18. Kent

EIGHTEEN

Vincent wraps a white towel around his waist, the fabric snug against his skin. He hands me another from the shelf. "Come," he whispers, his voice soft and soothing, guiding me gently to the main room. The dining table, covered in LEGO Paris, has more streets and buildings than the last time I was here. He slides the small coffee table away from the deep chocolate leather sofa and lays the extra towel on the hardwood floor, doubling and smoothing it like a picnic blanket.

I have no idea what he's up to, but having his feet in my mouth, licking and lapping his toes, I never in a million years thought that would happen. How, at fifty-two, am I only now discovering a fascination with feet? It never crossed my mind with Corrine. She probably would have let me explore if I'd suggested it. But I never did. A few times at the beach, I've noticed men, mostly their legs, thick thighs, strong calves, and, yes, their feet. Sturdy toes, with a dusting of hair and defined tendons, have caught my gaze occasionally, but I never thought much about it.

My cock, still thick and firm, has never been this hard without a pill. Even with Vincent's napkins, wipes, and LEGO-filled condo, this man does something to me I've never quite experienced. He's my medicine.

He sits on the sofa, the leather creaking softly under his body. Unwrapping his towel, he exposes his beautiful package, now soft but still exquisite, spreads his legs, and nods to the towel.

"Sit. Rest your back here." He pats between his legs. I lower myself to the ground with a few grunts, throw my towel aside, and lean back between him, still unsure what he has in mind.

"Relax," he says, his hands rubbing my shoulders.

I hear him squirt something onto his hands, and the smell of coconut takes over. He's lathering something, the sounds and aroma intoxicating. And then it happens. My breath hitches, and the air vacates my lungs as Vincent Manda's legs wrap around my torso and his delicious feet seize my hard cock. Carefully, he begins stroking, his slick soles gliding up and down the sensitive skin of my shaft, sending shivers through my body. When his big toe brushes over the tip, I let out a moan, and he reaches down and cups my chest. Holy fuck.

His hands, lost in my chest hair, massage my pecs, and he teases my nipples. His feet never stop jerking me, and yowsers. The sensation of having his feet and hands on my body makes my insides quiver in anticipation. My body wants to relent, give over, and allow my orgasm to happen, but this is too good. Too amazing. Too much. Grasped by Vincent's extremities … I yearn to stay in this moment forever.

"Do you like this?" he asks, leaning forward enough so his breath tickles the hair on the back of my neck.

"I love it. You're such a fucking good boy," I tell him, the pleasure bubbling over. My hands glide up and down his smooth calves as they guide his feet.

With my last words, Vincent's dick, now semi-hard, surges against my shoulder.

"That didn't take long," I say, surprised at his recovery time.

"It's you, Kent."

Angling my head back, I'm able to give the tip a small kiss and take the head in my mouth. He continues using his fingers on my chest, getting lost in my salty fur while his feet glide around my cock.

"I love your chest. So hairy. So thick. So fucking sexy," he says.

"Mmmh. My best boy."

With closed eyes, the nerves in my body take over, tingling and vibrating. With a woozy head, I'm fairly certain all the blood in my body has traveled south. I cannot remember the last time I was this hard. Maybe high school? College? That one time, Corrine and I had sex on a hotel balcony in Barcelona. But something about Vincent and the complete attention he's giving me sends me over.

"Do you think you can come like this?" he whispers.

Not wanting to remove his delectable dick from my mouth, I simply give a quick nod.

Vincent's toes hover over the sensitive tip and my body trembles. My brain knows his disdain for the ensuing eruption, but I'm unable to signal my mouth to warn him. And he's got to sense it. My chest heaves, my balls seize, and I suck him harder as my cock shoots thick ribbons all over Vincent's toes and feet. The warm liquid coats us both, but he doesn't flinch.

He doesn't relent, even after I've come and my body shudders at his touch. My hips tremble with each slick stroke as he slathers cum up and down my shaft.

"Okay, okay," I say, leaning my head back against his thigh.

He leans over, hands on my ears, and kisses my sweaty forehead. When he pulls away, his eyes open, I see his beautiful face, and my body fills with warmth. My breathing becomes deeper and more relaxed. I'm completely present, immersed in the bliss coursing through my veins.

"Did you enjoy that?"

Did I enjoy it? Is water wet?

"Um, yeah." My entire body still hums with pleasure. "What the hell was that?"

"It's called a foot job." His chin now rests on the top of my head.

"A foot job? That makes sense," I say, still not quite ready to move. "But how the fuck did you know about it?"

"From the internet."

"Excuse me?" I ask, my eyes agape.

"Kent, you can learn about almost anything on the internet."

"Apparently."

He hands me a washcloth, and I start with a few swipes at his feet before carefully rubbing in between each toe, ensuring he's perfectly clean. Once his toes shine, I take care of myself. Vincent watches as I clean us both, a soft smile on his heavenly lips. A shift is happening between us. Slowly, this man is letting me in, and I know his trust isn't something to take lightly.

Sitting at Vincent's kitchen island, our takeout in front of us, my stomach reminds me it's late, and after the physical exertion he put me through, I'm ravenous. We both wear plain white T-shirts and gray sweats, all Vincent's, a bonus for being relatively the same size. He's about an inch shorter, and I'm several inches wider around the middle, but thankfully, the stretchy material is forgiving. Matching dinner outfits wasn't part of my first-date re-do plan, but neither was the wine, the water, or the foot job. Oy.

