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.

“You owe me,” Sofia declared two days later, shoving her phone into Paloma’s hands. On the screen was a text from Omar: Need help with this office disaster. Know anyone who’s good at organizing chaos?

“Absolutely not,” Paloma said immediately, her stomach twisting into a knot. She hadn't been able to stop replaying the moment in the kitchen. The heat of his hand, the raw look in his eyes. She’d pulled her hand back as if burned, mumbled a goodnight, and practically fled the house, her entire body thrumming with a dangerous energy. She had spent the last forty-eight hours in a state of heightened arousal, every thought circling back to him. Being alone with him in a room full of boxes felt like a trap.

“Oh, come on,” Sofia wheedled. “He’s hopeless. You know how he is. It’ll just be for the afternoon. Please?”

And because she was a weak, weak woman, Paloma found herself an hour later standing in the doorway of Omar’s old bedroom, which was now a graveyard of cardboard boxes and unassembled flat-pack furniture. Omar was there, wearing a faded black t-shirt and worn jeans that hugged his thighs. He looked up when she arrived, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that slow, private smile that did terrible things to her insides.

“My savior arrives,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

They worked for the first hour in a surprisingly comfortable silence. The only sounds were the scrape of boxes on the floor, the rip of packing tape, and their soft breathing. The small room was thick with his presence. Paloma was hyper-aware of him, of the way his shirt stretched across his broad back when he lifted a heavy box, the flex of his biceps, the faint scent of his skin that filled the enclosed space. She focused on her task, unpacking books and stacking them neatly on the floor, the repetitive motion a flimsy defense against the pull he had on her. A slow, heavy pulse had started between her legs, a familiar ache that intensified every time he moved into her line of sight.

He was the one who broke the silence. He grunted as he opened a particularly stubborn box, pulling out a stack of vinyl records. He flipped through them, then paused, pulling one out.

“The Smiths?” He looked over at her, an eyebrow raised in genuine surprise. “These aren't mine.” He read the small, neat handwriting on a post-it note stuck to the sleeve. For Omar. Thought you might like this. It was signed with a simple P.

Paloma felt a flush of heat crawl up her neck. She’d given them to Sofia to pass along to him for his birthday years ago, a quiet offering she never expected him to acknowledge, let alone keep.

“You kept it,” she said, her voice quiet.

“Of course I did.” He set it down carefully. “It’s a great album.” He moved to another box, this one filled with old DVDs. “So, you’re a secret mope-rock fan. What else are you hiding?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She gestured to a worn copy of Blade Runner he’d just unearthed. “Didn’t take you for a sci-fi nerd.”

He laughed, a full, deep sound that made her stomach flutter. “Only the classics. The ones with atmosphere. You can’t beat the noir feel of that film, the rain, the score.”

“Vangelis,” she supplied automatically. “It’s a masterpiece.”

His eyes lit up. “Exactly.” From there, the silence was broken for good. They fell into an easy rhythm, unpacking and talking, the conversation flowing from music to movies. They discovered a shared love for French New Wave films, for the dark post-punk of Joy Division, for old, grainy black-and-white photographs. It was an unexpected alignment of tastes, a secret language they both seemed to speak. The tension that had been purely physical began to change, twisting into something with more substance. He wasn’t just a beautiful body anymore; he was a person whose mind she found herself desperately wanting to know.

He moved on to a dusty box labeled ‘Misc Junk’ in his father’s handwriting. He pried open the flaps and started sifting through the contents—old report cards, tangled cords for forgotten electronics, a single sneaker. Then he stopped, his hands going still. He pulled out a small, square photograph, its colors faded with age. A quiet smile touched his lips.

“God, look at you,” he said, his voice soft. He turned the photo so she could see.

It was her and Sofia, probably around ten years old, sitting on the front steps of this very house. They both had goofy, gap-toothed grins and scraped knees. Paloma felt a familiar pang of embarrassment at the sight of her younger self, all bony limbs and awkwardness. But Omar wasn't laughing. He was looking at the small image of her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“I remember this day,” he said, his gaze still on the photo. “It was my dad’s fortieth birthday party. The backyard was full of people, everyone was loud, drinking beer.” He finally lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You disappeared for almost an hour. Sofia came crying to my mom because she couldn’t find you. Everyone thought you’d wandered off.”

