Take This Man: Gay Romance Stories Read Online Free PDF

until it’s too late. He only just catches the quick flash of it, from the corner of his eye. Owen turns, right hand firmly clutching the shoulder strap of his duffel bag, and stares at the menorah sitting in Luther’s living room window. Owen looks at it for a long moment, wondering what it means, before he shakes his head sharply, slings his duffel bag over one shoulder and turns to open Luther’s front door.
    “Owen?”
    Owen doesn’t mean to freeze at the sound of Luther’s voice. Doesn’t mean to stand there, rooted to the floor, as the syllables of his name spill like drops of molten silver from Luther’s tongue. Owen tells his feet to move. He screams the order silently within the private walls of his own, thick skull, but they won’t budge. Owen swallows. He can’t seem to run, so Owen does the only thing he can: he closes his eyes and counts out every jarring, frantic beat of his heart against his ribs.
    “Owen—” When Luther finally breaks the silence, Owen allows himself a moment to drink in the perfection of the sound. His name, on Luther’s lips, is a thing of beauty, and Owen wonders how he never noticed it before. “Owen,” Luther says again, like it’s the only word he knows. Luther sounds sleepy, sated and almost drunk. The barest prickle of curiosity colors his words like the slight tingle of spiced rum.
    “Sir,” Owen answers. His mouth is dry. Turning to face Luther feels like work, but Owen does it anyway, and gasps—audibly—at the sight before him. Luther’s stark naked where he stands in the middle of his living room, shrouded by the soft glow of the early morning sun. Tongues of crimson fire lick his skin. The color brings out the russet in Luther’s hair, and stains his cheeks a faint, dusty pink. Luther looks—he looks arresting. Angelic. For a second, time stands still.
    Then doubt flickers across Luther’s face and he steps forward, out of the sunlight. The spell is broken, the aura gone, and Owen is plunged back into the icy grip of his own fear as he waits for Luther to figure out what’s going on.
    “Owen—what?”
    Luther steps a shade closer to Owen, hesitating over the movement, like he’s not sure whether it’s allowed. Owen watches something like fear flit across Luther’s face. It’s with shock that Owen realizes Luther’s— uncertain , in a way he never was in Iraq. Owen feels thrown. He’s not sure how to handle this and he knows he’s not trained for it. Owen is the one who’s supposed to have the answers.
    Owen’s never seen Luther look so lost before, and part of him aches to course correct, to soothe away the worry he sees etching lines on to Luther’s face. “What are you doing?” Luther asks. He says the words slowly, like he hasn’t fully processed what he’s seen, or maybe he hasn’t woken up.
    His eyes skitter across Owen’s fully clothed form and land on the duffel bag clutched tight in Owen’s hands. “You’re—you’re leaving?” Luther is all bewildered accusation even as he steps clear into Owen’s space, pressing up against him until their noses nearly touch. And something about the combination of that tone and gesture cuts Owen to the quick in a way that no strangled shout, or barked order, ever could. Fleetingly, Owen wonders what he looks like. Wonders what emotions are playing out across his face as Luther presses a gentle palm against Owen’s cheek. Luther’s fingers are rough, lightly calloused from typing, and Owen leans into the touch although he doesn’t mean to.
    “Sir—” he says, just as Luther chokes “Don’t.” Owen licks his lips, waiting for the tirade that he knows is coming, but Luther’s eyes widen a little and he waits for Owen to speak.
    “Please—” It isn’t what Owen means to say at all. Owen’s not sure why he feels the need to apologize for anything. He’s doing this for Luther’s benefit, after all. This is—this is what Luther wants.
    “Please what, Owen?” Luther’s voice