9. Vincent

NINE

Yesterday's gone. What happened with Kent is over. Put it out of my mind.

Working with him every day may prove harder than I thought. It's been almost three weeks since we agreed to pour cold water on our shenanigans. Friends only. Professionalism and all that jazz.

The guitar solo floods the walls of my car. All I want is to see Kent's smile. Something pops deep inside my core when his lips turn up, his entire silver beard moving with them. I need to look forward, not back. Maybe I'm confusing the intense attraction with real emotion? My thumb finds the volume rocker on the steering wheel and cranks the music, attempting to overtake thoughts of a sexy, slightly younger St. Nick with a fuzzy chest and thick dick.

After a twenty-minute ferry ride, I find myself wrapped in my late January warmest jacket at the front door of Marvin and Olan. As their relationship flourishes, I'm reminded that we were destined to be friends. While he's completely adorable, Marvin's almost ten years younger than me, and Kent's shown me that being the younger one really melts my butter. Memories return. Running my hands up and down Kent's stomach, his delicious dick filling my lips. Words of praise flooding me with pleasure. I shake my head, push my erection down, and ring the doorbell.

"Vincent!" Olan Stone, Marvin's fiancé, opens the door. His tooth gap greets me smack in the middle of his Hollywood smile. Olan's deep ebony biceps stretch his T-shirt and how I ever thought I could compete with this guy is beyond me.

"Olan," I begin, and spot small hands wrapped around his thigh, "and Illona, how are you?"

Her cute face peeks around her dad's waist. A small smile cracks into a giant one, revealing her dimples, and it's no wonder Marvin's the happiest guy I know.

"Come in, it's frigid out. How was the ferry?"

"A little rocky, but I stayed inside," I say, slowly untangling myself from my winter gear.

"Smart," Marvin calls from the kitchen. He's pouring the seltzer he loves from a dark blue bottle. "Lemon?"

"No thanks," I reply with a grin. According to an article I read, citrus rinds can harbor a surprising amount of dirt and bacteria. Nobody needs salmonella doing backstrokes in your beverage.

Before I know it, I'm enveloped in a huge embrace. Marvin's arms wrap around me, squeezing, and I take a deep breath. I hug him back and allow the closeness to ground me. When I pull back, Illona stands near me, and I know she wants a hug, too. I've gotten better at picking her up. Marvin explained things to her, for sure, because she checks in way more than any child naturally would.

"Your turn," I say, and she holds her arms up. As I lift her, the pressure of her legs wrapped around my waist settles in, her embrace filled with love and affection.

"How's this? Not too tight, right?" she asks.

"Nope. You're perfect," I whisper into her ear. And she is—the sweetest angel.

I've never even thought about having children. I'd need a partner, right? I don't think I could handle it on my own. Who am I fooling? I don't think I could handle it with an army of nannies. Children are … a lot. And infants? Baby food. Diapers. And the snacks. A cacophony of crumbs. Bloody knees. Mud. That would be a big fat no.

But Illona is Olan's daughter. Marvin will be her stepfather soon. And she's so courteous. In small doses, I can handle this.

"I'll keep Gonzo away from you," she says, and maybe I'd be okay with a child like her. "I ate already. Mac and cheese with a little baked chicken. You're having baked chicken with just a little mac and cheese."

As if summoned, Gonzo saunters in and rubs on my leg. The only thing worse than children—pets. Dogs. Cats. And don't get me started on hamsters. A literal rodent in the house. Hell no.

Illona jumps down, scoops the feline up, cuddles him like a baby, and says, "Now we'll go play in my room and let Daddy and Marvin have adult time with Vincent." She kisses his head, and phlegm crawls up my throat.

"One movie, sweetheart," Olan says, patting her shoulder. "Holler if you need anything."

With a wave, she and the beast fly up the stairs. Without a word, Marvin turns the faucet on for me.

Having friends who make an effort to understand how my brain works has made a world of difference for me. No explaining. No apologizing. It's a game-changer.

Standing at the sink, scrubbing my hands from the contact and in preparation to eat, I sigh. The good kind. Olan threads his hands under Marvin's arms and hugs him from behind, resting his chin on Marvin's shoulder. I'm grateful they're comfortable showing affection in front of me. My lips part as I watch them. Someday. Maybe I'll be comfortable with so much closeness.

"Marvin tells me you're seeing someone?" Olan asks.

"Saw. Seen. Was seeing," I say. "It's complicated."

"Wait, what happened?" Marvin moves away from Olan and grabs a pot and casserole dish from the stove. "I thought you were super into him?"

"I am. Was," I correct. "But we're working together. It's not professional."

"Um, hello. You're talking to the teacher who had a secret affair with the parent of one of his students." Marvin uncovers the food, the savory aroma filling the room. "Unprofessional is the goal. It's hot."

Olan comes from behind, his clear favorite way to approach, and kisses Marvin's neck.

"I concur."

"Well, I'm not trying to lose my job," I say. "After the snafu at the last school, I need this to go smoothly. Falling for the hot, gray-bearded principal isn't going to help."

"Oh, he's a daddy?" Marvin asks.

I wince because, well, Kent Lester is the definition of a daddy. The thought of him holding me close, his soft body embracing every inch of me, fills my mind.

"He's Jewish," I say, attempting to change the subject.

"Oh, a jaddy?" Marvin says, his eyebrows dancing. "Nicely done."

"He's older. Yes, but he's, well, not that much older."

"We all have preferences." Olan pulls chairs out for Marvin and me. "As long as nobody's getting hurt, there's nothing wrong with that."

"And what happened at your last school, it won't happen—" Marvin says, but I interrupt.