"Are we over pretending we're just friends?" I ask, motioning to our matching outfits.

"Kent Lester," Vincent says, a fork in one hand and a napkin in the other, "only you were pretending."

"Are you teasing me?"

He leans over, wipes the corners of my mouth with his napkin, and then kisses me. His lips brush mine; it's longer than a peck, but he pulls away before it escalates … only to return for another. He folds his napkin, wipes his mouth, and continues eating, the unique fusion of Mexican and Korean spices creating a cozy aroma.

"Do you think we'll make the go-live date?" I change the subject as thoughts of Dr. Cutler swirl with her questions and continual obsession over the board. One bonus of being Jewish … anxiety runs like the electric company. It may have occasional outages, but generally, you can count on it being there. "The clock is ticking."

"For sure," he says. Watching Vincent's meticulous use of chopsticks, his luscious lips welcoming them, a small smile meanders across my face. He's really quite precious.

"Geoff never drops the ball." His chopsticks pause, and his chin drops to his chest. "That's my role."

I reach over and put my finger under his chin, hoping he's okay with the contact during a meal. He doesn't recoil, and I gently lift his face until his eyes find mine. I take a deep breath and smile. "Stop beating yourself up all the time."

"Easier said than done. My whole life, I've been the problem."

"I find that hard to believe," I say, leaning over and kissing his forehead. "You seem very … unproblematic to me."

Vincent steps to the sink and faces out the large window. Bathed in the moonlight, he talks into the darkness, his words hanging in the air.

"We were on schedule at the last school in New Hampshire. Geoff had the system tuned and ready for launch. I was working on outlining the needs assessments with teachers, and he called a meeting to look at the summarized data to make some critical decisions."

I turn to face him, but Vincent continues talking to the window. He rubs the back of his neck, occasionally moving up to take a glide over his head, momentarily blocking the reflection from the moon.

"Even though the data suggested having teachers use their laptops would be more cost-efficient, the anecdotal interviews told me tablets would be more efficient and offset the difference."

"What happened?" I ask, wanting to go to him. Wrap him in my arms from behind, hold him close, smell his neck, and comfort him through this story. But I sit. Waiting. Listening.

"I did a quick workout the morning of the meeting, and afterward, in the shower, I got stuck."

I purse my lips. Stuck. Like with the data in my office. Washing his hands in Gillian's bathroom.

"I started with my head, like I always do, and things were fine. When I got to my arms, I couldn't stop scrubbing"—Vincent holds out his arms, flexing until the veins in his forearms pop—"In hindsight, I realize the stress of the implementation, the meeting, knowing I had to convince Geoff and the team to do something more costly, it all triggered me."

"Oh, Vincent."

"I was late. Really late. By the time I got there, the meeting was over. They decided without me. The school saved money using existing laptops, but the launch failed. The software usage didn't meet benchmarks. Just as I predicted. Geoff made it clear that if I had been there, maybe they would have made a different decision."

"But you weren't there." I work my throat through a sandy swallow. "They decided without you."

"But I'm the specialist. I should've been present. And I wasn't. That's all Geoff cares about. My fault. Not his. He was adamant about that."

Unsure what to say, I stand to join him at the sink, and my hand smacks my resting chopsticks, sending them flying across the room, catapulting a few bits of my Seoul Bowl with them. Even facing away, Vincent knows. He winces at the sound of tiny flying wood.

"I'll get it." I scramble for the extra napkins.

I'm on the floor, searching, cleaning, trying to erase the mess before Vincent reacts. If I can clean it up quickly, it won't upset him further. With a handful of napkins, I rush forward. Suddenly sensing Vincent's presence, I snap my head and accidentally crash into his chin.

"Fuck!" he shouts.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," I blather, pivoting my attention toward him.

Vincent closes his eyes and winces. He takes a deep inhale through his nose and pushes the breath through pursed lips.

"Are you okay?" I ask, grabbing at his face.

"I'm fine." He rubs his chin and says, "Kent Lester, has anyone ever mentioned you have Tasmanian Devil energy?"

A broad smile overtakes my face, and I laugh. "Not that specific reference, but I mean, yeah, I can see that." A flush creeps across my cheeks. "I'm sorry."

"Why? He's kind of cute. In a chaotic way."

We finish cleaning, and seeing it's almost midnight, I pull my phone out.

"I'm going to call a car," I say.

"Why don't you stay?" Vincent's eyes grow large.

"I don't want to impose. And I'd have to get up early tomorrow," I say.

"But it's Saturday."

"It's my day to take Lia. Plus, Sweetums couldn't care less about the weekend. He'll be looking for me. For his food."

"Stay and go home early," he says, and I'm not sure I can say no to those batting eyelashes. The thought of another night cuddled up next to Vincent. Holding him. Being held. My heart yearns to be close to him.

"Okay, I'll sneak out in the morning. I won't disturb you."

In bed with Vincent, with our shirts off, facing each other, our breathing the only sound in the room, my heart trots before taking off at a full gallop.

"Would it be okay if I …"

"C'mere," Vincent says, grabbing my hand, rolling over, and wrapping me around his smooth body.

"Good night, Mr. Lester."

"Good night, Mr. Manda." I inhale the orange and honey aroma on his skin, pull him close, and let the warmth of our bodies quiet my mind. With Vincent so near, so sweet, so beautiful, how am I supposed to not fall for this man?