Page 14 of Checking Out the Librarian

In the end, they both ordered decaf espresso macchiatos that came in demitasse cups with twists of lemon zest and tiny spoons that looked unbearably twee in Connor’s hand, which gave Jonathan more unsettling thoughts about Connor’s hands and Connor’s thighs and, inevitably, Connor’s cock. They also shared a chocolate pot de crème and a tiramisu, neither as ignorable as the butter lettuce salad, but not the level of sublime that they would think about tomorrow. They didn’t even argue over the bill, just put both credit cards on the tray to split it evenly.

Without over-thinking, at least not by Jonathan’s standards of over-thinking, he and Connor were outside crossing the street. He was doing an exemplary job of existing in the moment. When he swayed toward Connor, it wasn’t from alcohol, because they’d each drunk only one cocktail and one glass of wine.

No, Jonathan knew he swayed toward all that solidity. Those shoulders and the chest that could absolutely do whatever he wanted to Jonathan, combined with the blushes and goofy smiles that complemented his awkward awareness that he was large.

Jonathan reached out, not quite sure what his hand was going to do once it entered Connor’s space, but then he wrapped his fingers around Connor’s wrist, above and below the band of his watch. He felt the round steel face settle into his palm at the base of his own fingers, felt the tiny knob on the side of the watch poke into his flesh, but that was overshadowed by the tickle of the hairs on Connor’s wrist against his fingers.

His chest hair had been visibly taunting Jonathan, adorning the exposed vee below his throat with golden promises of what might be underneath the fabric. Jonathan imagined a swathe of hair as soft and ticklish as the hair brushing the sides of his fingers.

Next to him, Connor exhaled. Jonathan sensed a heavier pull from the weight of Connor’s arm, as if a string in his shoulder had been snipped and Connor’s arm had been given to him to carry.

The lobby was much brighter than he remembered, and a few men lingered on the couches, talking, but more time getting to know each other didn’t feel necessary. He knew he wanted Connor, and he felt a surge of confidence that the man who had surrendered his wrist thought the same.

“Your room or mine?”

5

NO GRABBING

Which room? Connor’s brain was a whole beat, no, three beats, behind the question. “Either. Yours.”

Maybe Jonathan preferred to be in someone else’s room so he could leave. His dark eyes and curved pink lips were beautiful, but when everything in Connor’s brain focused on the spot where Jonathan’s hand remained tightly wrapped around his wrist, he couldn’t guess what the other man wanted. “You choose.”

The elevator doors opened and Jonathan stepped forward. In the instant it took to remind his own feet to follow, their arms stretched, but Jonathan didn’t let go of his wrist. He must look like an idiot with a man six inches shorter than him towing him—leading him? Taking him?—so how could he not look like an idiot?

No, wait, that was backward. He absolutely did not look like an idiot, because this hot guy was taking him to a room. Not the idiot, not at all.

He wanted Jonathan to keep touching him. He had tons of dog cuddles as well as grabby little people tugging at him all the time, so much that sometimes his job felt mainly like getting them to keep their hands to themselves. The gift he needed was someone touching him without a demand. Someone who wanted to touch him because they simply wanted him.

Jonathan reached out and pushed the button for the sixth floor. “Mine.”

Thank fuck he’d made the choice.

This was the purpose of the evening, not like it was a date-date. He’d been a yes, please from the moment he’d rotated on the bar stool and seen that lobby Jonathan was also Axel1998. The banter and laughter had momentarily obscured that he didn’t have to wonder what was going to happen next, all he had to do was stay onboard.

Absolutely the easiest thing he’d done in a very long time, especially since every square inch of his skin was focused on the way Jonathan had not let go of his wrist even now, standing side-by-side in the elevator.

Jonathan’s shoulder nudged Connor’s upper arm, and he pulled the back of Connor’s hand against his thigh. The white pants were smoother than he’d expected, and away from the restaurant he could catch a hint of citrus. He looked and smelled like summer.

Stand in your own space. No grabbing.

The doors opened.

Watch where you’re walking, follow the leader.

Sure enough, Jonathan led them to a door midway down the hall, pulled a keycard from his bag, tapped it on the reader, and then they were inside, every step without having released Connor.

The door clicked shut behind them. A lamp at the far end of the room provided a dim golden light, and more light spilled from a narrow gap in the partially open bathroom door. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough.

The waiting stretched but didn’t feel uncomfortable. He could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner, its quietness signaling the price of the room. He took another deep breath, seeking the summer-scent of the man who had turned to face him.

Then Jonathan lifted the hand that wasn’t bracketing Connor’s wrist and flattened it in the middle of Connor’s pecs.

Ahh. That slight weight felt so good that his eyes fluttered closed.

Jonathan pressed and walked him backwards until his shoulders connected with the door. He placed both of Connor’s palms flat on the slick surface and didn’t have to say leave them, because Connor understood from the way the other man deliberately smoothed over the backs of his hands and then traced each of his fingers where they pressed into the door that he was to stay like this, fixed in place, waiting.

He wanted this, so, so much.