Page 192 of Checking Out the Librarian

He only needed to say now. Only that.

A week and a half apart had made Connor so easy for it, so luscious when he spent in Jonathan’s fist with the moonlight gracing his hair and his breath dampening Jonathan’s temple.

“Oh.” Connor sounded sleepy. Without the twin supports of the barn at his back and Jonathan’s grip on his waist, his slack body might slump to the ground.

He’d have more confidence in his ability to keep Connor upright if he could use both hands, but his right hand was hors de combat unless Connor had a tissue in the pocket of those jeans, so he let his body do the work of warming and supporting Connor. He wanted this messy, undone version of Connor to feel loved.

“Hold on to me until you’re ready.”

“Am I a good boy.” There wasn’t actually a question behind those words.

“You are. A very good boy.” He stood on his toes and pressed his lips to the hollow at the base of Connor’s throat. It was salty.

Standing behind the barn, with the sweep of fields and foothills unfolding beneath stars that never showed in the city, he preferred that tang to the soap scent of a freshly-showered Connor. This was true and earned. “And you are mine.”

Eventually Connor recovered the coordination to stand on one foot and remove a sock. It had been inside a well-used boot; normally Jonathan wouldn’t acknowledge a sock like that, but there was business on his hand that had to be de-businessed before they could return to the house and a real sink.

By nine thirty, dark had wrapped the valley completely, and everyone was in bed or heading that way, including them.

In Connor’s double bed, they had to squeeze close, which wasn’t a problem. Connor wrapped around him like the big spoon and slipped his hand beneath Jonathan’s sleep shorts. His breath feathered the hair behind Jonathan’s ear when he spoke.

“I know being outside didn’t work for you as well as it worked for me, but what about this?”

His palm was big and warm on Jonathan’s stomach, and his fingertips brushed lower.

Jonathan took a deep breath. The room was a cozy combination of baseball posters and fluttery curtains, with a bed that smelled faintly of lavender. Someone, hopefully Connor, had ironed the pillowcase. His shoulders felt like they were loosening away from his ears, falling back into their relaxed position.

Connor’s lips shifted to the curve of Jonathan’s neck. “Okay?”

“Excellent, but very quiet, please? Just this and very quietly.” He was babbling about a hand job like they were sneaking onto an apartment building roof.

“I’ll respect that.” Connor’s chest rumbled against his spine, and he began slow arm motions that barely rubbed against Jonathan’s side.

Jonathan groped under the pillow to find the lube he’d concealed there. In the dark, his thumb found the little ridge where he was supposed to flick the cap open. “Wait, you will wash the sheets, right? Not…”

Pretty sure he shouldn’t mention Connor’s mother.

Connor snuggled him even tighter into the curve of his big body. “I’ll do all the laundry. That poor sock too.”

His words were slowed down to three-quarters of his usual talking speed, and his hand was trailing along the crease where Jonathan’s leg met his body.

So lazy, so slow, so infuriating. But also lovely.

“Now please put some of that on my hand and stop thinking so I can make you feel as good as you deserve after your long drive.”

He did as Connor requested, and Connor thanked him by whispering, “Listen to me. Just to me. Nothing else in your head, okay?”

He nodded and let his shoulder and hip sink into the mattress. Just Connor’s hand sliding up and down so easily now. His voice. His warm chest.

“I’m going to take you riding tomorrow. I’m going to be your groom.”

His groom should wear chaps.

“I’m going to lift your tight little ass up into the saddle, and you’re going to spread your legs.”

He listened, he needed, and he waited. Connor’s hand kept moving, steady and too slow. The slide up and down his cock never changed, even when their breathing did. The pace of that hand never stopped, but Jonathan’s heart did. It stopped and started and stopped again, each thud faster and pushing him farther.

But Connor never shifted gears.