Page 8 of Checking Out the Librarian

Then Connor’s wayward gray-matter superimposed a waterfall of a white cravat at the neck of the shirt. Tall black boots too, in the English style, made of slicker and shinier leather than Western ones.

He absolutely needed this man to wear tight boots over his calves so he could kneel and run his hands over leather and up those lean thighs. The tilt of his pointed chin would be raised higher by the crisp linen at his throat, and his hooded eyes would glare at Connor. He’d order Connor to kneel in a bored voice, but then nothing after that would be boring.

“Sir?”

Connor re-entered reality in the lobby. The other guest’s gaze flicked over Connor, down past his stomach and legs and then back to possibly—yes? Please yes—stop at his thighs before he met Connor’s own stare. He had a tiny bit of glittery shadow in that space immediately under his eyebrows that wasn’t his eyelids. What was that spot called? Connor wanted to rub his thumb gently across the glitter and smear it. If he didn’t already have plans…

The man paused and locked his gaze with Connor’s.

Shit, probably the entire lobby was staring at Connor in his ratty cargo shorts and his ripped shirt, judging him for being a doofus who dared to gaze upon a guy who looked like that.

The other man lowered his chin and the corners of his lips curled up a tiny bit, and a crazy feeling he couldn’t name flared inside Connor’s chest, but then the guy tilted his head to the desk, as clearly as if he’d ordered Connor to go check in.

The formalities of giving his name and credit card went quickly and required no thought, which was good because half his mind was still kneeling in front of a man in a cravat and boots who didn’t even exist. Then Connor handed his car key to the valet, mentally waved goodbye to his Subaru, and went for the elevator.

One of those amenity tables with a fancy water dispenser and a bowl of free fruit faced the elevator, and Connor realized he was thirsty. Also, he’d paid a whole lot for this water, so he shifted the weight of his duffel on his shoulder in order to free both hands, one to hold the flimsy cup and one to twist the little brass handle on the spigot. The tiny cup filled quickly.

“Hello, there.” White shirt guy was standing next to him and speaking. To him.

Connor gulped what, given that the drink was small enough for his hand to totally conceal it, was not actually a gulpable amount of water, nor was this a water-gulping location. And yet. And yet. He was parched. And needed to swallow before he could reply.

“Hi,” he finally managed.

“How’s the water?”

“It’s nice.” He nodded, knowing he should carry his weight here a bit more, but a hunk of dark hair had drifted to brush the top of the other man’s cheekbone. “The water is”—don’t say pretty. This guy is pretty, water is not pretty—“nice. It’s nice.”

“Wet too, I imagine.”

“Yep, wet.” No one would believe he was halfway through his master’s in education. Mostly online, but it was a lot of coursework, none of which seemed to be reflected in his current vocabulary, which consisted entirely of the words pretty and want.

The dark-haired man finished filling his own small cup and twisted the brass handle. His fingers were slender and Connor noticed that he wore dark polish, which sent Connor’s thoughts immediately and slightly guiltily to the photo of Axel1998. That polish had been closer to black, and this was a deep purple.

He was a gay man who worked with crayons and markers for nine months of the year, which meant he ought to be able to name colors beyond dark purple. This was eggplant, like the emoji that meant dick.

Fuck.

That wasn’t where Connor had intended to go while standing in the lobby looking at another man’s hands. And he was certain the name of the color was the French word for eggplant, not the English word. He might have had a prayer of recalling it, but then the man with the eggplant polish turned and locked his gaze with Connor’s again, pinning him in place as surely as a pro-tackle.

Connor watched him lift the plastic courtesy cup to his mouth. His lips were pink and already glistening, then he smirked. “How’s it taste?”

“Umm, you know, like…” He couldn’t stop looking at the lips that unfairly belonged to a guy with such pronounced cheekbones, his lower lip making Connor think of a little tiny pillow until he wanted to nap right there.

“Like?”

“Aubergine!” He’d meant the word for the color of the nail polish. “Crap, I don’t know why I said that. I mean, it doesn’t taste like crap, it tastes like water. Good water.”

“Mmm.” Another sip. “I’m getting a hint of cucumber, maybe notes of lime.”

He couldn’t look away from the plastic rim resting on that lip and then the upper lip pressing down and changing shape and the liquid coating it and the tiny throat motions, all of it locking him into silence until it was his turn to reply.

Shit, he had to be coherent.

“Umm, right, you’re onto something. I think it’s rather a fancy vintage.”

He might also be wearing mascara, because the way his dark eyes looked at Connor through those thick lashes was a triple fucking hammer hit. Connor had seen plenty of attractive guys in bars wearing makeup, but he didn’t remember looking this closely at one and wanting to know more.

“So, do you like fancy vintages?” he asked Connor.