9781405979368 by Smakprov Media AB

Author’s Note and Content Guidance

Dear Reader,

First, thank you. For believing in my books, my characters, and the value of own voices stories. Writing Vincent and Kent’s story filled me with joy, and I hope you enjoy reading about these two older, flawed, but loveable men. Their romance trajectory may look different from the ones in my first two books, but it’s just as valid. These men captured my heart, and I hope you feel the same.

Napkins and Other Distractions is an open-door romance intended for mature audiences. The characters in the story are consenting adults, and there is explicit, on-page sexual content, explicit language, and adult situations.

While Vincent and Kent’s love story is low angst, there are also serious issues. Here are the content warnings if you need them.

Vincent has clinical OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), which includes the subtypes of contamination/mysophobia, relationship, order/symmetry, and intrusive thoughts. There is a scene with blood (a minor scrape).

My hope is people with OCD feel seen and represented, and others will gain understanding and empathy. Through my research/interviews, one thing I’ve learned is OCD is not a one-size-fits-all disorder. This is Vincent’s story, but everyone experiences OCD differently.

As always, if these are triggers for you, please take care of yourself.

All my best,

Vincent

The pristine napkins stacked neatly on the table emit a fresh linen scent. Clean and pressed. I adjust the top one, and the soft cloth soothes my fingers as I ensure it’s lined up with the one below. With each gentle nudge, the pile inches closer to perfection. Staring at the edges, my brain turns. Are they exact? Could I assemble them more precisely? My head tilts down, the familiar tunnel emerging, but thankfully, I’m interrupted.

‘Vincent?’

The welcome distraction comes from a white man I’m assuming is my date. Make that hoping. I’d guess him to be about six feet, with silver hair and a beard to match. Way better looking in person than his profile pic, he’s giving me Santa’s-younger-brother vibes, and maybe he’s my early Christmas present. He’s wearing a light blue button-down shirt, and half of the front flaps loose from his khaki pants. I’ve heard about this trend: the French tuck. You can paint it any way you like. It’s unkempt. There’s something on the front of his pants. They almost

look . . . frayed. But the smile on his full face, all cheeks, and maybe a dimple hiding under that scruff instantly warms my heart. His deep brown eyes shine behind red glasses, and a small smile forms on my face. One of his shoelaces dangles undone; it might be knotted, and I suddenly realize my date is more than frazzled.

‘Kent?’

‘Yes, it’s me. Kent. I’m him. Me. Kent Lester, I mean. Gosh, I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he says, shimmying out of his long dark coat and slinging it over the chair. He misses his target, and it thuds onto the dirty floor, the buttons clacking sharply against the wood.

I stand and put my hand out for a shake, and Kent takes it and pulls me into the biggest, warmest bear hug. The faint smell of a campfire wraps me in coziness as his arms gather my inch-shorter-than-his frame. The closeness tingles my skin, and I breathe in his toastiness, attempting to use my senses to shoo the uncomfortableness away.

‘There you are,’ he whispers into my ear. His breath dances onto my neck, sending a shiver up my spine. ‘I’m a hugger.’

I am most definitely not. Especially with strangers, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I came last week for a dry run with Marvin Block, cute kindergarten teacher, reigning Teacher of the Year (his words, not mine), and current close friend. We first met at this very table almost a year ago. It was a classic Vincent-one-and-done date setup by SWISH .

When I first read SWISH was ‘a groundbreaking queer dating app that promotes inclusivity by enabling users to chat and meet people who are looking for anything from casual friendships to

serious relationships,’ I took the bait. While Marvin may not have been ‘the one,’ he kept his promise to stay in touch and we’ve developed a genuine friendship. In that regard, SWISH delivered on its promise. I’ve even been back to The Purple Giraffe with Marvin and his fiancé, Olan. Between the first time and now – many other unsuccessful dates, the two times I’ve come alone, and last week’s dry run – I’ve been here exactly twelve times. Which makes tonight’s date lucky . . . oh fuck.

‘I hope that’s okay,’ Kent says, pulling out of the embrace, but still clutching my elbows.

‘Sure, yeah, I love a friendly hug,’ I fib. My skin prickles under my shirt, where his fingers still make contact. I find his eyes and they sparkle with kindness. A simple glance and he’s somehow settling me. With a deep exhale, I offer a small smile and attempt to appear like a person this man might find acceptable to date. At least once. Dinner. Tonight.

