Page 71 of Checking Out the Librarian

“Nooo.” He tried to cover his eyes, but it was awkward while holding a wine glass.

“Yes.” One of Connor’s big competent hands took away Jonathan’s glass and reached across to set it on the coffee table. Connor used a book as a drink coaster, and no matter how much his fragile librarian heart wanted to ache at the potential of a damp raised ring left on a book cover, Jonathan honestly couldn’t complain. Connor had books, stacks and piles of books, and he also read e-books and audiobooks and he talked about books.

“You’re so easy to rile up.” He gripped Jonathan’s legs and drew them farther into his lap, until almost all of Jonathan’s body was on top of him.

“I am not. I truly am not.”

“You truly are.” He cradled Jonathan’s head with one hand, and his lips fluttered across his jaw. Jonathan felt his eyes drift closed and he leaned deeper into Connor.

This. This.

“How about if you choose my outfit? You could make me pretty like the anteater mug says.”

He imagined Connor in short shorts, a deliciously indecent four-inch inseam on those bulging thighs, or maybe taking him the other direction, putting him in a frilly white shirt and letting his butt stretch a pair of tight dress pants.

He sighed. “It’s Eugene, which is great, but not San Francisco. And we both work with kids and families.”

Connor dropped his head onto the back of the couch. Jonathan immediately missed his closeness. “I know. We’ll probably see tons of people we know.”

Jonathan squirmed around to more easily look at Connor’s face. “What if we tell each other what we would wear if we were, I don’t know, independently wealthy? And going to Pride somewhere like Berlin or Toronto?”

Connor grinned with eyes that gleamed gold and green and hazel in the subdued light, and his shoulders curled around Jonathan’s body. “I like that. You first. Tell me what you’d wear.”

Jonathan pretended to think, but he’d known as soon as the conversation started what he wanted to wear for Connor. The image was saved in his favorite outfits folder, so he wouldn’t even have to scroll through a lengthy search.

“I saw a photo of a British actor wearing a sequined jacket, black and pale pink zig zags and wide lapels out to here.” Connor’s gaze tracked Jonathan’s fingers to where he pressed the middle of his clavicle through his linen shirt. “He was half-Chinese, built kind of like me, but the pattern and the lapels created an illusion.”

“I don’t want an illusion,” Connor whispered.

This man knew what to say. “The jacket did good things for his shoulders.”

He stretched to nuzzle the skin at the neck of Jonathan’s shirt. “Your shoulders are already good things.”

Parts of Jonathan’s body had entered the chat. “Instead of a shirt, he wore thin chains under the jacket.”

Connor had inhaled while Jonathan spoke, but then he stopped breathing. Until he exhaled one word. “Chains?”

“Silver chains, thicker than a necklace, but not what I’d describe as chunky, more sort of draped across his bare chest. I think it was a shirt made of chains.” He ran his fingers along the path he remembered, on top of his clothing, but he knew he was creating an image in Connor’s imagination.

“Chain. Mail.”

Connor’s lips were parted and his eyes gleaming pools reflecting a lamp on the table. He barely appeared to breathe.

He cupped Connor’s chin in his hand and ran his thumb over Connor’s lower lip until he felt the vibration of air going in and out.

“What else,” Connor whispered.

“Leather pants. The actor wore black, but I think for Pride I’d choose pink.”

“I want to see that. On you. Any color. And a bunch of necklaces on your chest. Ditch the jacket though. Sequins are scratchy and I need your arms uncovered.” Connor seemed to be describing a vision he already saw in his head.

“We can do that. But not at a family parade.”

Connor’s abs flexed underneath Jonathan as he jerked to sit more upright. “We can?”

“NYU for undergrad and grad school? Right there between Hell’s Kitchen and Chelsea? Unlike you, I actually own club clothing.” He was pretty certain his black leather pants would fit. It had only been eight months since he’d last worn them.

The sound Connor made was louder than a sigh and more shapely than a gust of air, nearly a plea, but not quite a word. Jonathan heard layers of yearning in a single syllable. While he let Connor enjoy whatever images spooled in his head, he himself quietly enjoyed Connor’s hands stroking from his shoulders to his thighs, the slight vibrations of their torsos against each other as they breathed. Both of them won.