts at the diner to save up for some fancy new lens."

Her heart didn't just race; it fucking slammed against her ribs. He remembered that. It had been a brief, throwaway conversation over two years ago, one she was sure he’d forgotten the second he walked away. But he hadn't. He remembered what she wanted, what she was working for. It was a simple thing, but it felt monumental. It felt like he’d actually seen her, not as Sofia’s tag-along friend, but as a person with her own ambitions.

"I—yes," she finally managed, a genuine smile breaking through her nervousness. "I got it. A 50mm prime. It’s amazing for portraits." The words started to flow more easily now, her passion overriding her shyness. "The bokeh is incredible, and it's so sharp, even wide open at f/1.8."

He listened, his dark eyes fixed on her, not a flicker of boredom in them. He nodded, leaning in a little closer. "You'll have to show me some of your work sometime." His knee pressed more firmly against hers, an intentional, deliberate pressure that made her breath catch. "I'd like to see it."

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter and stories. Paloma stayed quiet, nursing her wine, every nerve ending still singing from Omar’s attention. The press of his leg against hers was a constant, branding heat. When his mother finally started collecting plates, Paloma jumped up to help, needing a distraction before she did something stupid, like lean over and lick the wine from his lips.

She carried a stack of dirty dishes into the kitchen and found him there, standing by the sink, his back to her. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his t-shirt, revealing strong, corded forearms dusted with dark hair. He was rinsing a glass, the muscles in his back shifting under the thin cotton. Her mouth went dry. She wanted to walk up behind him, press her front against his back, and feel the solid wall of him.

He must have heard her, because he turned, placing the glass in the dishwasher. "Trying to earn brownie points with my mom?" he asked, his lips twitching into that same slow smile that made her insides melt.

"Someone has to help," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She set the plates down on the counter next to him, the space suddenly feeling very small.

He leaned a hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his shirt tight, emphasizing the hard planes of his pectorals. "You were quiet at dinner. Except when we talked about your camera." He watched her, his gaze direct and unnervingly perceptive. "You're still shy, aren't you?"

The accusation, gentle as it was, felt like an undressing. He saw right through her. A hot blush crept up her neck. "I'm not shy," she lied, her voice barely a whisper.

"No?" He took a step closer, his scent—sandalwood and man—filling her head. "My mistake." His voice was a low murmur, thick with amusement and something else, something deeper. "Maybe you're just plotting how to take over the world with your photography."

She couldn't help but smile, a real one this time. "Something like that."

His eyes held hers for a long moment before dropping to her mouth. She saw the subtle shift, the slight parting of his own lips. Every cell in her body screamed at her to close the distance. She wanted to know if his mouth was as soft as it looked, if he tasted like the red wine he'd been drinking. She could feel a damp heat pooling between her legs, a slick, needy wetness that made her want to press her thighs together.

To break the spell, she turned away, reaching for the last dirty plate left on the counter. At the exact same moment, so did he. His large, warm hand covered hers completely, his fingers brushing against her palm, the rough pad of his thumb sweeping over her knuckles.

A jolt, sharp and violent, shot up her arm. It wasn't an accident. The pressure of his hand was too firm, the contact lasting a fraction of a second too long. Everything stopped. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant chatter from the living room, even her own breathing. There was only the heat of his skin on hers, the sudden, suffocating thickness of the air between them. She lifted her eyes to his. The teasing light was gone, replaced by a raw, undisguised hunger that mirrored her own. His gaze was dark, intense, and it stripped her bare right there in his parents’ kitchen. He didn't move his hand. He just watched her, his jaw tight, waiting.