Page 39 of Napkins and Other Distractions
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 PB&J 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.
