by H Q Kingsley
I blinked. “Oh...y-you mean, our kids.”
“Yeah...you know. I mean...we don’t have to have them today or anything...or even anytime soon...or...at all?”
I bit back a smile as I watched Omar ramble. It was so infrequent that he got flustered that I forgot just how attractive it was to watch.
“I was just thinking, two bedrooms just in case, but we can do whatever you want with…”
I held up a hand to stop him, figuring I’d let him talk in circles long enough. “Two bedrooms sounds good,” I finally said.
“Yeah?” Omar’s face lit up.
I nodded. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t have to use it right now….” I met his eyes. “But one day. One day, I’d like to...use a second bedroom with you.”
Omar grinned and lifted me into his arms to kiss me, and I wrapped my legs around him to keep myself there.
I cupped his face in my hands as I pulled back from his kiss just to look at him. He was so perfect.
I wasn’t like other omegas. I’d never let myself dream of a life with the perfect mate, with perfect, beautiful kids. It just wasn’t something I’d ever thought was possible for me, but now, I could see it. I could see Omar’s big arms cradling our child that had his eyes and my nose. I could see being happy with him for the rest of my life.
It was amazing what a good cleaning and some curtains could do.
Our apartment hadn’t been fancy by any means, but a week into living there, and Omar and I had turned it into something that felt like a home.
We'd scrubbed down the appliances and the walls, working up a sweat and dumping the dirty water out of the bucket we'd found for it down to the courtyard below.
It was empty, anyway, nothing growing there but brown, dry grass that was mostly dead and the remnants of flower beds that might have once been bright and full of plants.
It was a sad little building, but it had character.
I liked it, honestly. It wasn't the impersonal, overbearing lavishness of the palace that I was used to. There wasn't a grand staircase leading up to the living quarters, or a big, old library, but it was nice in its own way.
Omar kept the bed warm at night, and he'd gone out and gotten enough food to stock the refrigerator and the cupboards, and we had dinner together every night in front of the little television in our living room, forced to sit close together because of the way the couch sank in the middle.
Once things were clean and I could walk across the floor without sticking to it, I didn't have any complaints.
Well. No complaints about the apartment, at least. There were other things to complain about. Like the fact my father wouldn't stop calling me.
I was ignoring him, and every time my phone rang with his number, I muted it, sending it straight to voicemail.
My brothers never bothered leaving voicemails when they called people, but my father clearly didn't have that same issue.
He hadn’t bothered to stop me when I’d left, obviously assuming I’d change my mind, but once he realized he was wrong, he had a whole lot to say about it.
I'd considered ignoring the voicemails, too, but when they started to pile up, I listened to them, just to see what he had to say.
“How do you think this looks, Zyke?” he shouted in one of them. “A member of the royal family, a prince for fuck's sake, living outside of the palace in whatever slum that bodyguard crawled out of! What are people going to think about that?”
I could just picture him yelling into the phone, clutching it so hard it might break, that vein in his head pulsing with his anger.
I stopped listening to the voicemails after that, leaving my phone on silent and getting back to working on the apartment.
It was a good distraction. I'd never really had the opportunity or the need to clean up after myself or to know how to make curtains out of old bedsheets, but it was nice to learn.
Omar encouraged me, telling me I was doing a great job, and smiling warmly when I showed him whatever thing I'd done. Clean counters or a grease and grime-free stove. A moldless refrigerator.
He thanked me with little kisses, and I felt happier than I had in ages.
For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was caught in a cage. I didn't have the weight of my family's expectations crushing me like a ton of bricks, keeping me down. I could do whatever I wanted. I could learn things and be useful. I was with someone who didn't treat me like I was worthless.
I felt free, and it was amazing.
I laid in bed that morning, just thinking about how far I'd come and how much further I could go. Omar was still sleeping beside me, snoring softly, and I smiled, turning my head to watch him.
He always seemed softer in his sleep, his rough edges smoothed down a bit, but I loved everything about him, rough edges and all.
I especially loved how sleep made the veins in his arms soften. And when he opened his eyes, he looked at me and smiled, and I felt like I could melt inside.
“Morning,” he said, stretching with a yawn and rubbing a hand over his head.
“Good morning,” I said back, smiling. “What's on the agenda for today?”
“I got us a job, but it's not gonna be pretty.” He shrugged. “Gotta pay for this place, somehow.”
“I'm game for it,” I said. There was something so nice about working that I never had known before. Omar was good at finding odd jobs for us to do, keeping money coming in as my father's payments dried up.
I’d offered to go back to the palace purely to steal things we could sell, but Omar had a thing about taking anything he didn’t feel he’d earned somehow. He’d worked for everything his whole life and he just intended to keep doing so. It was actually kind of sexy.
There was a sense of accomplishment in doing a job.
After a week of working and earning our own money, I felt like we had a rhythm. We work, we get paid, we come home and just be together. I had never been so proud of the little life I was building for myself. I never could have done any of that when I was in the palace.
