Page 17 of Napkins and Other Distractions
Letting him go, I move to the chair closest to the window. Vincent follows, taking the one across from me. He settles into his seat and glances at the table—crumbs from my breakfast. The French make the flakiest croissants. The smell of butter assaults my nose when I’m almost a block away, and I imagine an entire stick baked into each delectable treat. Rushing to our meeting, I neglected the mess. I grab a tube of wipes from the shelf and quickly wipe down the table, catching the crumbs in my hand as the scent of lemon bleach fills the room.
“Maybe we should have talked about work.” I drop the crumbs from my palm into the trash can and grab some sanitizer from my desk.
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I don’t want to put you on the spot,” I say, returning to the chair. The aroma of alcohol from the sanitizer, still wet on my palms, mixes with the bleach from the wipe, and I’m not sure it could smell any cleaner. “Maybe I’m out of practice, but I thought things were going well. Um, you asked to suck my … ”
“I know. I was trying to take a risk. Be brave. I wasn’t myself. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Vincent says, and his hands move to cover his face. “Been so abrupt about you leaving, I mean.”
I lean across the table, not making contact but bringing my hands closer.
“What happened? You seemed to be … enjoying yourself.”
“I was. Absolutely. Most definitely enjoying myself. I just, I mean, it’s not usually how I behave. Most of my first dates don’t make it past the check. I’m not really sure what happened.”
“Vincent, look at me. Please.”
He moves his hands to his lap, and our eyes meet. Framed by those alluring lashes, there are tiny amber flecks in those hazel depths.
“I know you’ve been on many more dates than I have,” I say, pushing my glasses up, “but I’m guessing we both fall into the novice category.”
He chuckles and adds, “That’s one way to put it.”
When Vincent looks at me, his face softens, and I can glimpse the scared boy inside the grown man sitting across from me. The urge to connect. To encourage Vincent. A light floaty sensation overtakes my chest—there’s a hopefulness percolating inside me.
“All this stuff.” I grab the container of wipes and hold it up. “The napkins. The wipes. You know they’re just distractions. It doesn’t matter. I mean to me.”
“Stop being so sweet. You’re making this more difficult.”
I’m not trying to confuse him. We need to stop whatever this is. It’s not professional. Sure, he’s sexy. With those broad shoulders and shiny bald head, my dick was harder than it’s been in a long time. No pill required. Corrine would get a kick out of that. Wanting me to talk to him, unsure of what to say but craving to understand what tickled his fancy. Not knowing what I was doing, but he clearly got off on the attention—being called a “good boy.” Vincent seemed to enjoy it, and my cock throbbed at the praise–feedback loop. This isn’t how first dates are supposed to go. Not mine, anyway. Have dinner. Make small talk. Shake hands. Maybe a hug. Go home.
Unlike other queer dating apps, SWISH caught my attention because Gillian assured me it’s for more than hookups. I have a propensity to lead with my heart, and yet there I was, after my maiden voyage, back at his house with my dick in his mouth. Oy.
“Listen, we have to work together for at least the next six weeks,” I say, remembering why he’s here. “Why don’t we forget about last night? It never happened.” I glance around my office. Helen tries to keep my mess in check, but small piles of books, folders, papers, and a few stray empty cans of seltzer give away my propensity toward sloppiness. As much as I’d love to get to know Vincent better, this isn’t the time to become distracted. “My job hinges on this software implementation going smoothly.”
A hint of a smile wanders onto Vincent’s face. Would I love to revisit the scenario in his bathroom last night? Obviously. But getting this software up and running comes first. The school’s reputation and my job depend on it.
“Deal?”
Vincent nods four times, a blink accompanying each one, and replies, “Deal.”
CHAPTER 7
Vincent
Nod and blink.
Nod and blink.
Nod and blink.
Nod and blink.
Each time, my eyes close when my chin is closest to the floor, not on the upswing, never on the upswing. Kent doesn’t seem to notice; if he does, he doesn’t mind. Yet.
I’m not married to it, but I definitely have a type. A sweet face. Older. A soft, cozy, furry body. A scrumptious cock. Kent Lester. People often wonder why I’m into older men. They assume I must have daddy issues. Nope. I have a healthy relationship with my father, who seems more confused by my OCD than my sexuality. My parents are still married, going on forty-eight years together—and, from what I can tell, still happy. I simply prefer men who have some experience. Wisdom. Warmth. Patience. Give me something to grab on to and get lost in. My dick pulses, remembering Kent’s silver chest hair poking out from the V-neck. Stop. Focus on the task at hand, Vincent. This isn’t the time to get distracted.
Crash!