After the last few SWISH matches crashed and burned, Marvin suggested we have a ‘mock date’ here so he could offer some tips to tweak my game. It’s not my fault Jason (date five) never stopped talking, even with a full mouth. Crumbs shot across the table at me like a personal meteor shower. And then there was Mark (date eight), who took one look at my bald head and asked if I’d ever considered a hair transplant. When I didn’t answer, he asked if I wanted the number of his toupee guy.

Marvin offered suggestions on managing my OCD, starting conversations, and body language, and I’m ready to implement them all. Stay open. Listen to your heart. Be brave. Take a leap for love. That, plus his encouragement

to talk with my doctor about changing my medication, and I’ve been doing much better. Marvin is a sweetheart. He wants me to be happy.

As I take refuge in my chair, Kent, never breaking eye contact, attempts to sit, but slips on his coat, still sprawled on the floor, and almost falls off his seat.

‘Are you okay?’ I quickly move to assist.

‘Fine. Sorry,’ he stammers, catching himself on the table, ‘I’m a bit disoriented, is all.’

‘Take a breath. There’s nothing to be anxious about,’ I offer – Marvin’s advice to me now attempts to soothe my date as I neatly fold and hang his coat on the back of his chair.

‘Oh, I’m not nervous about, about, you. Us. This.’ Kent motions erratically to the table and the small votive flickers in fear. ‘It’s Sweetums. My cat. He gets medication, and, well, have you ever tried to pill a cat?’

‘I have not.’

‘It’s a bit like trying to cram a bowling ball into your pocket,’ he says and lets out a loud guffaw that startles the people at the next table. ‘Anyway, that’s why I’m late. And, well, a bit of a mess.’

‘You’re fine. I was only here a few minutes.’

Kent’s eyes fall on mine, and his smile returns. The whiskers in his beard prickle, but there’s nothing dodgy about him.

‘Thank you. Honestly, sometimes I wonder who’s in charge, me or the damn cat.’

‘Is he sick?’ I ask, attempting to calm Kent and get our date moving along.

‘Oh no. It’s for his nerves.’

‘You have a nervous cat?’

‘Apparently. Technically, it’s his tummy that’s nervous, and the medicine helps.’ He indicates the splotch and scratches on his pants. ‘Me cramming it down his throat every other day, not so much.’

‘Well, you’re here now. And looking exactly like your profile pic on SWISH , I might add. I can’t say that about most guys.’

‘Really? I mean’ – Kent runs his hands through his thick wavy hair – ‘Thank you. I mean you, you . . .’ He cocks his head.

‘Shaved.’

‘Yes, that’s it.’ He nods approvingly, and his lips turn up. His smile, sweet and kind, and the first hint of his teeth make my stomach flip.

‘I tried the mustache and goatee for a minute,’ I say, rubbing my naked chin, ‘but it was hard to keep tidy. I probably should take a new profile photo.’

‘No. You look, well . . .’ Kent tilts his glass to take a sip of water and somehow misses his mouth. ‘Cheese and rice!’

Water pours down the front of his shirt, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more discombobulated human.

He takes a deep breath, pats his shirt with his napkin, and, with a lower voice, whispers, ‘Can I be honest with you about something?’

The hairs on my neck tingle, and I need to remember to shave lower next time. We’ve just met, and he’s already confessing.

‘Of course, please.’

‘My cat is only half of it.’ He pulls his lips in and continues, ‘I literally just installed the app. You’re my first

match.’ A small giggle escapes his lips. ‘And my first date. Since I divorced my wife. Seven years ago.’

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

‘I’m bi. I mean, I was bi the entire time we were married. She knew. Knows. Corrine, that’s my wife. Ex-wife. She’s totally supportive. We’re friends. Exes. But the split was amicable.’

Not that I’m keeping score, but so far, Kent is late, frazzled, rumpled, divorced, wet, has a cat with a nervous stomach, and I’m his first match on the app. This is his first date since his divorce. Seven years ago. From a woman. My fingers fondle the napkins, pushing the corners closer, tighter.

‘Oh, well, that’s nice,’ I fumble out, tugging a loose thread on the bottom napkin. ‘You’re still friends with your ex. Not that you’re bi.’

Kent’s eyes go wide.

‘I mean, that’s great too. I mean for me, right?’ My shoulders creep up into a feeble shrug.

Kent’s friendly smile returns, and my fingers pause. The man may have a laundry list of cons, but Marvin’s words replay in my head. ‘Vincent, romance isn’t about tallying points.’

