Meant to Be
by Kitty

He was what I wanted-what I needed. Although I'd seen only glimpses of him, I knew he was kind and caring, humorous and loving, yet always strong. Even when the world seemed to fall down around his feet, he stood, like a beacon in the storm, strong and steady.

Strong and steady I was not. Wild, prone to stupid actions with even worse consequences--that was me. Homeless. Wanderer. Daydreamer. And, in some small way, a Hopeless Romantic.

Sure, I hoped I'd find my Prince Charming. Tall, dark and handsome--that was what I wanted. A family. Some semblance of normalcy. I never expected that in him, I would find the truest form of love.

We'd met in a bar, not the most ideal romantic location, but then again--where was I? Oh, yes. There are either two reasons men go to bars. To get dizzy-yet-conscious drunk and to pick up a chick to bang for kicks.

Wes Janson, he said his name was. I recognized it as a military name, which he shook off with a shrug.

"So what's your motive for knock-down-drag-out drunkenness tonight?" He laughed, a sensual rumble in an equally sexy chest.

"Do I need one?" He asked, his grin teasing. I shrugged gently, smiling ever so slightly. At least he had some sort of a sense of humor.

Later, after some more cliched pickup lines and another drink for each of us, I did find out why he was here: a fight with his 'friend' Hobbie. I knew when he said it that there was more there, so much more. Body language speaks volumes, you know. I can tell when you're talking or thinking about a friend, or a lover. When asked what about, he merely shrugged, mumbled something about guy stuff, and ordered another round.

Oh, it wasn't like I was all sweet and virginal. Hell, if anything I was more of a slut than I cared to admit. But he didn't care. He had a sly smile, a clever grin that practically screamed 'sexy'. We talked for a while more, had more drinks than I remember, and I saw who he was. A friend. A lover. A gentleman, always. Well--most of the time, anyways. A joker. And I also noticed the way he was glancing at me, how his grin was so damn cocky when he noticed my own gazing.

Was there romance before the sex? I could tell you that it would depend on your definition of romance, that romance was a word too often used with the wrong things. But I'd just be stalling, now wouldn't I?

It consisted of a lot of kissing, a lot of sensual groping, and some cleverly placed licks, really. Nothing all too new. His eyes were what were so different. They were blue--to think, me a sucker for blue eyes, but yes. A dazzling dark, infused with passion, lighting up with arousal.

We went back to his apartment, and he told me that Hobbie wasn't going to be there. I heard the frustration, the pent-up emotion and stress in his voice. They'd fought, I realized, and Wes was suffering because he wasn't sure if they were going to ever reconcile. I knew, then, that I'd have to be gone by morning--too much more pain would come to him if I was found and I knew that it was hard enough having a fight, not to mention dragging in a third party. But I wanted to please him, to touch him, to make him-and myself a little, too-forget the pain.

There was too much pain.

Not much time was spent on creating a "mood" once inside the apartment. Just some sexier continuation of what had started as a tender kiss at a smoky, hazy bar. He pushed me back against the wall, as I wrapped my body close around his. Our lips were nearly melded together, combined with hot meetings of passion when our tongues would mix. I could feel the evidence of his arousal, hard against me, and I knew I was just as ready.

Finally, we made it to his bedroom, his sheets silky soft against my now-naked skin. Gods, he was more beautiful than I'd thought any man could ever be--broad-shouldered, simply gorgeous and oh, he was all male; yet he touched me with a tenderness that I hadn't expected. So much for being a great people-reader, I thought to myself.

He kissed me again, this time more forcefully than the last, showing me with his tongue exactly what he wanted to do, and what I wanted to feel. I grabbed him towards me, guided him in. He pressed at the entrance, his weight on his forearms. His body was ready, and mine was certainly willing.

He didn't thrust and blunder, pushing harder so that it all ended much too quickly. He knew how to please his partner--that much was apparent. Wes took his time, making sure that I was receiving, always receiving. Kissing my lips, using his tongue in ways most lovers didn't take the consideration or the time to. Giving me the most out of the experience, really. Touching and tasting, nibbling on my breasts, nipping at the hard nipple he'd found there. Stroking me, pleasuring me, all the while the light in his eyes grew.

It's amazing what you learn about people during sex. Wes was generous, selfless, yet not afraid to feel ecstasy. Wanting it to be right, wanting...just wanting, and pleasing and tasting and touching all over and over again until we burst from the pressure, the pleasure going straight to our brains in a burst of mad delight.

After a moment, he'd rolled off of me, spooning around me, holding me. Most of my lovers hadn't even kept contact with my body after sex. But what if this actually hadn't been sex? What if I'd finally experienced something more?

However, I knew I couldn't afford to ponder these things. We may have made love, but love isn't the basic essence in a relationship. It has to be trust, honesty, caring. Then you add intimacy, shared secrets, memories of life.

Then, add love. Love alone isn't always meant to be. It's not always right, either. Love ends in divorce, and breakups, and even unrequited love is still love, after all.

I still didn't want to leave. But I did. Slipped out of his grasp, pulled on the clothes scattered between the living quarters and the hall, and looked in on him sleeping one more time before he'd left.

It was then that I heard the door panel open and hid in a small linen closet, crouching down, fear running through my veins. I could see out, but discreetly, so that I could watch whatever that happened next.

A blonde man, his hair slightly slicked back, pulled off his jacket, threw it on the couch. He strolled to the other bedroom half-angry, then stopped mid-step. I thought he'd seen me, known that I was watching, somehow.

But he didn't see me. He saw Wes, asleep and curled around the pillow I'd stuffed in his arms. My synthetic replacement, I thought ruefully. Hobbie walked over to the door of the bedroom, leaned against it, peered in at Wes. He moved over to the bed, now. Stripping of his outer tunic and then his undershirt, uncovering a sexy chest. The blonde hair on his chest gleamed in the partial light of the room, a mournful look on his face. He tentatively reached and brushed a few strands of hair from Wes's forehead. Oh, yes, they were lovers all right.

Hobbie finally kissed his lips, nibbling down the column of his throat. Wes groaned a little in his sleep, then opened an eye casually, shock running through his veins as he realized who was there. He nearly bolted upright, pulling the other man close. Their mouths and tongues intertwined together, a beautiful sight and a beautiful pair. I saw Wes pull Hobbie over onto the bed, starting to undress him. All the while, in between kisses, I could hear soft murmurs, apologies and regrets. Wes pulled the sheet up around them, covering them gently. I knew that they belonged together, that the truest kind of love existed between them--friends then lovers. I crept stealthily out of the apartment, a small grin upon my face.

True love had prevailed, after all.


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