"Right. And is there a particular reason why you've been doing it the past two days at precisely the time I walk past the front office as I leave for work? Or why you're at the furthest end of the marina from my yacht?"
"Coincidences," I lie, pasting on a smile in the hopes he doesn't see through my pathetic charade. I'm not holding outmuch hope. I push to my feet for the inevitable conversation I've been dreading. "I'm sorry about the other night."
"What happened the other night?" he asks, propping his hands on his hips, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
I know what I should say—I'm sorry for kissing you. That was inappropriate—but the words don't come out.
"Because if it's about the kiss," he says, drifting closer toward me, his voice low and throaty. "There's no need to make a big thing out of it. Except for…"
I blink. "Except for what?"
The pier jolts as a few waves crash against it, and he's suddenly a lot closer than he was a few seconds ago. His sharp, citrusy cologne mingles with the salty air.
He latches onto my arms, holding me steady. "Except it was nowhere near long enough, which leads me to believe that maybe Montanaian men just aren't very good kissers."
"I can assure you, we areexceptionalkissers."
He makes a hand-talking gesture and rolls his eyes, which makes me laugh because it's funny enough on its own but even funnier coming from a guy dressed in a business suit. He's wearing a white linen shirt, folded up to the elbows, and when he lets his hand fall, he brushes the backs of his fingers lightly along my cheek. "Yeah? Prove it then."
Whatever fire lit inside me three nights ago that propelled me to kiss him reignites in my chest. I close off the last few inches of air between us. "Fine. I will."
And with that, I tug him into me by his pretty dress shirt and show him just how well Montanaian men kiss.
It starts off slow, but it's by no means a handbrake to the fever pulsing through my veins. The same way you swirl and smell a fine wine before sipping it, the gentle press of my lips against his is a precursor, a moment of appreciation before getting a proper taste.
Clayton presses his hand into my lower back, drawing me right into him. He then parts his lips ever so slightly like he did last time. The other night, I balked. This time, I'm not going anywhere.
I take the opening and slide my tongue into his mouth, exploring, reveling in the pleasure coursing through me. This is crazy, but at the same time, it feels so right. The kiss builds, growing deeper, more intense, until I pull back.
Technically, I'm working, and we are out in public. The locals here are pretty open-minded, but no one wants to wake up to two men mauling each other on the pier when they step out for their morning coffee.
"There," I murmur, lifting my chin and stepping back a little so I have a clear view of his handsome face. "How was that?"
The smile that curves his just-been-kissed lips sends my heart spinning. He locks his kind brown eyes onto mine and says, "Exceptional."
12
Clayton
My brothers like to rag on me because I've always liked going to self-improvement workshops and retreats. I admit, sometimes they can be a little too woo-woo, even for my liking, but I always find I get something out of it. As Michaelangelo—from the Renaissance, not the Ninja Turtles—said at the age of eighty-seven: "I am still learning."
And I think it's because of my lifelong interest in exploring emotions and being able to identify and communicate what I'm feeling that I've been able to cut through my confusion, surprise, nerves, and trepidation at the recent development between Vaughn and me. Despite the less-than-ideal timing, I'm giving myself permission to just enjoy it, go with it, and see what happens.
Since our kiss last week—the proper one, where tongues were involved and his erection pressed against mine—we've started hanging out most days after work. It's nice to watch the sunset and share a meal with someone. I'm enjoying getting to know Vaughn better, or rather, what he chooses to offer of himself.And I'mdefinitelyenjoying our post-food, post-chat make-out sessions on my couch.
We're in the middle of one right now, with Vaughn lying on top of me, his tongue plunging around in my mouth and my hands kneading his tight ass so hard it'd make Buddy Valastro proud. I thrust my hips up, grinding against his equally hard cock, eliciting an unguarded grunt from him that's quickly become my favorite sound in the world.
If Mabel wasn't in the room, I'd be more adventurous, testing his limits, seeing how far underneath his clothes he'd let my hands roam, but it doesn't feel right with her here, even though a cyclone could probably hit and she wouldn't notice, transfixed as she is by Bluey playing on the flat screen.
"Any updated thoughts on this particular Montanaian's kissing skills?" Vaughn murmurs, his voice tinged with that subtle accent I'm really digging.
"Beyond exceptional." I stroke a stray strand of dark hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. "The Montanaian Tourism Bureau should reach out. You'd be an asset."
He grins and frowns at the same time. "You want me to take my kissing skills to a wider audience?"
"Hell, no," I growl when the implication of what I blurted hits me. "Sorry. A bit hard to think when I'm experiencing a severe lack of blood supply to the old noggin."
"Don't be too hard on yourself." He bats those long eyelashes at me. "You're doing pretty well to keep up with me…for an old guy."