As if on cue, knowing the awkwardness was about to explode like a suddenly active four-thousand-year-old volcano, our server Val approaches.

Portland, Maine, has more restaurants per capita than any other US city besides San Francisco, but I’m always going to end up at The Purple Giraffe. Yes, they have a clean report from the health inspector, but also, familiarity. Control. Val.

Even when I’m unable to snag my usual table, Val claims me. Since we first met, she’s cut her hair, the high ponytail gone, replaced by a sharp bob that frames her pale skin. When I was here with Herbert (date four) she told me the fresh cut was part of her trying to embrace her thirties.

After my disastrous date with Marvin, I returned the next week solo. The food – a fusion of Mexican and Korean, a unique explosion of flavors in my mouth – beckoned. And I had a plan. If I kept coming back, I might become more comfortable and be able to relinquish some of my usual date rituals.

During that first return dinner, Val and I chatted. I explained and over-apologized for my OCD, and to my surprise, she was quite understanding. She always keeps a close eye on me and brings extra napkins without asking.

‘How are we tonight, gentlemen?’ Val asks, her familiar voice a welcome salve.

‘Good, we’re good,’ I say, willing it into reality.

‘Have you decided on drinks?’

We haven’t discussed drinks. Or food.

‘Kent, do you like wine?’

‘Very much.’ He folds his damp napkin in his lap. Maybe there’s hope for us after all.

‘Merlot?’

He nods, and his sweet smile, perhaps even a little goofy, prompts me.

‘How about a bottle?’ I say, pointing to the wine list.

Val dips her chin and raises her left eyebrow.

‘Absolutely. I’ll be right back with it.’

I move my hands to my lap, the promise of wine and

a small connection lulling my fingers to relax. Marvin’s words replay in my head. Be in the moment. Don’t dismiss outright. Sitting across from me, even in his tangled state, something about Kent intrigues me. He’s clearly older, but the SWISH age ranges only told me he’s ‘over 40,’ which technically, even though only by a few months, so am I.

Finally settled, Kent scans the restaurant. ‘This place is nice.’

‘Yeah, I love it. The food is fantastic.’ I dab the napkin on my lap. ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet here.’

‘Oh please, I’d meet you anywhere,’ Kent says, and his smile, soft, kind, and full of empathy, sparks something in my stomach.

‘So, you’re divorced. And you haven’t dated in . . . seven years?’ I ask.

‘Honestly, no. I haven’t had the courage. Corrine and I were college sweethearts, and well, I’m so out of practice. With apps and all, it’s not quite the same. Back then, you went to a club. A bar. Or met at a party. You gave out your landline number, went home, and waited impatiently for your answering machine to blink.’ He grabs his phone and lifts it. ‘None of this nonsense. My family takes a lot of my time. And my job can be consuming, and now, well, things at work are . . .’ Kent’s eyes drop to his lap and his voice trails off as he bites his lower lip.

Kent’s mention of work turns my thoughts to tomorrow. A fresh start for me – a new school implementation. After the last disaster, I need this one to be successful. Hopscotch, the software company I work for, gathers and analyzes data more effectively for schools. If it’s rolled out

correctly. This time I won’t fuck it up. My OCD won’t derail things. This time will be better. It has to be. My job depends on it. Bringing up work on these first dates is a convenient option, but it can be a minefield. Perhaps Kent shares this perspective.

‘Kent, may I propose we don’t discuss our jobs?’ I suggest. ‘Just for tonight.’

His eyes find mine again. Tiny lines crinkle around the edges as he grins at my offer. My heart beats a little faster. When he’s not tripping, falling, or spilling, Kent’s face has a warmth that’s doing it for me.

‘Really? You know, that sounds amazing – no shop talk. Let’s get to know each other without those boring details,’ he says.

‘Deal.’

Val returns with a tray carrying two wineglasses and a bottle. She pours the wine. I taste it, give her a single nod, and my shoulders drop as I sip. The weight of work, the stress, and the worry disappear down my throat along with the full-bodied, smooth liquid. Kent’s radiating kindness, which is incredibly sexy, overshadows his scattered nature and messiness. Something about the wine and this man across from me has my head swimming, and I’m optimistic this night won’t be a total disaster.

Kent

Did Sweetums take his pill with the enthusiasm of a lion crammed into a tiny cat carrier? Yup. Did he gag, hack, and spit up all over me? Twice. Was I worried about being late? Of course. Did I arrive discombobulated? Obviously. But that head. That bald, shiny, perfect work surface of a noggin shakes me to my core.

