For the Bite of It (10 page)

“No, you don’t back away now.
Sono troppo affamato per te.
”

“I have no idea what you said.”

“Si. Il linguaggio dell'amore.”

If Vincent didn’t stop spouting flowery nonsense, John was going to crawl up his body and eat him alive. “Mmm. Whatever you said, you sound sexy as hell.”

John slipped off his shirt, and unzipped his pants, wanting to free himself, finally, and surrender to this deep need for Vincent. With his control shot to bits, just this once he’d enjoy heaven. Fuck his rules.

Pinned against the door, but liking it, he rubbed his crotch against Vincent’s hardness as he tore off his shirt, then set to work on his pants. Lust rippled through him like his muscles during a workout—strained, taut and sweaty.

Finally they were both naked and on the bed rolling around. He didn’t remember walking to the bedroom. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest but he held it in as Vincent’s kissed his…

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
…

Was his tongue on his…shit.

The dream had been fantastic but this beat any fantasy.

Vincent’s cheeks hollowed as his mouth sucked on John’s dick. His expert tongue ran over him, licking, probing the head. His balls tightened and he moaned as Vincent’s fingers brushed over his sensitive skin. Sensations flared in his groin and spread a rage of heat across his chest, almost stopping his breath.

Too good, too right, too incredible to stop, not that he even considered stopping.

He bucked into Vincent’s mouth and groaned. “Jesus, keep going.” Grabbing Vincent’s hair, he pushed further into the hot moist clench.

Damn wine. He’d drunk too much, fogging his brain, letting his cock dictate his actions; actions that probably would have lasting consequences. Deep in his subconscious, he knew he couldn’t stop with a one-night stand. This sex was addicting.

Vincent’s tongue licked across the length of John’s dick, teeth gently nibbling the head. Then a lick to John’s slit sent shivers through him. Grasping the bed covers, he arched his back, his knees spreading apart to accommodate Vincent’s head buried between his thighs.

His cock slipped out of Vincent’s mouth, then those clever lips feathered up the cleft of his hips. Another sweep of lust hit his chest, and he glanced down unable to hold back a moan.

“Very pretty…yes, very.” Vincent licked his lips, his eyes shining, and his pupils large and dark as he peered at John, all the while trailing his fingers over John’s cock, stroking it softly, firmly cupping John’s balls.

Trapped in the moment by Vincent’s lust-filled eyes and body, John was reminded of a mountain lion, brown and fluid in motion. Those hands knew what they were doing. He closed his eyes and sensations riddled his body.

Vincent kissed John’s thigh before bending his head again, and John’s dick rose to meet those lips. How embarrassing. John shakily adjusted his hips. Vincent ran the tip of his tongue along his slit. He fought not to buck again, but this only intensified all the feelings coursing through him.

John gasped. “Oh God, finish it.” He was going crazy, needing release, something.

A hand cupped his balls and gently squeezed. Then a finger rubbed between his scrotum and hole as lips tightened around his shaft. His asshole twitched as the finger got closer. Shit. Burning inside and out, he wanted that finger inside of him, but damn.

John moaned, his head thrashing back and forth. As Vincent sucked him all the way in, he grabbed the slim shoulders and squeezed hard.

The pressure of Vincent’s expert tongue slipped along the sensitive underside of John’s cut head. Then the tip of his cock hit Vincent’s throat, the sucking motion of his lover’s cheeks setting a constant rhythm bringing John to the brink of insanity.

“Faster, harder,” John screamed out.

But Vincent went slow and gentle and easy, relentless and steady. The intensity built, and was too powerful to contain. Every one of John’s muscles grew taut as he gripped the covers tighter. He squeezed his eyes and pressed his lips together. The strokes grew long and smooth, and he let go and soared. He wafted slowly down from the stars, vaguely aware of Vincent taking him in his arms.

Longing to drift away, his lids drooped with sleep,

Vincent snuggled into his arms. “You taste sweet. It must be all those desserts you eat.” Then he kissed John as if to make a point. “See.”

“I taste us.” John let his hand rest on Vincent’s erection. “What about you?”

“Later.” Vincent settled them both under the covers.

“This was…not sure I can put it in words.”

