Page 96 of Checking Out the Librarian

Connor’s knees proved that they still worked, but without the athletic coordination of earlier in the evening. This man wouldn’t be able to jump or dive, only clamber and collapse, ass raised and legs split apart.

The urge to fuck into Connor drove him forward to put his knee on the bed and his hands on those dents at the top of Connor’s buttocks. He wanted to plaster every inch of his skin to Connor’s skin and fuse together while he took this big man as his own, but the way Connor’s head rested on one arm made him pause.

His profile was beautiful, damp curls and flushed cheeks, parted rosy lips as his chest moved with each panting breath. He looked like he was on the edge of bliss. But he wasn’t undone, he wasn’t slack or sated, he wasn’t reduced to nonsense.

Jonathan could wait.

“Dukes don’t do the work. Others do it for them. Grab your ass and present yourself.”

Connor did. Those big hands pulling his buttocks away from his hole were gorgeous to see. The lamplight showed him that his goal was already pinkish-brown and, he thought, softened up.

He trailed a hand down Connor’s spine, using touch to follow the bumps because he couldn’t pull his gaze away from that pucker.

Thousands of nerve endings there, and he wanted every one of them to send a thank you note when he finished. He’d done everything but this, he’d finger-fucked and dick-fucked and dildo-fucked, so what was a little tongue-fucking. It was doable. For Connor.

He started with his lips on the meatiest part of Connor’s ass, next to where Connor’s spread fingers held himself open. There was a fading mark, and he suckled hard enough to make it dark again. He’d caught Connor twisting to check the original mark in the mirror and had promised him a fresh one. Delivering on that was an easy beginning.

Connor groaned, muffled by the bedding, and Jonathan realized the cravat fabric had drifted between Connor’s legs and must have brushed his balls.

If he touched Connor’s cock, this little game would be derailed, but the fabric could be his partner.

He travelled the slope of Connor’s butt in a direction his mouth had never gone, into the valley of Connor’s ass. He’d stolen Jonathan’s body wash, citrus and rosemary and expensive, and Jonathan was able to bury his nose in Connor’s crack and inhale and mean it. His tongue traced the line of darker color shading Connor’s skin to where it ended at the flexing circle and brushed the muscle there.

When Connor bucked under him, the strength in those firm buttocks nearly dislodging him from his goal, he only had to mutter stop to still the other man’s movements.

He really shouldn’t have this much power.

He lapped once, twice, and heard Connor’s high-pitched approval.

He lapped again, and circled, like he’d do with the head of a cock, and Connor made that noise again.

His heart sped, knowing he was getting this right.

Making Connor sound like that increased the urge to poke his tongue at that spot, and simultaneously his own cock was telling him to hurry and get on to the next bit, please and thank you. All parts of him wanted to push into Connor, fingers and tongue and most of all, his bare, uncovered dick, like they were competing individually in a race to cram into this place that begged to be opened and filled. He wanted to hurry up and win, but at the same time he wanted to stretch this moment for as long as possible.

He licked and circled, and then when he pushed his tongue against that flexing hole, Connor made a noise like an extended yip. He felt like his own cock was linked to Connor’s responses, each little whine tightening a vise around his balls, each moan gripping him as firmly as a hand.

Connor bucked him off again, moving like he was on an exercise mat seeking a muscle burn.

He let his teeth graze the curve of one of Connor’s warm, pinkened buttocks, and hoped his voice landed somewhere between silky and menacing. “I will leave you aching for it if you misbehave, little farmer.”

Connor stopped thrusting between the mattress and Jonathan’s face, but he couldn’t be still, of course he couldn’t. His foot twitched in the bedding.

The roller-coaster drop from butt to spine to shoulders beckoned, but Jonathan couldn’t be everywhere he wanted, couldn’t eat him out and also kiss his way to Connor’s shoulders and get his cock inside. He had to choose.

“This isn’t what a country servant wants from a duke, is it? You want me to fuck you.”

“Please, Your Grace.” Connor only needed three words to get what he wanted.

“Turn over.” He wanted—no, needed—to see Connor’s face.

He guided Connor farther up the mattress, until his head nestled on one pillow and his pelvis tilted up from another. His feet pushed into the mattress, lifting his bent knees to beckon at Jonathan, one short command shy of a bridge pose.

Connor had often called Jonathan pretty, but this was the truest beauty Jonathan could imagine in front of him.

It was trust.

Jonathan found the lube on the bedside table. Its cold plastic grounded him.