Vincent’s photo did not do him justice. Sure, he lost the facial hair, but he doesn’t need it. I can see more of his face this way. His beautiful punim. His creamy skin. Perfection. The photo was sweet. Cute. Approaching handsome. In person? Vincent is scorching hot. As my daughter would say, all the flame and chili pepper emojis.

Theo, the prickly but sweet custodian at school, assures me I’m a catch. He says anyone would be lucky to date me. For him, a certified grump, it’s a massive compliment or a complete load of crap. Ruth, the PE teacher and my work wife (Corrine’s words, not mine), told me guys might consider me a ‘daddy.’ My daughter, Gillian, is twenty-six and

hasn’t called me Daddy since she was in pigtails. ‘Dad’ suffices just lovely now. Sweetums is my kitty baby, although sometimes our relationship borders more on warden and prisoner. Theo and Ruth are the only queer people I’m close with, and I’m beyond grateful for their counsel. Seeing Vincent in person, something springs alive I haven’t felt in a long time. Something primal, deep, and it knocks me off center.

Agreeing not to talk about work is the blessing I need to get through this evening without melting into a puddle of despair. My life revolves around Lear Elementary. The kids. The staff. With our test scores nose-diving, the board mandated new software to collect and report on student data. The district is spending a fortune on the rollout, and I’ve got until spring break to see the implementation through. That will give us the rest of the school year to show growth with the new system. I see through Hopscotch’s innocent name; this is anything but good news.

‘To no talk of work,’ I say, lifting my glass. Vincent smiles, and his eyes sparkle. Maybe it’s the prospect of being on a proper date with a man for the first time in, well, ever, but I really hope Vincent doesn’t think I’m a complete dolt.

‘None,’ he replies, crashing his glass against mine. The force of the impact shoots an eruption of wine onto my shirt.

Vincent’s eyes open wide, and he immediately sets his glass down and grabs a napkin.

‘Kent, I’m so sorry.’ And he’s up, over, dabbing at my shirt.

‘It’s fine. Honestly, it was only a matter of time before I made a mess. You’re simply helping me hurry things along.’

I move my hand over his, and when my fingers brush his knuckles, a warmth sparks in my hand and travels up my arm. It’s been less than twenty minutes, and we’ve made skin-to-skin contact. Add that to the hug, and this is more intimacy than I’ve had in over seven years. My center simmers, and I shake my head, attempting to shoo the dizziness away.

He doesn’t stop, his determination clear as he vigorously tries to remove the stubborn spot, but even I know that red wine stains are no match for a cloth napkin.

‘Vincent, it’s okay. Really,’ I say and gently remove his hand, but keep ahold of his fingers. ‘I’m good.’

He moves back to his seat, breaking our contact and biting his lower lip. And for the first time, I notice the way his eyelashes frame his eyes. Maybe it’s the lack of hair on his head, but they’re long and curl up, almost touching his eyebrows when he blinks. How soft would they be between my fingers? Crap. I’m staring at Vincent’s exquisite eyelashes.

‘Tell me something you love,’ I say, scrambling to redirect myself.

Vincent’s eyes stare at the ceiling, searching. ‘Rumours.’ ‘Gossip? About celebrities? Ummm, I remember when Demi Moore and Bruce Willis split. That’s where my knowledge of celebrity news runs out.’

‘No, the album,’ he says with a laugh. ‘By Fleetwood Mac. I love it.’

Nodding, I try to remember which songs are on that

specific album. The CD might be in a crowded bin under my bed with other vestiges from college.

‘A solid choice. And what do you do . . . for fun? Not work,’ I clarify.

‘Hmmm.’ His eyes find the ceiling again, apparently his tell for deep thought. ‘Well, I love LEGO.’

‘Really? That’s brilliant.’

‘Something about the organizing, counting, building, following directions . . . it calms me.’

‘I can see that,’ I say. ‘I haven’t built a set in years. My granddaughter is more into . . . dramatics.’

‘You should do one sometime,’ he says, and my face immediately scrunches.

‘I’m not the most . . . graceful. I’d lose a piece. Knock it over. Ruin it somehow.’

Vincent’s entire body seems to tense at the mention of a missing piece. Or maybe it’s me.

‘Listen, I need to tell you something,’ he says.

‘Shoot.’ I wink and hope I don’t appear an ass.

Vincent takes two quick breaths before speaking.

‘I have OCD. Messes . . . They’re one of my triggers. Crumbs. Dirt. Chaos in general.’

