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.

The air in the coffee shop was thick with the scent of roasted beans and steamed milk, a comforting aroma that usually grounded her. But for the past three days, nothing had felt grounding. Paloma had been floating in a state of agitated limbo since that night in his office. Every time her phone buzzed, her stomach lurched with the hope it was him. Every quiet moment was filled with the memory of his eyes on her, the low timbre of his voice as he spoke about her childhood, the raw hunger that had crackled in the air between them on the floor. She had replayed that evening a hundred times, the heat between her thighs a constant, throbbing reminder of how close they had come to something irreversible.

She paid for her iced latte, her hand trembling slightly, and turned from the counter. And then she saw him.

It was like the universe had snapped into focus. Omar was standing near the door, shrugging off a light jacket. He hadn’t seen her yet. He wore a simple grey t-shirt that hugged the solid lines of his chest and shoulders, and dark jeans that fit him in a way that made her breath catch. He looked utterly, devastatingly real. Not a fantasy, not a memory, but a man of flesh and blood, right there. It felt fated, like she’d somehow willed him into existence just by thinking about him so relentlessly.

Then he lifted his head, and his eyes scanned the room, landing on her. The casual search stopped. His gaze locked with hers, and a jolt went through her, sharp and electric. There was no surprise in his expression, only a dark, quiet recognition, as if he’d been looking for her, too.

He started toward her, his long strides eating up the space between them. The background noise of the café—the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of conversations—faded to a dull hum. There was only the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears and the steady, deliberate sound of his footsteps on the worn wooden floor.

“Paloma,” he said. Her name from his lips was a physical thing, a touch.

“Hi,” she breathed, her fingers tightening around the cold plastic of her cup.

“Fancy seeing you here.” His voice was low, for her ears only, even in the crowded room. A small smile played on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were serious, intense, searching her face for something.

“You too.” The words were inadequate. The air between them was humming with everything left unsaid from that night. The question of what she wanted. The raw desire that had hung between them, thick and palpable.

He stood so close she could feel the heat coming off his body. She could smell him—the clean, masculine scent of his skin mingling with the coffee-shop air. The ache inside her, which had been a low simmer for days, flared into a sharp, demanding pang. Her underwear, she knew, would already be damp. Just the sight of him, the proximity of him, was enough to make her body betray its need.

“I was just about to head out,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “Go for a walk. The park is just a couple of blocks from here. It’s nice this time of day.” He paused, and the invitation hung in the air, simple and yet monumental. “Want to join me?”

It wasn’t a casual question. It was a continuation of their conversation on the floor of his office. It was a deliberate step into more dangerous territory. A walk in the park. Secluded paths, dappled sunlight, privacy. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. This was it. This was the point of no return. The thought was terrifying. And exhilarating.

She looked up into his dark, waiting eyes. She saw the same question there he’d asked her before. What do you really want, Paloma?

Her answer was a single, shaky nod. “Okay,” she whispered. “Yes.”

The walk to the park was a blur of charged silence. Paloma was intensely aware of every detail: the way Omar’s arm occasionally brushed hers, sending a shockwave through her entire body; the solid presence of him beside her, a warm, living wall of muscle and heat. He didn’t try to make small talk, and for that, she was grateful. The air was already too thick with things that couldn’t be said on a public sidewalk.

They entered the park through an iron gate, and the city sounds began to recede, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of birds. He led her away from the main, paved loop, taking a smaller dirt path that wound deeper into a grove of old oak trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in shifting patterns of light and shadow. It felt like they were stepping into another world, one that was quieter, older, and infinitely more private.

He stopped beneath the sprawling branches of a particularly large tree, its trunk thick and gnarled with age. He turned to face her, and the casual facade he’d worn in the coffee shop was gone. His expression was raw, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made her stomach clench.

“I can’t do this, Paloma,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Her heart dropped. She thought he meant the walk, thought he was about to apologize and send her away. The disappointment was a sharp, physical blow.

“I can’t pretend,” he continued, taking a small step closer, erasing what little distance was left between them. “I can’t pretend this is just a friendly walk. I can’t pretend that running into you at that coffee shop felt like anything other than fate. I’ve been trying to keep my distance since the other night, but it’s useless.”

Paloma’s breath hitched. She could only stare at him, her own iced latte completely forgotten in her hand.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I got back,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. “And it’s not… it’s not the way I should be thinking about my little sister’s best friend. I know that. I know there’s years between us. I know your family, I know Sofia… fuck, I know this is complicated.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure frustration. The movement pulled his t-shirt tight across his abdomen, and she could see the hard lines of his stomach. A fresh wave of heat pooled between her legs, the slickness spreading, soaking through the thin cotton of her underwear. Her entire body was one raw nerve ending, acutely sensitive to his proximity, his scent, the deep vibration of his voice.

“But then I see you,” he went on, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a guttural murmur that vibrated straight through her. “I see you sitting on my floor, and I look at you in that coffee shop, and I’m standing here with you now… and none of the reasons matter. The logic just disappears. All I can think about is how much I want to touch you.” His eyes were dark, almost black with need. “The attraction… it’s not something I can ignore anymore. It’s undeniable.”

His words shattered the last fragile barrier of her control. The confession, so raw and mirroring the chaos inside her own head, was all the permission she needed. The iced latte slipped from her numb fingers, thudding softly onto the dirt path, its contents spilling unnoticed. In the same motion, she closed the final foot of space between them, her hands coming up to fist in the front of his grey t-shirt.

He met her instantly. His mouth came down on hers not with gentleness, but with a desperate, crushing force that stole the air from her lungs. It was a kiss of starvation, a collision of years of pent-up longing and days of unbearable tension. His lips were firm, demanding, and she opened for him without a second of hesitation.

His tongue swept into her mouth, hot and wet and tasting faintly of coffee and pure, undiluted Omar. She moaned into his mouth, a broken sound of surrender and need. Her own tongue met his, a frantic dance that was less of a caress and more of a battle for dominance. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated from his chest into hers.

His arms wrapped around her, one hand sliding up to bury itself in her hair, gripping the back of her head to angle her mouth more perfectly to his. The other hand clamped around her waist, yanking her flush against him as he backed her up until her shoulders hit the rough, solid bark of the oak tree. The texture scraped lightly through her shirt, a grounding sensation against the dizzying assault of his kiss.

His body was a wall of heat and hard muscle pressed against her front. Through the thin fabric of their jeans, she felt it—the unmistakable, thick ridge of his erection, hard and insistent against her lower belly. The contact sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to her core. A wet heat flooded the space between her legs, a slick and immediate response to the feel of him, hard for her.

She ground her hips forward instinctively, a silent plea. He answered with a low growl, his hips rocking against hers in a slow, torturous rhythm. The friction was maddening. Every press of his cock against her sent another wave of pleasure through her, making the ache inside her throb with an almost painful intensity.

His hand left her hair, sliding down the curve of her spine to cup her ass, his fingers digging into the flesh through her jeans. He squeezed, lifting her slightly, fitting her more tightly against his groin. She could feel the full, impressive length of him now, a solid bar of heat pressing right against the place that ached for him. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing in ragged, desperate gasps. His lips trailed fire along her jaw, down her neck, finding the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“Fuck, Paloma,” he breathed, his voice thick and strained. His mouth closed over the pulse point in her neck, sucking lightly, and she cried out, her back arching against the tree. His hips kept moving, a steady, deliberate grind that was driving her insane. It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough. It was a promise of everything she had ever wanted.