“It gets a lot better,
amante.
Rest now.”

So nice to sleep with a man was John’s last thought.

As John’s eyes fluttered closed, he remembered Vincent saying this in his dream. He tried to figure it out but was soothed by the low murmur of Vincent’s voice. “
Sonno il mio amore.”
He would have to remember to check those sexy Italian phrases on Google translator. He wondered what the Italian word was for
addiction
before falling into a deep sleep.

The sun sneaking under the blinds woke John. An arm slung across his waist, a hot body pressed into his backside. That wasn’t all pressing against him. Oh fuck. Last night he’d crossed the line. He slept with a man who lived in town, and a man who in all probability wanted to see him again. And he did want to see him again, and next time, eat him alive.

He rubbed his hand down his face but it didn’t change his situation. He turned slightly and smiled despite his confusion. Vincent slept soundly, his mouth swollen but beautiful, his face peaceful. Not his usual demeanor or cocky self-assurance.

Careful not to wake him, John lifted the sheet stained from their all night sex marathon. They had done things he hadn’t thought he could with a man. They hadn’t fucked, but came damn close.

He slipped out of the bed, grabbed a fresh change of clothes and quietly clicked the bathroom door behind him. A few steps and a closed door blocked out Vincent. He smiled to himself as he turned on the shower. Maybe it had been just sex, but it felt like something much more than two men humping. He’d never been in a serious relationship. He was terrified but excited thinking of Vincent as boyfriend material.

He hummed an off-key tune as he showered, feeling light and…happy.

Before he left his apartment, he scribbled a note to Vincent asking him to lock the door on the way out. When he opened the front door, he gasped, taking a step back.

“John, honey, I’m so glad I caught you before you left for work.” His mother smiled, holding up a plastic bag. “I brought those sheets I told you about that I picked up on sale. Why don’t I put them on your bed?”

John blocked the door, trickles of sweat dripping down his neck. “Mom!” He kissed her cheek. “Ah, great. I’ll take those.” He grabbed the bag and held it to his chest but his mother pushed past him.

“Smells good in here. That’s French Roast brewing. I’m dying for a cup.”

John shot a glance at his closed bedroom door. “Ah, you know, I’d love for you to stay but I’m late for a meeting.” He looked at his wristwatch for effect, hoping his mother would take the hint and leave.

“Go on,” She made shooing motions with her hand. “I’ll just change your sheets and then lock the door behind me.”

“You know I like to wash them first.”

“Already done.”

John tossed the bag on the nearest chair, his eyes darting to the bedroom. “Yeah, and well—”

His mother looked over to the closed door and her hand tugged at the collar of her blouse. “Oh, oh, I see. Why didn’t you tell me you had someone over?” Then she gave him one of her hundred watt smiles and his heart sank.

“Is she that cute D.A. you told me about?”

John rubbed his temple, hating to lie to his mom. She deserved better from him but what choice did he have? He spent most of his adult years lying about his relationships. “She’s someone I just met.” He ushered her toward the front door. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for the sheets.”

The sound of the shower running sent John’s heart racing. Shit. He had to get his mom out his apartment, and pronto. Then his stomach lurched as Vincent sang out loudly in Italian. Oh fuck sakes, now what did he tell his mom?

“Oh, is that a man’s voice?” His mother’s blue eyes became round as saucers as she curled a lock of blonde hair behind her ears.

“The radio! That’s the radio. Ah, she likes opera and shit.”

“Hmm, is she Italian?”

John grabbed his mother by the elbow and opened the front door. “Yeah. I gotta go. My ass will be grass if I don’t make that meeting.”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “Watch your language.” She stepped out into the hall, and half turned, grinning. “Bring her to Sunday dinner.”

John slumped against the doorjamb as he watched his mother get into the elevator. Fuck. That had been a close call. And to think just moments before he’d been ecstatically happy?

Happiness in a relationship was impossible when closeted. He sighed and listened to Vincent sing. The man had a deep rich voice, and he loved hearing him talk with that sexy accent of his. He also had enjoyed their dinner conversation last night.

And the sex, well there was nothing to say but how fantastic it’d felt being touched, stroked, held by him.