My ribs grow tight, and I’m suddenly short of breath. The dizziness comes marching back, dragging along some lightheadedness for flavor. If you looked up ‘mess’ in the dictionary, there’d be photos of me in various states of disarray. Slipping with a tray of food in the cafeteria. Tripping on my own feet and falling on my ass during the third-grade science fair. Stumbling over the wires on the stage at the holiday concert.

‘But that’s not it. Sometimes I get stuck. It’s hard to

explain.’ Vincent nudges the napkin sitting next to his plate. ‘But with certain tasks, it’s like falling into a pit and not being able to climb out until the job is done.’

‘You like to finish what you start,’ I say, offering a smile.

‘Yeah, you could say that.’ Pushing his shoulders back, Vincent takes a deep breath. ‘And while I’m confessing, contrary to my profile, I’m not really allergic to cats. Or dogs. Animals just scare me. Technically, the germs scare me. Generally speaking, animals are filthy,’ Vincent says, glancing in his lap, and somehow this moment of vulnerability makes him even sexier.

‘Oh, well, that explains the wine on my shirt.’ I take my napkin, tuck it into my collar, and fan the fabric to cover the offending spot. ‘There, all gone.’ I smile. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

‘Thank you,’ he says, ‘I just want to be honest because, well, it’s been an issue. For other men.’

‘Vincent, I don’t know much about OCD, but you seem sweet, and nobody’s perfect. Look at me.’ I motion toward my oversized napkin bib. ‘And, I’m not other men. And, well, your SWISH photo didn’t do you justice,’ I say, and Vincent’s ears tinge pink. His lack of hair allows me to notice the gentle flush of his skin around his ears, enhancing his handsomeness.

‘Oh. Um, thanks. You too, I mean, you look better than your photo.’

‘Thank you. My daughter took it and promised it was the best option. She tried to convince me to color my beard first, but this is me.’ My fingers run through my soft scruff. ‘I try to take care of myself, but you know,

once you round fifty, everything gets so much harder to, well . . .’ I pause and pat my stomach. ‘Take care of.’

‘I bet. I mean, I can imagine. I just turned forty in September, but I can already feel gravity becoming an adversary,’ he says. ‘And the beard. Don’t change a thing.’

A smile blossoms on my face. He likes the gray.

‘Ah, forty, you’re a baby. Forty is fabulous. I started discovering my true self when I hit forty. But fifty, fifty is the new thirty, or that’s what I’m told. I’m fifty-two, by the way.’

I search Vincent’s face, hoping to catch a glimpse of his true thoughts on our age difference, but he only lifts the corners of his mouth as if I’ve just told him he’s won a luxury Hawaiian vacation.

‘If fifty is the new thirty, then forty is the new twenty. Which makes you a real daddy,’ he says playfully, twiddling his fingers on the napkin still resting on the table.

‘I’ve been told.’ I smile through the nerves in my tummy. ‘Nobody’s called me that in a very long time.’

‘Well, take it from me, it’s hot,’ he says. Vincent raises his eyebrows, and my wineglass slips, but I catch it before adding to the mess already paying rent on my shirt.

Val comes and takes our order. Vincent gets a bulgogi taco salad, and, feeling adventurous, I order the Seoul Burrito. When the food arrives, Vincent plays a game with his napkin. He’s doing some kind of origami. There’s folding, unfolding, refolding, moving, dabbing, and then he repeats the whole thing. When he catches me staring, he smiles.

‘I’m aiming for a clean spot each time I wipe, and well, I wipe often,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘You should’ve seen

me before. Piles and piles of napkins.’ Vincent motions to an imaginary tall pile on the table. ‘A friend taught me this trick. Now, I get by with only one or two.’

Vincent’s candidness is a breath of fresh air. Transparency, especially about anything considered difficult to discuss, isn’t easy. He’s winning points for being so straightforward.

‘Hey, that’s smart. And you know, I’m thrilled you’re comfortable being honest about it.’ My lips arrange into a smile at his openness.

‘What I’ve learned,’ he says, carefully digging into his bulgogi taco salad, ‘it’s just better for me to be frank from the get-go. Like this.’ He nods toward his food. ‘I don’t like my food to touch on a plate. But a salad. In a bowl. Everything mixed and touching? Perfectly fine. So, when I’m out with a handsome man . . .’ He blinks, and fuck, those eyelashes may be the death of me. ‘I stick to salads. My OCD can be annoying as hell, mostly to me, but it doesn’t define me.’

‘Of course not.’