“Okay,” Omar said. “I'll go put the coffee on, then. You get dressed. Wear something you don't mind getting covered in shit.”
I went to roll out of the bed and then paused, frowning. “You don't mean actual shit, do you?” I asked.
He leaned over to kiss me, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “You never know,” he said.
Omar struggled to get up, batting aside the assorted blankets and pillows and articles of clothing that had piled up around us in the bed.
I climbed out after him, walking over to the window to look out. It wasn’t much of a view, just the dirty street below us, but it was our view.
Technically, the area we were staying in was a part of the capital, only just on the outskirts of it. It didn't have a proper name because it was supposed to be included in the capital, but the gates had gone up once the palace was sectioned off, and it was down the hill, so it wasn't considered good enough to be roped in.
The people lived either right at or below the poverty line, and they were some of the most vocal about the bad way the royal family treated them, considering they were close enough to see all the lavish parties and fancy cars and helicopters that came into the palace grounds from visiting dignitaries and other royals.
I couldn't blame them.
My father had retaliated for their vocal anger by having his men destroy their community center. According to the foreman in charge of the site, it had served as a library and a meeting place where the people sent their kids to play when they were busy with work and where those who didn't have access to the internet or television went to use computers and TVs.
And my father had made sure it was ruined, set on fire and practically blown up down to the foundation.
It had been an eyesore in the middle of the street for weeks, but the people were banding together to help clean it up and maybe think toward rebuilding.
As a result, there were plenty of jobs to be done to help out. Rubble had
to be moved and a water line had been broken, causing water to seep into the dirt, creating a pit of mud that needed to be shoveled out.
Omar and I worked on that when we showed up, wading in up to our knees and using shovels to haul big clumps of muck out of the hole.
It was gross, and the mud was cold and wet, but it was also kind of fun, too. Omar cracked jokes and taught me filthy songs that he'd learned while he was in the military. He told me stories about having to dig trenches to serve as latrines and how he would have killed for some good clean mud back then.
The time passed quickly, and even though I was dirty and tired by the time we were done, I was still in good spirits.
The more time I spent living like this, the closer I felt to Omar, and not just because we spent every waking (and sleeping for that matter) moment together, but because I was living his life. I understood his values. I understood why stealing from the palace would feel so wrong for him. I appreciated him more and more each day.
By the time we got home, we were both completely covered in muck and filth. I looked behind us at the trail of muddy footprints we'd left up the stairs, feeling bad about making a mess that someone else would have to deal with, but Omar just shrugged.
“It's nothing messier than the place already was,” Omar offered.
“Hm, I know, but…”
He snorted. “If it'll make you feel better, we can come back with the mop in the morning.”
I smiled and nodded, and we continued up and into the apartment. Usually after a long day of doing whatever odd job we could find, all I wanted to do was collapse onto the couch and be comfortable, but I was too dirty for that.
“You need a bath,” Omar said, his hand on his hip as he looked me over.
“So do you,” I replied. He was just as mucky as I was, his clothes plastered to his body, and his face streaked with mud.
“You're not wrong, but I'm going to take care of you first, okay?” he said. “Take those clothes off and meet me in the bathroom.” I turned to do what he said, going to the bedroom. His voice carried down the short hallway as he added, “Don't put those muddy clothes in your pile of stuff either!”
“I wasn't going to!”" I called back, dumping the muddy shirt and jeans in the corner. I peeled off my socks and underwear as well, since those could be salvaged a lot easier than anything else, and then went to meet Omar in the bathroom.
The tub in our apartment wasn't big, but it was big enough for me. The water was steaming as it filled the tub, and Omar had gathered a washcloth and body wash and positioned it by the tub.
His eyes landed on me, tracing over my body, and I blushed but didn't try to cover myself.
I was getting used to him looking at me while I was naked. I was less embarrassed by it now. Omar had a way of looking at me that made me feel….sexy.
“Come here,” he said, and his voice was low and husky. “Get in the water and let's get you clean.”
Once again, I did as he said, easing into the hot water and sighing with relief. I'd never spent a lot of time doing manual labor before, so my muscles were sore from shoveling and lifting things, and I was pretty sure there were going to be blisters on my hands. But the hot water felt amazing, and I closed my eyes and leaned back against the warm tiles behind me, letting the water lift the dirt from me.
When I opened my eyes a moment later, Omar was watching me with a smile on his face.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. You're just beautiful.”
I smiled without responding. He said things to me so easily, ‘you’re beautiful,’ ‘you’re brilliant,’ ‘you’re perfect.’ He said it with such confidence as though it was an absolute, indisputable fact...and I was starting to believe it.
Not a moment later, he was lathering the washcloth with the body wash, and the soothing scent of burnt honey filled the room.
He lifted my arm in his capable hand and worked the cloth over it, leaving clean skin and suds behind. He followed the path of the cloth with his fingers, just skimming them over my skin lightly, lingering where he wanted to.