All of it impossible as proven by his mother’s unexpected visit.

Once outside, he got out his cell phone and called for a taxi. The phone shook in his hand.

The taxi pulled up alongside his car in the restaurant parking lot. He paid the driver and got into his jeep but didn’t turn on the engine. Instead, he rested his head on the steering wheel. He had to get it together. He had a case to close. His job would get him through, it always did.

One night with Vincent had to be enough. He wasn’t willing to come out to his parents or his co-workers.

A knot formed in his stomach getting harder and bigger. He controlled his sexual needs as he controlled all parts of his life. Nothing had changed because he’d met the man of his dreams.

Dreams quickly turned into nightmares.

Vince glanced around the kitchen looking in vain for something else to do.

Anything. The appliances gleamed, a person could eat off the floor in a pinch, and every tin can in the pantry now carried proud rainbow-hued labels.

“Man, when you organize, you organize.” Greg stopped in his line of vision and admired the squeaking clean kitchen. “You stay here all night or something?”

“Or something,” muttered Vince unwilling to be drawn into a discussion of his cleaning neurosis. When playing the piano could no longer distract him, he’d come into the bakery to scrub. “Let’s leave it there, huh?”

Relieved when Greg let it drop with a shrug that clearly spelled
you have a problem
, Vince hastened to change the subject. “Use the office computer to print up your flyers, if you like.”

Last week Greg had presented him with a proposal. One evening a week, he would offer baking classes in Vince’s kitchen. Greg would pay for supplies and renting the place.

“Thanks, boss. You’ll be glad you agreed to this. I’ve done some market research. You know those surveys you said I could hand out, I got about seventy-five back and forty people said they would definitely attend a class at least once.” He pulled a folded sheet from his pocket and unfurled it. “Twenty-two said they might attend more than one class.”

“Okay, okay.” Vince stemmed the eloquent flow of numbers. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

Vince had spent a few moments thinking about this venture—between dreams of John, self-flagellation for being stupid, and scrubbing the bakery while he waited for John to call. He fingered the note John had written him. Vince, sentimental fool that he was, had stuffed it into his pocket. How long should he wait before he could call his lover and not look pathetic?

“Hey, Vince?” called Greg. “Where’d you go, man?”

Dreaming impossible dreams.

He pulled his attention back to Greg with an effort. If this gig took off it could be good for the bakery. If it didn’t, Greg wouldn’t have the money to pay for anything and Vince would write it off as a loss.

“The bakery could use a shot in the arm, something innovative. Try out your plan for a couple of months. If it’s successful—that is, you have at least ten students a class—we’ll work out a deal about the rent and profit sharing. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll talk about the next steps.”

“Man, you’d do that for me?” Greg ran a hand through his hair spiking it even more in his excitement.

“I’m doing it for the business.”

Vince knew Greg wasn’t fooled. He was giving Greg a ‘no strings attached’ investment because he had a soft spot for someone like his assistant who was ambitious and worked hard.

“You’re the best, Vince, you know that? I should be singing your praises from the rooftops.” His words died out as his head tilted. “In fact I’ll do that. It’s open mike on Thursday.”

Vince nearly groaned. Greg singing a poem about him during open mike at Hank’s was all he needed to complete the week from hell. Between pondering the
J’s
offer and wondering why John had not called, he was tight as a damn drum.

“You try that shit, Greg, and the deal’s off. You hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah. So when can I start?”

“You’ll want to give people a couple of weeks to sign up. I’d say put your flyers up and give it two weeks. I know you have a good plan in place but one suggestion. Offer them a discount if they pre-pay.”

“Good idea.” He glanced around the kitchen. “So we all set here?”

“Sure.”

Greg left with a trail of thank you’s. Vince had a bad feeling he should avoid open mike night at Hank’s this Friday. Or, he could go and see if someone new caught his eye. Once he’d been physically active, it was hard to be celibate again. But he didn’t want anyone but John. The man had crawled under his skin as if he intended to stay a while.

He looked around the gleaming kitchen. There really wasn’t anything more he could do short of alphabetizing the pantry and he could imagine what Greg would say to that. His office was safe from his cleaning frenzy since Greg was printing flyers.