Vincent takes a small bite, chews, and, before he even swallows, wipes what appears to be a clean mouth. He does his little folding ritual and starts over. There’s something endearing about the methodical way he moves, and I have the urge to find out more about him.

‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘What red flags are hiding under that wine-stained shirt?’

‘Which one would you like to hear about first?’ Another smile spreads across my face. ‘It’s been over seven years since I’ve been with someone. I haven’t been with a man

since high school, and that was only once,’ I say, omitting the gory details.

‘And don’t forget your cat,’ he offers.

I laugh, and my eyes focus on Vincent’s plump lips. Does all the wiping make them any less soft? Would he ever let me find out?

‘Yes, Sweetums can be a handful. But he’s not all bad. I promise.’ I take a sip of wine, careful to make sure my lips make contact with the glass. ‘And neither am I.’

‘Definitely not.’ His hazel eyes lock with mine. Those fucking eyelashes. Vincent blinks, and they pull my focus like a magnet. There’s a moment of silence. He seems to study me, and having him scrutinize me makes my skin tingle.

Val returns to clear our plates and asks, ‘Can I interest you in the dessert menu?’

Without taking his eyes off me, Vincent replies, ‘No, just the check, Val.’

He does this half-smile thing, and my pulse revs as my heart pounds in my chest.

‘Well, okay then, I’ll get the check,’ she says, and Vincent’s gaze falls to my lips.

‘How about dessert back at my place?’ he asks.

My eyes go wide and, en route to my lap, my hand smacks the handle of my fork, sending it sailing across the room until it crashes against the wall with a loud clang. On its journey, it fortunately misses the other guests and only serves to humiliate me.

A spinning breathlessness overtakes me. Back to his place? We just met. This was not on my bingo card for my first date in . . . forever. With his gentle smile and

non-threatening demeanor, Vincent wouldn’t hurt a fly. But that look in his eyes – a sparkling simmer intrigues me. What is he after? Catching my gaze, he raises his right eyebrow.

‘Um, sure.’

My head whirls and I grab my wallet from my pocket. What have I gotten myself into?

Vincent

I have never done this before. A blind date, one-night stand. Hookup. Whatever it’s called. It’s one of the reasons I like SWISH . The men are typically looking for more than a roll in the hay, but something about Kent . . . That beard. That silver hair. Those kind eyes. The soft dad bod I sense underneath his crumpled clothes. It’s been four years since anyone but my right hand has touched my cock. Marvin said to listen to my heart, but he didn’t mention my dick. Take a risk. Stay open. With Kent, all my cylinders are firing. I decide to go for it. Him.

Kent follows me home and parks in my condo’s guest spot. As we walk up the path, the sound of our footsteps echoes through the quiet night air. I offered him dessert but don’t have anything sweet. He has to know I didn’t invite him back to make hot fudge sundaes. Approaching the entry, I turn and shoot him a grin. Somehow, this sends him tripping over my doormat.

‘I’m fine. Sorry,’ he says, catching himself on the doorframe.

Nervous tension bubbles, but I’m not turning back. Marvin texted me on the ride home, and I told him the date was going extremely well. That man loves to text. I’ll give him the details in the morning. When there’s something to divulge.

Removing my shoes at the door, I glance at Kent, and without a word, he pops his off and carefully places them next to mine. Shoes are a start, but right now, I’m determined to separate Kent from his clothes.

‘I’m sorry again about your shirt. If you give it to me, I can use a stain stick on it. Get the wine right out,’ I say.

‘Are you trying to get me to strip?’

I am. This isn’t me. No one has ever been to my place for a date. Ever. But something about Kent’s sweetness. His face. That wavy hair. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, but the mood doesn’t strike often. And I can’t remember it ever striking like this. Sparks. Flames. The iron isn’t hot. It’s scorching. It wouldn’t be wise to waste it. There’s no backing out now.

‘Maybe.’ I close the door, and when it clicks, my palms find Kent’s chest, thrusting him against the wall. His glasses wobble with the impact and land askew on his face.

With the under-the-counter lights in the kitchen providing a modicum of illumination, we lock eyes. Kent pushes my buttons. His woodsy smell. I’m not an outdoorsy person, but I’d love to be smothered in this campfire. I grasp Kent’s shirt, but his eyes widen so I hastily let go, not wanting him to think I’m assaulting him.

‘Is this okay?’ I reach to fix his glasses.

He nods, but his searching eyes give me pause.

‘I really want to kiss you.’

