By the time I’d made it to the supply closet, I was sweating, sure everyone in the office knew that I was half-hard at the idea of my fiancé sucking my dick in a place where we could get caught and most likely fired. Granted, I was usually sweaty, so I hoped that would throw some people off the blowjay trail. I didn’t know if it was possible for a man of my stature and personality to be subtle, but I sure as shit was going to give it the old college try.
“Oh!” I said quite loudly. “I have to go into the supply closet to do… supply… closet… things. Like, take stock of the… Post-its. No one had better bother me, because God help you if you make me lose count.”
No one even looked in my direction.
I was a master of subtlety.
I went into the supply closet, slamming the door behind me.
And there, in all his glory, stood Vincent Taylor.
The problem with him standing there in all his glory was that I was trying to think nonsexy thoughts. And all his glory consisted of looking like a motherfucking hot piece of ass. It was extraordinarily unfair what suspenders could do to a man, namely him. And also me. If I tried to wear suspenders, I looked like I was auditioning to play a mall Santa at Christmas with my bowl full of jelly.
When Vince wore suspenders, it caused boners—of both the male and female variety—for everyone within a one-block radius. And yes, he knew that, the smug bastard. After all, he saw the look on my face every morning when he got dressed and decided that day felt like a suspenders kind of day. It probably also didn’t help his ego that I would stand in our bedroom, jaw slacked and drooling, watching him clasp the suspenders to the top of his slacks (like he was moving in slow motion, the bastard).
(And there may have been that one time (seventeen times) that he’d worn the suspenders with no shirt and only his underwear, grunting when I snapped the elastic material against his nipple ring, flushing and telling me to do it harder, he needed it harder—)
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
“Witch,” I hissed at him.
He arched an eyebrow at me, that smug fucking grin on his face growing a little wider.
I coughed. “Um. So. Hi. How is your day going?”
“It was going fine,” he said. “Until I got a phone call from Sandy saying that you were getting weird again.”
“I don’t get weird.”
“A little weird.”
“You’re a little weird.”
He shrugged. “Probably. But that’s okay. Being a little weird got me you, so I don’t really care about that sort of thing.”
“Oh sweat balls,” I said weakly. “You can’t just say stuff like that. You know what validation does to me.”
“Really?” he said, taking a step toward me. I took a step away but didn’t get far as my back pressed against the door. “What does it do to you, Paul?”
Like the asshole didn’t know. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I came in here to count the Post-its.”
“Uh-huh.” He stopped right in front of me. The top button of his dress shirt was undone, and a little bit of chest hair was poking out. Which was distracting. In the best way possible. He leaned forward, and I thought he was going to kiss me or put his hands on my hips, but instead, he twisted the lock on the door. There was an audible click. His breath was on my ear as his cheek scraped against mine. “Post-its are right there. Go ahead.”
“Um. You’re. Sort of. In my way?”
“How about that?” he said, not moving at all. “Real sorry about that. So, about that phone call.”
“Sandy lies about everything. It’s a real problem.”
Vince snorted, which was disgusting because it was right in my ear. “So you’re not worried?”
“Pfft. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He leaned back so he could look me in the eye. “Paul.”
I swallowed thickly. “Yes?”
The heat in his gaze softened. “You know I love you, right?”