Page 91 of Checking Out the Librarian

He grabbed fistfuls of Connor’s gritty team T-shirt and yanked him nearer. “Thank you.”

Chest to chest. Thigh to thigh. Connor’s arms reacted automatically to the collision, wrapping around Jonathan, but Jonathan had already risen to his toes and pulled Connor’s head down.

His lips were warm and dry and tasted of lemon and beer. His skin smelled of a hint of beer, too, and sweat, things that would have made past Jonathan eww and insist on changing, but this Jonathan wanted Connor to know that he cared. That he saw Connor’s work.

“Thank you for this whole day. Thank you. I’ve never had anyone—I’ve never had⁠—”

“Shhh, I got you. You don’t need to say it. I know.” Connor swayed, so Jonathan wasn’t certain at all, not at all, of the accuracy of the first part of that statement. But they stood together until Jonathan could swallow the lump in his throat and they’d regained their balance.

When Jonathan’s arms finally loosened, Connor led him to the couch. “Those are for you.”

He flicked his gaze sideways and lifted his chin. “You say those annoyingly obvious things just to make me look at you like this, don’t you? You have given away your secret.”

Connor’s grin broke free and he spread his arms along the back of the couch. “I’ll give you all of them. All my secrets. I don’t want to have any from you.” His speech was slower and thicker, perhaps a trace of the ranch emerging through the beer. “Go ahead. You want to.”

Jonathan rubbed the tulle and the ribbons, shiny fabric ones, between his fingers as he carefully untied and unlooped them. The paper was slick and heavy, and the few pieces of tape Connor had used to secure it detached easily. He didn’t have to rip Connor’s work. The wrapping slid off and revealed a plain white box which felt far lighter than Jonathan’s heart.

One of those things contained a gift; he suspected the other contained a future.

Inside, nestled in carefully folded tissue paper, was a white shirt. Instead of a collar, the neckline ended in two long pieces of fabric like ties, and a row of pearlescent shank buttons down the front rather than the four-hole flat buttons common on oxford cloth shirts. These were little details, but Jonathan registered them and knew this wasn’t a shirt, but a blouse meant for restaurants with cloth napkins or concerts with ushers.

Holding his breath, he lifted it from its bed of tissue. The sleeves were made of sheer white chiffon gathered into lace cuffs. It was stunning.

“I don’t know if it will fit,” Connor’s voice trembled.

The cotton was exceedingly smooth and the seams well stitched. He could assess it in an instant. “It will.”

“Remembered you like that kind of sleeve.” He dropped his head to Jonathan’s shoulder, a heavier weight than usual after three drinks, and rubbed his cheek against the knobby bone there. “Your arms are so pretty.”

Heat flashed over Jonathan and he couldn’t be closer to shattering if he’d been thrown into a kiln and then immediately dunked into water.

He clenched the blouse, unable to lower it or tear his gaze from it, unable to speak, almost unable to breathe. No one had ever said something so sincere, so simple, but entirely heartfelt, to him. No one.

“When I saw you the first time in the lobby, you were wearing gray pants and a tight white shirt. I imagined you wearing something like this.” He reached forward and slid the crisp edge of the neck bow between his first and second fingers, running his fingers methodically, hypnotically, along the fabric.

“A frothy cravat. Crah-vaht. Cra-vatte. This.”

What did the world look like through Connor’s eyes? Was it as beautiful and magical as it should be for him?

“I wanted to untie it and kneel at your feet.”

“Did you.” Making those two words emerge evenly took an effort possibly on par with writing a thesis, because he suddenly understood the first morning he’d been here.

In the kitchen, when Connor had given him a blowjob and then almost collapsed, Jonathan had been wearing a long white shirt.

Without even realizing, he’d met one of Connor’s needs, a true need. He’d never been superstitious, and he’d internally mocked the skaters who had lace-tying rituals or invested time in complicated off-ice traditions, but he’d known plenty of people who believed. He could recognize when an otherworldly force took control.

He shivered.

“You also wore boots.” Connor sighed and smiled at the far wall. His fingers never stopped fiddling with the edge of the dangling bow. “Riding boots. I took them off of you.”

Connor meant in his fantasy, because Jonathan had not worn boots in June with summer-weight trousers. But he could. He would.

He let go of the fabric and turned to Jonathan, or Jonathan turned to him; they were starting to do these things at the same time. Their knees brushed. “Do you have boots?”

“Black biker boots.” He’d find riding boots, a second-hand pair of English ones, and he’d make this come true.

Connor stared beyond Jonathan’s shoulder with a look he recognized, the one where Connor had sunk into his imagination. He’d come back in a minute, happy and smiling. Jonathan’s own brain associated that look with sex, because Connor often emerged with very specific goals. Sex goals.