My eyes land on his soft lips, surrounded by that shaggy but trimmed beard. The thought of kissing his mouth sends a wave of heat to my core.

‘Me?’ he asks.

‘No, I was hoping we could drive to your place, and I could kiss your cat.’ He laughs. A low, deep throttle and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. It’s rare for me to be this close to someone without wanting to flee. ‘Yes, you.’ My nose almost touches his. ‘You’re very sexy.’

‘Oh. Um, okay. Sure.’

And because almost everything about Kent butters my biscuit, I lean in, my nose brushing his. But then it hits me like a landslide – our mouths. We just ate. Both of us. Even all the wiping in the world won’t stop the odors. The textures. The germs. Familiar uncertainty looms. My stomach turns in tight coils, and fuck, I was so into this.

‘Can I ask a small favor?’ I ask, attempting a quick rescue.

‘Um, sure,’ he says. ‘You kind of have me up against the wall.’

‘Would you mind’ – I glance down – ‘brushing your teeth?’

‘You want me to drive home, brush my teeth, and come back?’

‘Gosh, no, I have a toothbrush. Toothbrushes. I buy them in bulk.’

A new brush every week because they’re a breeding ground for germs. And they’re amazing for cleaning grout and getting into tight corners.

‘I’ll brush, too. Please,’ I beg and begin unbuttoning his

stained shirt. A white V-neck allows a little of his chest hair to poke through, and for fuck’s sake, it’s silver too. The sight of it sends my cock lurching in my briefs.

‘I need us to clean our mouths.’ I brush his bottom lip with my index finger. It’s soft and warm. ‘Now.’

‘Vincent, listen,’ he says, reaching for my chin and lifting my head so our eyes lock. ‘My lips are vibrating because I want to kiss you so badly. Let’s get brushing.’

My head and heart tussle over the mood and my fears, but desire crackles at his comment. He’s so damn empathetic. He really doesn’t seem to mind.

‘Come,’ I say, taking his hand. My thumb grazes the velvety hair on his knuckles, igniting a wave of desire within me.

In the bathroom, I hand Kent a brand-new, still-in-thepackage blue toothbrush. He pops it open, and I put a dab of toothpaste on it for him before applying some to my own. We stand beside each other, brushing, facing the mirror, at my double vanity that’s never had a purpose before tonight. Kent scoots closer and knocks his hip against mine. When I look at his reflection, an encouraging foamy grin greets me.

‘My mouth is going to be so fucking clean,’ he mumbles through the toothpaste.

His words send another jolt of electricity straight to my cock. My weekly service scoured the bathroom yesterday, and I scrub surfaces every other day in between. It’s spotless. I can almost smell the bleach under the minty-ness in my mouth, and when I spit and rinse, Kent, taking his cue, does the same. I quickly wash my hands with soap, and Kent follows suit, copying every step so we’re equally sanitized.

Before he finishes drying his hands and mouth on the guest towel, I clutch his open shirt and begin tugging.

‘Can we take this off?’ I pull gently at it, avoiding the stain. ‘Please?’

‘So polite. Of course,’ he says and peels it off. He stands in only his white V-neck. His stomach protrudes enough to lift the hem of the shirt, and his soft belly, covered in salt-and-pepper hair, peeks through. My erection now aches against my pants. Kent holds the wadded-up garment, glancing around to find a place for it.

‘I can get that wine out for you.’ I take the shirt and throw it into the hamper in the corner. The remote on the vanity beckons, and I reach over and click play. Simple strums fade in, Lindsey Buckingham’s tenor begins, joined by the perfectly matched harmonies of the ladies, and ‘Second Hand News’ pours out of the ceiling-mounted speakers, filling the bathroom with music.

‘Rumours,’ Kent says.

‘Now,’ I say, rubbing my hands on his chest, sneaking up toward the exposed skin and hair, letting my clean fingers get lost in his silver forest. ‘May I?’

Our lips are inches apart, and his breath tickles my nose. Fresh and pristine. Fuck yes.

‘Are you ready for a kiss?’

Kent answers by brushing his lips on mine. His beard is softer than I thought, and I pull him closer, wanting to feel his body. All of him. He’s bigger than me, taller. Softer. Yup, there’s a sexy dad bod underneath his T-shirt, and my cock, at full attention now, rubs against his. I hope he’s not alarmed. He wraps his arms around me, drawing us even closer.

His hands land on my waist, and there it is.

