Page 78 of Checking Out the Librarian

“I’m going to land war in Asia your ass. We have to ride back to the car and there will be no mercy. No mercy at all.”

Connor filched the spare clean fork from the other side of the table and dug into the fluffy dessert. That soft lower lip might be caught in a scowl, but Jonathan’s body was already curving back toward the table, so Connor didn’t believe the anger.

Or at least not much of it.

Jonathan’s gaze dropped to the fork in Connor’s hand. “Really?”

Connor held it out with a perfectly-sized bite. “It’s yours.”

Like me. Like everything.

Jonathan’s head tilted and he continued to scowl, but he reached for the fork. “And I remind you, I’m not a baby bird. I feed myself.”

“I’m giving you the fork.” And myself.

The next six minutes—Connor timed it—were torture. Jonathan kept his gaze locked on Connor’s as he took small bites of tiramisu and licked his lips between each taste. His tongue peeked out. Cocoa powder dusted the dip in the center of his top lip, but he didn’t lick that away.

No, he left it for Connor to focus on. Somehow this square of soft, fluffy dessert required him to nibble the flesh of his lower lip and drop his chin and stare at Connor like a…Connor didn’t know the word.

He didn’t know what Jonathan eating that tiramisu was doing to his brain, beyond taking his words and his breath and leaving him a husk.

Then he finished. Even when Jonathan stood, hands on his hips, Connor didn’t know what to do. “Time to go, Connor.”

He wanted to. He did. Leaving would get him closer to being alone with Jonathan and wrapping his hands around Jonathan’s waist and sliding them to that perfect butt and lifting him against Connor’s own body.

Leaving was the first step, but he wanted a car to miraculously appear. Most of all, he didn’t want to go back on the two-wheeled ass-torture device. “I’m happy right here. On the cushion you brought me.”

“You’ll be happier at home. Want to know why?” Jonathan’s voice was too low for the other diners to hear, but to Connor it was the soundtrack of a delicious villain coming to torture him.

Slowly.

“Because you’ll be sucking my dick. And then maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll suck yours.” He glared at Connor.

Villain.

“Now stand.”

Yes.

Connor pushed his palms onto the tabletop, had a quick internal conversation with his quads and glutes and they were in agreement on going home. Home was Jonathan’s hands in his hair, home was skin with clean soap smell, home was tracing the line of Jonathan’s spine with his finger, home was a blowjob.

Twenty-four miles on those damn wheels first, but he could do it.

By the time Jonathan dropped Connor at his house, returned the bicycles to his own apartment, showered alone, which was less fun than showering with Connor, and then returned to Connor’s with what amounted to two days’ worth of clothes, he was certain he had a problem.

He’d considered leaving the bicycles in Connor’s garage, showering there, and not going home. That was the problem. Their lives were moving in ways that had barreled past dinners and dicking around and caromed directly into mutual assumptions of coming-over-tonight territory.

He paused on Connor’s front porch. At least he wasn’t letting himself in the door. Yet.

He wasn’t exactly afraid of being in like with someone, but every time Connor made references to coming to Jonathan’s apartment or began sentences with “When we” or “We could,” his insides squiggled around.

Compliments made him want to hide, praise made him disputatious, and no matter how good he was at ignoring problems, a relationship was going to require change.

Connor let him in, and he went through the routine of removing shoes and petting Ribby before following Connor, who was describing dinner, into the kitchen.

Jonathan excelled at ignoring problems. He’d ignored his own parents this time for eight weeks and counting, so he could ignore why he might be low-key panicking about whether or not leaving more than one pair of briefs here was okay, and whether they should verbally confirm that they were exclusive or whatever-whatever.

Connor picked up a vegetable peeler and Jonathan reached for his water glass, one that he’d left in exactly this spot this morning and which was still waiting for him on the kitchen counter. Acting nonchalant about having a usual spot in the line of shoes and a waiting water glass required him to sustain his side of a casual and meaningless conversation, and most definitely not to blurt out any weird relationship questions better asked to internet strangers.