“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-the-package 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.