As I sat there, he worked his way up my shoulder and then down to my chest, washing me with soothing circles of the cloth, and touching me everywhere.
I couldn't help the way my body was responding to him. I could feel myself getting hard, and my cheeks were pink. When I glanced up at Omar, he was intent on his task, watching as my skin went from muddy to clean, not leaving anything untouched.
His fingers stroked into my hair, and I hummed softly, tipping my head back while he washed my hair gently, careful to keep suds out of my eyes.
My breaths were coming faster as I got more and more excited, and I wiggled my toes in the water, wanting to pull Omar in on top of me and feel him against my clean skin.
He spent more time rubbing me down than was necessary to get me clean, each touch lingering for longer than it needed to, but I didn't mind. I leaned into those touches, making soft noises to let him know I was enjoying myself.
I was happy to be clean, happy to be there with him with his hands on me.
Once I was mud-free, Omar lifted me from the tub and took his time drying me off, using a clean and fluffy towel to rub me dry.
“But what about you?” I asked when he finished. “You need to get clean, too."
He shrugged his shoulders. “I'm more of a shower guy. And I don't think I'd fit in the tub anyway.”
He had a point, so I leaned over to unplug the tub, draining the dirty water and giving it a rinse before turning on the shower. There was still enough hot water left to get Omar clean.
He was watching me when I turned back to him, and I smiled, taking the towel from his hands and putting it on the counter. When his hands went to the hem of his shirt to take it off, I licked my lips. Seeing him take his clothes off was always quite the treat. He was a vision in a shirt, but when he took it off and you could see each chiseled muscle and every pumping vein running up his thick arms, it was something else.
When he went to unbutton his pants, I pushed his hands away, replacing them with my own. I wanted to undress him. He was always putting clothes on and off me, it felt like it was finally my turn.
He clasped his hands behind his head, allowing me to unbutton him.
I took my time, sliding my hands up and down his muscled stomach, all the way down to the fly of his jeans.
I was a little nervous, but I knew what I wanted, and I undid them, easing them down his legs with his underwear.
When he was completely naked in front of me, it was hard not to drool over him. He was just so gorgeous.
Everything about him was appealing, from his broad shoulders with mud streaks, to his muscled thighs, to the way his skin gleamed in the light in the bathroom. Even soft, his cock was heavy between his legs, and my mouth watered while I stared at it.
Omar laughed at what had to be the hungriest look on my face.
“See something you like?” he teased, and my cheeks heated. It was so easy for me to lose track of what I was supposed to be doing when he was naked and delicious and so tempting, and I shook myself.
“Just get in the shower,” I said, trying to be stern, which didn't work well considering I was still blushing.
He just laughed again, but did as I said, stepping into the shower under the spray of hot water. His eyes closed for a second, and I watched as the rivulets of water streamed down his body, drawing attention to every flawless curve and angle he had.
It was such an erotic sight, and my cock was impossibly hard. I could feel slick gathering around my hole as I watched him, following every bead of water that flowed over him down his perfect, muscled ass.
I was still naked myself with nothing to cover myself or how turned on I was, and I didn’t care. All I wanted was to be with him. It was just the two of us, none of my brothers were there to ruin things, and no one could walk in.
It was just us, and I knew what I wanted, so I climbed into the shower with him, closing the
flimsy curtain behind me, leaving us there in the close warmth together.
Omar opened his eyes and looked down at me, and they were dark and heated. He reached for me, but I batted his hands away, going for the cloth and body wash from before and lathering up.
“I'm going to clean you up,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. My hands were shaking despite myself. I’d asked him to fuck me so many times before, and he’d always said no, but this time was going to be different. I could feel it in the heat coming from both of us.
Omar nodded, stepping back to give me more room. I applied the cloth to his skin, working over it the way he had with me. I gestured for him to lift his arms, washing at every part of him that I could reach.
His skin was warm and glistening, and I noticed it was littered with scars. Some of them small and superficial, and some that seemed bigger and more threatening. I knew he'd been in the military, and he seemed like the type who'd gotten into fights even before that, so it made sense.
I took extra care with him, washing every mark, every healed-over gash, and followed the cloth with my mouth once the shower spray had rinsed the suds clean.
Omar's breath caught, and he made a soft noise of approval, pulling me closer while I worked until there was barely any space between us.
I could feel his cock stirring against me, getting harder and thicker, and I swallowed hard, my own body responding to him.
I tried to carefully arch my body away from him, knowing that just the slightest touch from him could make me come.
But when he pulled me into a kiss, lifting me into his arms, I couldn’t stop myself. My cock pressed into his stomach, and I groaned as a thick rope of cum shot out of me over his torso.
But Omar didn’t let up. He pulled me in tighter, making me shiver at the contact of his body still pressed against my sensitive cock.
I didn’t want him to stop. My hands pressed against the slick expanse of his chest, breathing hard as he licked into my mouth, kissing more and more roughly.
His tongue was exploratory and claiming. He kissed me hard, forcing my lips to stay parted to allow him in.