13. Vincent

THIRTEEN

Kent follows me into the bathroom. The warmth of his hand in mine radiates up my arm, creating a new expansiveness in my chest. Holding hands was never something I did, not even with my parents when I was little. With the simple, innocent connection, my heartbeat becomes steady. Even. Calm.

Side by side, we wash our hands. Kent waits patiently for me to rinse, matching my every move in the mirror. Needing no reminder, he grabs a fresh toothbrush from the box and immediately starts brushing, vigorously scrubbing his teeth while wearing a goofy grin. Toothpaste foam drips onto his beard, but he quickly wipes it with his arm. He flicks both brows up and my stomach flutters. Even though we haven't known each other long, the familiarity of him in my bathroom, his presence, grounds me.

Kent spits into the sink. "I don't have pajamas."

"Wear your T-shirt and underwear," I say, remembering his flimsy boxers. "I'm going to shower." I pull my shirt off and Kent's gaze flicks to my chest. "I won't be long, I promise."

Standing with my back to the scalding water, I do my best to focus. No counting. No loops. Kent waits in my bed. My fucking bed. Wearing a white V-neck and ratty boxers. Reaching to pump the liquid soap, I remind myself, two pumps. Big ones. But only two. The clean scent of orange, with the familiar tinge of honey sweetness, coats my chest. I shaved my entire body yesterday and the gel glides over my smooth skin. With the small amount of natural body hair I have, I only need to do it weekly.

Running my hands over my pecs, the firmness of my muscles and the sensitivity of my nipples send an electric wave of pleasure through me. I tilt my head back, the spray beating onto my neck, and my fingers drift back, lingering, the sensitive nerves in each nipple springing to life. The soap creates a slippery surface my chest can't deny. My cock, half hard, becomes difficult to ignore. There's no time now. Kent is waiting. In my bed. Kent is not the person to be thinking about right now.

I shake my head. One, two, three, four times, and turn around. While the shower rinses the soap, I quickly scrub my body, ignoring my chest.

Kent's folded clothes rest neatly arranged on the dresser. Wearing only my blue flannel pajama pants, I approach my bed. I can't remember the last time anyone was in my bedroom. The cleaning crew, of course, but not in my bed. With me. The last time was … never. The few encounters I've had always happened somewhere else. Quickly. At the gym. In the shower. That one desperate time in the hotel bar bathroom. They were freshly cleaned, with a private stall and a door to the floor. But my home? My bed? Sleeping with someone next to me. For an entire night. I take a deep breath and push those thoughts away. This is Kent. Sweet, patient Kent. We're friends. I'm safe.

"Goodnight," I whisper, crawling into my bed.

The room is almost completely dark—the stove light from the kitchen casts the faintest glow down the short hallway, allowing me to make out Kent's silhouette. His whiskers poke up, and his lips protrude from the nest of hair on his face. Taunting me.

"Goodnight, Vincent."

Propping myself up on my elbow, I lean over and give him a soft kiss on the cheek, his beard tickling my lips. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For today."

He pulls back, turns, and reaches up to cup my face. If my heart were made of ice, it would melt into a small, glistening puddle.

"Beautiful," he murmurs.

And with that, I kiss his lips. Mouths closed. But the spearmint freshness still lingers. It's short and gentle, and the closeness removes all the tension and stress from my body. When I pull back, I pause, and before I return to my spot, Kent whispers, "My good boy."

I pat his chest, lingering for a second longer than I should, the thick fur beneath the fabric attracting my fingers like a magnet. Pulling away, I roll over.

We lie in stillness. The sound of his breathing, barely noticeable, hints he's still awake.

"Kent?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you hold me?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. A single arm surrounds me, slowly gliding over my bare chest like he's dipping a toe into unknown waters.

"Okay?"

I don't speak but scoot my entire body, plastering my back to him. Shutting my eyes and inhaling, Kent's heartbeat thumps, and the skin on my back gravitates to the chest hair escaping his V-neck as I clutch his arm and tug him close.

Overcome with the desire to taste his lips, I crane my neck, grasp his arm to hold him in place, and turn to kiss him. Kent's lips, soft and wet, brush mine, and his hand moves to the top of my head. Pausing, I whisper, "Only kissing, okay?"

