Page 47 of Checking Out the Librarian

“Now I would like breakfast.” Jonathan put a finger under Connor’s chin, closing his mouth and taking charge of him with only that finger. “If I enjoy the French toast, if it is as good as you promised, then I’ll reward you.”

Don’t come, don’t come. Make breakfast first. Make very good breakfast. Most excellent breakfast ever.

Connor nodded. Warm fingers glided down his neck to rest at the point where his tendons connected with his shoulder.

“Did I put this mark on you last night?” Jonathan’s voice was low and thick.

He didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded again. He remembered Jonathan’s mouth, on him, sucking.

This morning he’d worn his deepest neckline T-shirt so that he could study the purple-pink irregular oval while he did squats in front of the mirror. Its brighter pink center was a promise from Jonathan’s lips.

It had required enormous willpower to focus on his form and counting reps, because all he’d wanted to do was rack the weights and rotate in front of the mirror searching for more places where Jonathan had left marks.

Jonathan continued to stare at him, his eyebrows crinkled down as if he was searching for something in Connor’s expression, maybe reassurance that sucking color onto his skin was okay. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.” It was summer, so there was no problem with work.

Thinking about the mark on his neck made him feel loose and floaty, like he was on a sunbaked patio with a margarita. Connor smiled at him, because for some reason Jonathan liked it when he did.

“I looked at it while I was working out.”

Jonathan smiled back, but it wasn’t one of his exasperated smiles, or his triumphant ones, or the secret, small ones that betrayed his inner thoughts and which Connor was beginning to recognize.

It was a new smile, one that made an image of a mink or a wolverine flash in Connor’s mind, some dark-furred wild creature with sharp bright eyes. It was a smile that made his cock beg.

“I’m glad.” Jonathan pressed firmly into the love mark and then rolled Connor’s skin between his thumb and finger, a squeeze that arched Connor’s spine until he nearly lifted from the floor.

It didn’t hurt, it felt amazing, like Jonathan knew more about Connor than anyone ever had. Jonathan knew he wanted to be claimed.

Fuck, fuck, his cock thought so too. He was coming, pulled so tight he was losing his balance and toppling.

He squeezed his eyes shut and threw his arms around Jonathan’s waist to stay upright. His nose was buried in the shirt fabric, and he was surrounded by the heat and scent of Jonathan’s skin, Jonathan’s cum, Jonathan’s sweat. That scent was everything.

He was still coming. Fuck. Still coming.

After, there was a long moment when he clutched Jonathan’s waist, breathed against the crushed fabric and the skin of his stomach, and felt like nothing more than the blank expanse of empty page at the end of a chapter. The next thought hadn’t started rushing at him yet.

Oh God.

The next thought arrived like a line drive from a designated hitter.

How had he.

Why had he.

He was messy-texting himself in his head, like one giant typo, and how was he going to stand. His legs weren’t working. He couldn’t possibly cook in these sopping sticky shorts, so he was going to have to go upstairs, and Jonathan would leave.

He clutched Jonathan’s waist harder, because he couldn’t let him leave, not yet.

Stay. With me.

“Shhh.”

Jonathan shifted his hands to Connor’s head, to his hair, but differently this time, stroking it away from his forehead with soft fingers. That touch might be the only thing keeping Connor here.

“Shhh. That was a lot, I know that was a lot.”

Was he shaking? Maybe he was shaking. He wanted to tell Jonathan not to worry about him, but the noise he made into the skin of Jonathan’s stomach didn’t match the thoughts ricocheting in his head.