"It might. I missed the meeting. They made the wrong decision. It was my fault," I say, reminding myself how horribly the rollout at River Elementary went. Because of me. Wash. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

"Vincent." Marvin places his hand on my forearm, my sweater shielding skin-to-skin contact. "This is a new school. A new project. A new principal. A sweet, sexy one."

"Yes. One that is all wrong for me." I dish extra macaroni and cheese onto my plate. The cheese stretches from the serving spoon, and I pause to prevent any from getting on the table.

"You hate your job anyway. Maybe getting canned would be a blessing. Bang the principal and make it happen."

"I don't hate it." I grab my glass to quench my parched mouth.

"You don't love it," Marvin replies.

"Who loves their job anyway?" I ask.

"I do." Olan hands me an extra napkin.

"Me too," Marvin says with a shrug.

"In any event, my bills aren't going to pay themselves. And ‘banging the principal' isn't going to help."

"But you like him?" Olan moves the casserole dish closer. "And he likes you? I'm not comprehending the issue."

"Sweetie," Marvin says, serving me four slices of chicken breast. I smile because he remembers even numbers are my preference. "They're working together. This job needs to go off without a hitch for Vincent. Shtupping Kent isn't a good idea."

"There's shtupping?" Olan asks.

"No shtupping," I say. "Maybe some shtupping-adjacent activities … but that was weeks ago. No more."

"Shtupping adjacent?" Marvin asks with a tilt of his head.

"Before the holidays. Only twice."

"Twice?" Marvin's voice squeaks and Olan lets out a small laugh. "I thought it was just once?"

I force a smile, teeth showing, and shrug. "It just … happened. Again. I didn't mean for it to happen the first time." I turn to Olan, who nods with furrowed brows. "And the second time"—I glance at Marvin—"it was, well, him. It's just … physical. Was physical." I shake my head. "No need to conflate that with emotions. He does something to me. Did—past tense. We're just friends. Or trying to be."

"In my experience, when things happen, and then, well, happen again, it means maybe you're bashert," Olan says.

"Bashert," Marvin repeats. "Meant to be."

"Look at me." I nod to my fingers. With precision, I fold my napkin inside out and twist it around, scouring for a spot that's still pristine. "Nobody wants this. There's nothing bashert about us."

Marvin stands and moves toward a drawer in the kitchen. "Let me get you another. We have plenty!"

"Thank you." I don't protest. "Now tell me about the wedding planning."

"Planning a wedding is not for the faint of heart," Olan says.

"Marriage isn't either," I reply.

"Noted." Marvin places a fresh napkin on my lap. "But when it's true love, you persist."

"I'm less concerned about the wedding and more interested in being married to this one," Olan says, taking Marvin's hand as he returns to his seat.

Marvin grins. "My mother would disagree."

"Your mother isn't getting married," Olan replies.

Watching these two, the weight in my chest reminds me I'm older than both of them. Will this ever happen for me? The countless SWISH dates at The Purple Giraffe would argue no. Do I even want it? Would anyone ever be able to handle my idiosyncrasies on such a permanent level? Kent's sweetness and patience never waned. But that foolishness is done. I tuck the edge of the extra napkin into my pants pocket, securing it tightly, hoping it doesn't fall to the floor.

Bright guitars tangle and tease before Lindsey's voice comes in, singing about the wrongness of loving you. When the ladies' voices crash into his, a wall of harmonies washes over me, and my bathroom's walls shake with the ferocity of the drums.

I step into the shower and the bleach scent soothes me. Warm water cascades over my body, and I adjust the temperature to make it hotter. The scalding spray hits my shoulders, and I brace myself against the wall, hoping to sanitize every atom. As I squeeze the bottle of liquid soap, its silky texture glides onto my hands. I begin with the top of my smooth head. Slowly scrubbing and scouring every inch, I move my way down.

Washing my chest, my fingers linger on my nipples. The attention brings them to life, and my thumbs prod and poke, and my groin simmers. Slippery bubbles help the sensation, and my right hand travels south while the left continues giving my pec attention.

When my fingers reach my cock, it's already swollen, blood racing south as thoughts of Kent swirl. His thick beard. His furry chest and stomach. His delectable, long dick sliding in and out of my mouth, stretching my lips in the best way possible. His hands on my head. Massaging my earlobes. Telling me to swallow him like a good boy.

Palming myself, I stroke slowly, the soap billowing between my fingers, my cock stiff and unyielding. Teasing the head, my thumb glides back and forth. The steam and fragrant orange and honey soap cocoon me in bliss. As my insides smolder, I glide my palm harder, faster, and pinch at my nipple, sending shivers of pleasure through my chest, straight to my core.

The music pours over the glass shower door, the guitar solo hinting at the imminent fadeout. I use both hands to create a tunnel and begin thrusting faster, fucking my hands to the rhythm of pounding drums. My hands wrapped around myself, I throw my head back, savoring each stroke and brushing the sensitive tip with my thumb until my knees shake.

I reach around with one hand and place my index finger near my hole. I have no interest in entering myself, but the right pressure, right near the base, yup, right there, and everything kicks into overdrive. Closing my eyes, I picture Kent's face, the saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth, grabbing his fuzzy ass, his fat cock plunging inside my mouth, filling me up. It all blankets me, and my orgasm crawls up. My toes tingle, my balls begin to tighten, and with a few more tugs, I shoot thick ropes into my hand. Water rushes over my face, and I blow out, pushing it away from my mouth. With each spasm, my hole clenches, and my mouth falls open, gasping as my fingers catch every drop.

I run my hands under the water as the guitars layer over each other, and the song trails off. Exhaling sharply, I stare at the mess I've spilled down the drain. Kent's face ripples in my head. What has this man done to me? I close my eyes and start counting breaths.