"Vincent, I haven't stopped thinking about kissing you."

He presses his mouth to mine and leans over me, his weight providing deep pressure on my naked torso. He slowly crawls on top, never breaking the kiss, and I reach for his face. The softness of his beard between my fingers settles me, and then he turns from my mouth and gently kisses the palm of my hand.

"I'd be thrilled to do nothing but kiss you until the sun rises."

I nip at his lips, and he mutters, "So sweet."

"Me?"

"You. Your lips. All of you."

Nobody has ever called me sweet, and Kent's eyes are barely visible, but on top of me, the faint light from the alarm clock catches them, and there's a yearning there.

I let him take my finger in his mouth. And the moment it enters, and he begins gently sucking, my half-erect cock comes to life in my pajamas.

"Oh, hello," he says, and wonderful, he's felt it too.

I slam my eyes closed and turn my head, covering my face with my arm.

"Vincent, it's okay. We're kissing."

"It's a reflex," I mumble through my forearm.

"We can kiss." He gently removes my arm from my face and plants a soft kiss on my neck. "And if you're hard, it's okay. It doesn't mean we have to do anything. I'm going to enjoy your lips." He nibbles my bottom lip. "Your mouth." An index finger brushes over my mouth. "Your tongue and teeth."

"Really?" In my limited experience, this is not how it works. Erections mean sex.

"Really," he says, his mouth on mine again. In a gentle, repetitive motion, he caresses my head as if coaxing out a shine.

"You really don't mind?"

"What?"

"Only doing this," I say, touching his lips.

"Are you kidding? This is heaven."

His evident pleasure from kissing puts the worries about my throbbing erection at ease.

Kent's whiskers tickle my chin. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Where did ‘good boy' come from?"

"Someone said it once and … it did something to me."

"Something?" he asks, nuzzling his beard on me.

"It makes me horny. Riled up. And … hornier."

"Yeah, I kind of got that." Kent palms my erection through my pajamas and I laugh. The closeness. The talking. The kissing. Fuck, what is he doing to me?

"I think maybe it means I'm doing it well. Pleasing you."

"Yes. You most certainly are. My good boy."

I reach up and slide my hands under his shirt, pausing on his stomach, fuzzy and soft, and ask, "Okay?"

He nods quickly, and my fingers dance toward his chest—the hair I've only witnessed now in my grasp. The thought of hair growing on my body—taking over, crawling, and itching—sends shivers down my spine. On someone else? My fingers getting lost in each strand? Sign me up. When I find Kent's pecs, I take one in each hand and slowly squeeze, massaging, searching, until I find his nipples, hidden under the fur, and give them a little attention. Gently pinching, flicking, careful not to hurt him.

Kent's tongue explores my mouth, and now his cock, fat and firm, behind only thin boxers, pokes at mine, and I remind myself—only kissing, only kissing.

He pulls back, still close enough his sweet breath tickles my nose, and with both hands on my face, simply smiles.

"What?" I ask. "Is something wrong?"

"Nope." He dips down and kisses the tip of my nose. "Being here like this," he says, gently pushing his cock on mine. "You're perfect." Another peck on my nose. "That's all."

"Oh."

Me? Perfect. Clearly, he's under a spell. It's probably our hard dicks rubbing against each other. There's a naturalness to the closeness of lying here with him, like the rhythm of my heartbeat. Kent rests his head in the crook of my neck, and as his beard tickles my skin, I shudder and let out a little laugh. His head juts up, and he asks, "Too much?"

I reach up and pull him back, exhaling deeply, centering myself, letting the pressure of his weight anchor me. I focus on his cock. Rigid. Thick. It's directly on mine, pushing on the tip, as my dick swells against him. Two grown men having an orgasm this way is nearly impossible, and it would be so easy to slip off his boxers—my pajamas. Only kissing. Only kissing.

With Kent's face buried near my chest, he slowly rolls off, staying right beside me.

"Vincent, my sweet, good boy."

My cock, about to burst through my pajamas, indicates the closeness works for me. With Kent I'm protected. Safe. Cared for. Adored.