Kent’s stiffness rivals mine, and the scared, worried me seems to take a temporary vacation. He could’ve taken one look at me, my rituals and triggers, my needs and insecurities, and said, ‘No, thank you.’ But he didn’t. He’s here. Deepening the kiss and slowly grinding into me.

Kent’s tongue slowly parts my lips, but he’s tentative. His kindness might be the sexiest thing about him.

Pulling back, he pauses the kiss. ‘Vincent, this all working for you?’

‘C’mere.’

Now I part his lips, my tongue jutting in, and he lets me enter. Soft moans escape his mouth, and kissing Kent here in my bathroom, the sensation of both our dicks pining for each other makes my head spin. His hands are above my ass, and a soft moan escapes my lips from the thrusting and friction. I’m fairly certain there’s precum in my briefs, and the seething heat takes over as my cock slides against the wetness.

‘Kent?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He’s back at my mouth. His hands have migrated to my neck, and his fingers explore the back of my head.

‘I don’t usually do this.’

‘Me neither. Never, actually.’

‘Okay, I just didn’t want you to think –’

‘Vincent, you know what I think?’ He nibbles my upper lip and runs his palm over my smooth head. When his fingers land on my ears, he rubs the lobes. ‘I think you’re beautiful.’

The electric guitar solo joins the song just in time to

fade out, and the drum kick and synths of ‘Dreams’ wash over us, saturating the room with musical perfection. My hands move under his shirt, and his body, velvety, but unexpectedly firm, makes my fingers tingle. Soft fur covers his entire chest and belly. Jackpot. My fingers locate his nipples and softly massage. ‘Dessert,’ I say.

‘You’re hungry?’

‘We were supposed to come back here for dessert.’

‘I’m fine, I promise.’ Kent dips back in for a kiss that takes my breath away. My mood. Something about Kent unglues me and right now coming untethered intoxicates me.

‘Kent, may I please suck your cock?’

Apparently, my rational thinking has taken a momentary leave of absence.

‘Um, what?’ Kent stumbles back against the vanity. He catches himself on the edge, and with a tilted head, his eyebrows have gathered for an important meeting.

‘I’m not always in the mood or ready, but right now, with you, I’m so fucking turned on,’ I explain, pointing to my tented pants, ‘and your dick is . . .’ I gently cup his groin. He’s firm, thick, and rock hard. ‘May I suck it? Please?’

‘Vincent, you don’t have to . . .’

‘I want to.’ I lick my lips, coating them in minty saliva. ‘Like, really want to.’

I massage him through his khakis, thankful the fabric is thin and soft.

‘I showered before our date,’ he blurts. ‘Before the cat pill fiasco, not after, but still, I’m only a few hours from sparkly clean. If you wanted me to jump in here, say the word, do you have guest towels?’

I unbutton his khakis, grab the waist of both his pants and his boxers, and push them to the ground in one fell swoop. Kent’s beefy cock pops up, and he wobbles for a moment. He steadies himself on the sink, and before I have a change of heart, I lower myself to my knees and take him in my hand. It’s been a while since I’ve held someone else’s dick, and Kent’s is a beauty. Long, thick, and cut, the pink tip taunts me.

‘You okay?’ I ask.

‘Um, yeah. Definitely.’

He’s looking down at me, watching me stare at his beautiful cock.

‘Could you . . . talk to me?’

The music. The harmonies. The crispness. It’s almost enough.

He’s been babbling until now, and his voice will seal the deal.

‘Talk to you?’

‘Yeah. Tell me what you like, what I’m doing well. If you could tell me, I’m’ – if I’m doing this, there’s no reason not to ask for exactly what I want – ‘good. A good boy.’

Ten years ago. In the sauna. A quick blow job. I barely remember him, but I’d seen him shower-scrubbing like there was no tomorrow. While he was using me, fucking my face, he called me a ‘good boy,’ and bliss washed over me. I felt safe. Cherished. Comforted. I’ve only had a couple of hookups since. Nobody’s called me that, and I haven’t had the guts to ask. But with Kent, I’m at ease. And why not? I won’t see him after tonight.

He reaches for my face, cups my cheeks, and rubs my ears with his fingertips. The music swells as his cock

9781405979368

M.A. WARDELL

NAPKINS & OTHER DISTRACTIONS

Napkins and Other Distractions

Teacher of the Year

Mistletoe and Mishigas

Husband of the Year

Napkins and Other Distractions

Teachers in Love: Book 3

m.a. wardell

PENGUIN BOOKS

Author’s Note and Content Guidance

Vincent

Kent

Vincent