Omega Blues (Gay Romance)

Chapter Four: Kitchen Wolves

Matt

I slept three nights in Bren's big nest of a bed, cuddled up in a cave of his blankets.

I dreamed of my hands on Bren's jeans, pulling them down to reveal the stretch of dark skin over those perfect hips. And in my dreams Bren was loving it, moaning my name and threading his fingers through my hair as he begged for my mouth on his cock which, in my dreams, was erect and needy.

And I wouldn't hesitate, but just bob right on into a skilful pornstar blowjob that would probably have me gagging in real life.

That was one of my dreams, anyway. The best one.

One time I dreamed of pulling Bren's pants down and finding the snarling face of a wolf. And once I dreamed about putting a Hello Kitty bandage on his knee.

Dreams. They're not all sexy and they don't always make sense.

I liked Bren's house. It felt lived-in and friendly, like my parent's home. Except my parent's home was filled with nick-nacks and picture frames and memories of family life. Bren's house was kinda like living inside his brain—everything was about him, the books and the records. There were huge photographs of wolves, gray and white against snow, highlighted with the red of the carcasses they were tearing apart. Freaky photographs.

I guess the huge wolf photos were his version of family portraits, so it was okay that they were freaky. Families aren't always nice—like Will's mom, who's super-terrifying. But she still managed to raise a cool dude like Will.

I wandered down to the ranch to look at the livestock and talk with the hands—not many of them, and all humans. All the werewolves were up in the hills running as part of packs, and it was just us humans left like the kids who got picked last for sports. I helped out a little, like I'd done with Bren, but it was no fun without him around.

But the house was fully him, and I liked that a lot. Bren didn't talk about himself much. He didn't share. Maybe he was quiet, but I got the impression that he just didn't think he was worth talking about. He didn't share because he didn't think people would be interested, or it would be a waste of their time to listen.

I always tried to make him talk about himself, but he'd go all quiet or change the subject. That had made it extra hard for me during the long months on the road when all I wanted was to feel closer to Bren. I couldn't see his face and he'd hardly talk.

I'd get stuck on the phone asking him endless questions about werewolves because that was the only thing he'd talk freely about. Like he figured he was an authority on werewolves and knowing more than me was the only thing that made him worth listening to.

But I just wanted to hear his voice. I found the kind of questions he'd answer and asked those so I could get the most talking out of him. He liked to give advice about being an omega. He talked about strength a lot, different kinds of strength. I'd get him talking and just close my eyes and let his words slip over me.

Bren's house had all of him. All the things about himself that he didn't think were worth sharing with anyone but which I was so intensely interested in. I curled up under his blanket on his couch and read his books while listening to his records. I'd sit on the patio and watch the autumn-bright leaves swaying and falling from the trees, nursing my bass in my lap.

I loved that view because it was Bren's view. My own house was going to be way cooler than this one, with a better view—our whole band were getting houses in the middle of the woods like something out of Lord of the Rings—but this was Bren's house and that made it magic.

It was also nice being alone. There were whole hours together, sweet pockets of time when I got lost in my bass or Bren's groovy old blues records. I didn't have to think about anything. I just felt peaceful and happy, in a warm spaaaaaace with no pressure and nothing to do.