Kent turns on his side, facing me. His hand moves to my chest, and he snuggles up. His breathing slows. In bed with this man, being held, my dick eager but content waiting, my eyes grow heavy with exhaustion. I yearn for sleep but force myself to stay awake a little longer, listening to the soft hum of his slumber. Basking in the reality of him sleeping next to me beats any dream that awaits.

"Do you have any peanut butter?"

Seated at the lip of my kitchen island, Kent's wearing the same boxers I now realize have a ripped and tattered hem. His V-neck bears the telltale wrinkles of a night's sleep. Who am I kidding? Clothes probably wrinkle the minute Kent looks at them. His thick hair juts out in every direction, whatever grooming he does each morning to tame it not on display. He's sexy as fuck.

"No peanut butter."

"Regular butter?"

"Um." I open my fridge. Sparse doesn't begin to explain it. I went shopping two days ago. The few items I bought are displayed front and center. Variety is not a spice in my life.

"I don't cook much. I eat a lot of salads."

"Vincent, kindergartners make PBJ sandwiches," he says, standing behind me. "It's not really considered a culinary masterpiece."

"Let's see," I stammer, and Kent puts his hands under my arms, pulling me back toward him. My fleece hoodie blocks skin-to-skin contact, and my ribs grow tight, wishing for his warmth on my chest.

"Seltzer. Bread. Veggies. Salad dressing."

"You eat dry toast for breakfast?"

"Yeah."

"Every morning?"

"Yup."

"No butter? No jam?"

I shrug, the boringness of my palette washing over me in Kent's presence.

He grabs the bottle of fat-free ranch and heads back to his seat.

"Desperate times and all," he says, pouring the dressing on his bread.

"You don't want me to toast it?"

"Nope. I'm good," he mumbles, the dressing-slathered cold bread shoved in his mouth.

White creamy liquid drips from Kent's lips, pooling in his beard. I slide a plate in front of him, hopeful he'll use it. The man doesn't have a single napkin. I grab the roll of paper towels and place it before him.

"There," I say, stepping back awaiting his next move.

He takes the smallest piece from the select-a-size roll, and places it on the counter. One napkin. Half a napkin, really.

I take my plate with a piece of dry toast and sit, leaving a stool between us. Kent and that amount of dressing on dry bread doesn't bode well for me. At least I have the roll of paper towels in reach.

"Tell me about that?" he asks, nodding to the dining-room table. My current build takes over the entire space. Identical white bowls pepper the perimeter. Each with bricks sorted by size and color. In the middle, the Eiffel Tower reaches toward the ceiling, surrounded by the rest of the under-construction city.

"Paris. The tower was my starting point, and I'm gradually constructing the surrounding areas."

With half a piece of salad-dressing-covered bread, Kent walks over and circles my dining-room table, inspecting.

"Have you ever been?"

"To Paris? No. I'm not a big flier." I shake my head. "Too many germs."

"Then how do you know?" He points to the tower's surrounding areas.

"There's this amazing thing," I say, moving next to him, "called the internet. It's filled with maps, photos, and all the information your brain desires."

Kent smacks my behind and quips, "Smart ass." His palm connecting with my butt sends sleeping butterflies swarming in my stomach. "Well, this is amazing. The kids at school would eat this up. Truly."

Kent takes a brick from a bowl. A classic blue. Eight studs and three tubes. He fingers it while scanning the construction zone.

"I don't really like help," I say. The muscles in my hand quiver and twitch, and I take the brick from him and place it back in the bowl, returning it home with the other blues.

"Sorry, I was just going to …" Kent stammers and trips, grabbing for the table on his way down. His fingers catch on a bowl of orange pieces, sending them cascading over him as he falls to the floor. Lightheadedness swirls, and I catch my breath before moving to help.

"I don't suppose you find this cute?" he asks, lying on his back, covered in random orange pieces.

"Here." I offer my hand. Once he's up, we collect the scattered bricks. "You don't think it's … strange?" I ask.

"Me falling? I'm fairly used to it by now."

"No. All … this." I motion to Paris.

"A grown man playing with toys?" He's beside me, taking my arm and squeezing. "I think it's kind of hot."

The touching. The kissing. The flirting. Maybe we're heading for a friends-with-benefits situation. Considering I can't get past a first date, I should probably count my blessings.