Paloma remembered. She’d been overwhelmed by the noise and the sheer number of adults.

“I found you,” Omar continued, his voice dropping lower, becoming more intimate. “You were in the back of my dad’s station wagon, in the cargo space. You’d lined up all your little animal figurines on the wheel well and you were reading to them from a book. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”

The specific detail sent a shock through her. He remembered the book.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “I just watched for a minute. You were so focused. You looked… peaceful. So I closed the door quietly and went and told Sofia you were playing a hiding game and she’d find you later.”

The story settled in the space between them, heavy and profound. He hadn’t just seen her as a child; he’d seen into her. He’d understood her need to escape and, in his own way, had protected it. It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever said to her. The slow, deep throb between her legs intensified into a demanding pulse. A fresh wave of slick heat bloomed from her core, soaking the cotton of her underwear. She felt the wetness against her inner lips, a direct, physical response to his words. Her nipples were hard points pressing against the fabric of her bra. He wasn't just Sofia's brother anymore. He was the boy who had seen her secret world and kept it safe. He was the man who was looking at her now as if that secret world was something he wanted to enter.

He set the photograph down carefully on the corner of the newly assembled desk, handling it like a relic. The air in the room changed, growing thick with unspoken history and present-day desire. The banter about movies and music felt like a lifetime ago. This was something else entirely. This was real.

The spell broke when Omar cleared his throat, pushing away from the desk. “Well,” he said, his voice a little rough. “The books aren’t going to unpack themselves.”

The work resumed, but the atmosphere was completely different. The easy silence from before was gone, replaced by a charged awareness that hummed in the small room. Every time he brushed past her to place a stack of books on the shelf, her skin ignited. She could feel his body heat from a foot away. When he knelt to plug in a lamp, the denim of his jeans pulled tight across his thighs, and she had to force her gaze away, her own breath catching in her throat. The wetness between her legs was a constant, insistent presence, a slick and heavy warmth that seemed to seep deeper with every minute they spent together.

When the last box was broken down and the room finally resembled an office, Omar leaned against the new desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His t-shirt tightened, outlining the hard shape of his pecs. “I’m starving. Let me order us some dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He wasn't letting her leave yet. Paloma’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, heavy beat. “Okay,” she managed to say, her voice barely a whisper.

He ordered Thai from a place down the street, and they ate sitting cross-legged on the floor, the cardboard cartons spread between them on the new rug. The space felt even smaller now, more intimate. Their knees brushed, a casual contact that sent a jolt straight to her core. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with the spicy aroma of the panang curry.

He ate with an unselfconscious focus, his fork moving from the carton to his mouth. She watched the muscles in his jaw work as he chewed, watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He looked up and caught her staring. He didn’t smile, just held her gaze as he took another bite.

“So,” he said, setting his fork down. “You never told me what happened after Narnia. Did you become a famous writer for small animals?”

She laughed, the sound shaky. “I switched to photography. Less pressure to create dialogue.”

“I’ve seen some of your stuff online,” he said, his voice serious now. “Sofia showed me. It’s good. Really good. You have a great eye.”

“Thanks.” Her face felt hot.

“What do you want to do with it?” he asked, his dark eyes intense. “What do you really want, Paloma?”

The question was too big, too direct. What did she want? In that moment, the answer was painfully, shamefully simple. She wanted him. She wanted him to push the food aside and crawl across the small space between them. She wanted him to push her back onto the rug and slide his hand up her thigh, to feel the wet heat he’d unknowingly coaxed out of her. The ache inside her was no longer a dull pulse; it was a sharp, demanding need. She imagined the weight of his body on hers, the rough texture of his jeans against her bare legs. She wanted to feel his cock, thick and hard, pressing against her belly through their clothes.

She parted her lips to answer, to say something, anything, about her career aspirations, but no sound came out. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth. He followed her look, his own expression darkening. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken invitations. The remnants of their dinner were forgotten. There was only the few feet of floor separating them, the sound of their breathing, and the raw, undeniable hunger that was finally, terrifyingly, out in the open.