"Anyway," I say, returning to the island and my toast, "what are you up to today?"

"Brushing Sweetums. It's kind of our weekend thing. And it takes a while." He shrugs. "What about you?"

I shrug back. "Laundry. Cleaning. The gym."

"What gym do you go to? I've thought about joining, but honestly, at my age, I don't know if it's a habit I want to start," he says, grabbing his stomach and giving it a little jiggle.

"None. I mean, the condo has a small gym in the basement. It's super basic, but it's here and free. Nobody uses it much, so it's usually spotless."

"Gotcha."

Kent finishes his dressing with a side of bread and puts the plate in the sink.

"Want me to wash it?"

"No, it's good, leave it. I'll take care of it," I say, satisfied with the sanitize button on my dishwasher.

"You know, that was fun last night." Kent turns the faucet on and scrubs his hands.

"Your daughter and son-in-law are fantastic. And Lia, I mean, I'm not the biggest fan of kids, but she's pretty spectacular."

"My family is wonderful, but I meant us. In bed. The canoodling."

"Oh."

He wants to talk about us. Kissing. Cuddling. Grinding. I reach for my phone and start the music. The bass drum kicks. Hard. Guitar plucking joins in, and before long, the harmonies of the entire band join in. They sing about the wind blowing and the sun rising, and I close my eyes, anticipating what's about to come.

"You know, we don't have to be more than friends," Kent says, grabbing a paper towel to dry his hands. He slips on the bottom of the stool but catches himself on the island. "But also, the kissing, and well, the rest, was a lot of fun. For me."

"Me too," I say, my knee bouncing.

"We could do it again. If you wanted," he says, fidgeting. "Not now, I mean another time."

"I'd like that." My mouth becomes as dry as the toast I've almost finished. Maybe he has the same idea about friends with benefits. I'm sure that's it. Regardless, if Kent and I are ever going to fool around more in any capacity, I need to be honest with him.

"The thing is, Kent, well, there's something I need to tell you."

"Is this an ogre/human situation I need to know about?" he asks, a soft smile tugging at his face. "How long do I have until your ogre form? Midnight? Does it involve you getting wet?"

I turn down the music as they sing about not being loved on a glorious, endless loop.

"I hope not. I mean, no, definitely not. It's just for me … sexually …" I wipe my mouth, letting the napkin hover. "I'm a side."

Kent doesn't say anything or move, and I'm pretty sure this will be the nail in the coffin of anything between us. Given our current professional proximity, it's probably for the best.

I turn toward Kent, and he's looking at me. Silent.

"I know it's unusual for most guys in the gay community," I say.

"Actually, I'm bi."

"I know, I'm just saying, for men. Who sleep with men. It can be unusual."

"Vincent." He moves to the seat beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. When he pulls me closer, he slides off his stool and falls into me.

"Sorry, I'm fine. Hold on a sec," he stammers, pulling himself onto his seat. With his balance momentarily restored, Kent leans over and whispers, "I don't know what you mean."

Rubbing the back of my neck, I take a deep breath. It's not the first time I've had to explain it, and it won't be the last.

"I'm not a top. I'm not a bottom." My mouth pinches. "I'm a side."

Kent squints, and he dips his chin and shakes his head slightly.

"Tops are—" I begin.

"I know what tops and bottoms are, Vincent. But what's a side?"

Two deep breaths.

"It means I don't want to top. Or bottom."

"Oh!" he says. A loud, bellowing chuckle chases his exclamation. The solo bass guitar has its moment before the band's crescendo joins Kent's laughter.

"It never appealed to me, and the one time I forced myself to try, well … not an experience I'm looking to repeat."

"Vincent, I would never pressure you"—he wraps his fingers around mine—"to do anything."

"What about you?" I ask, my stomach knotted.

"Well, I'm a …" He pauses, a serious look overtaking the smile. "I don't really know." He stands and kisses the back of my head. The whiskers on his beard tickle my naked skin. "And you know what? I can think of lots of other ways to have fun."

Kent was married to a woman for years. Maybe he thinks he doesn't care, but right now, as "You Make Loving Fun" fills the kitchen, I bite my lip, breathe, and try to let that go. Christine sings about believing in miracles, and maybe she's right. Maybe it's time to believe.