Page 26 of Checking Out the Librarian

If he softened his eyes, he could blur out everything but the baby hairs on the nape of Jonathan’s neck. They’d been hidden when his hair flowed in loose layers around his face, but with it scuffled on the pillow, Connor could see the tiny sworls of dark hair that normally stayed concealed. He wanted to press his lips to them or trace them with his thumb. He wanted to lean forward and whisper, but he didn’t know what he’d say, so he kept his mouth closed and his face away from the back of Jonathan’s neck.

He also wanted to look at Jonathan’s tattoo, because between the mesh blurring its outlines during dinner, then the dimness when he’d stripped, and then Jonathan focusing on his butt with the magazine—and yes, he could feel a remembered tingle there if he thought hard about it, and that was fucking hot—he hadn’t been able to study it. He liked other people’s tattoos, even though he didn’t have any, which his buddy Hank and the whole damn culture mocked him for.

Maybe it wasn’t polite to ask about why people chose their designs, a sort of extension of keeping hands to oneself, but if he was a little bit nosy, and stared very, very thoroughly, then maybe Jonathan would tell him about the plants wrapped around his arm.

He sighed softly and watched hair shift on the back of Jonathan’s head. The curtains kept the room dark, and he didn’t have plans on his first full day of summer break, so he closed his eyes and let himself match Jonathan’s breathing.

A door clicked, waking him a second time, and Connor turned his head.

Jonathan stood by the bathroom. He wore a white hotel robe but didn’t look like he’d already showered. So, not awake for long yet.

“Good morning,” Connor smiled, but didn’t sit up.

“Hmm.” Jonathan carried a glass of water across the room. “You look comfortable.”

“I am, thank you.” He rolled to his back and spread his left arm in half of a diamond-shape over his head, remembering that Jonathan had appreciated the firmness of his triceps with his fingers and his mouth the night before. They had plenty of time before check-out.

“Still my room.” Jonathan fiddled with the coffee machine on the dresser.

Last night that phrase had been part of their foreplay, but he wasn’t as confident this morning. Just because he was enjoying the presence of the gorgeous attitude across the room didn’t guarantee reciprocity.

The coffee machine made a whooshing sound that found a dull echo in Connor’s chest, while the rest of the silence stretched.

Things always ended pretty much this way.

His looks were good enough on the apps, good enough in a meet-up, and he had enough game to land himself in bedrooms for fun, sometimes even for a weekend, and then he always caught a case of eagerness and started thinking that maybe next week would be an option. Imagining a scenario where he would text and the guy would text back, and they could have a mid-week dinner.

But then morning would arrive, and somehow, he didn’t really understand why, but somehow, he understood that he was supposed to leave. Sometimes there was breakfast. Not always.

He curled both arms closer to his chest, wanting to hide under the duvet, but he was an adult. “I’ll go, I guess.”

Then Jonathan turned toward him, those plush lips pressed tightly together as if he was about to deliver an ultimatum, while he held one of the room’s narrow white mugs in his slim fingers. “Or you can drink this better than mediocre coffee and shower before we find pastries.”

Connor was caught off-guard, like his brain had been erecting the usual defenses and preparing to say it’s been fun, and thanks a lot, but then an earthquake demolished everything. He stared.

Jonathan’s gaze shifted to the window and the corners of his mouth drew in.

No, Connor wasn’t rejecting him, that wasn’t happening, not at all. He levered himself to sitting, and his hands were already reaching, as if they’d understood Jonathan’s offer before the rest of him had. “Yes, yes to all of that, of course, yes.”

The mug Jonathan pressed into his hand was warm, but the fingers he trailed down Connor’s forearm and then skipped up to Connor’s neck were searing.

“I’ll need clothes,” Connor said.

“Will you?” Jonathan’s eyebrows were a perfectly matched set that made the most adorable arches when he spoke to Connor like that.

Connor tilted his head and lifted the coffee to his mouth, not trying to conceal his smile. “Not until after I shower.”

“I’ll arrange late checkout.”

7

POST-HOOKUP ETIQUETTE

Post-hookup etiquette wasn’t Connor’s strong suit.

An hour after he’d said goodbye to Jonathan on the sidewalk near Voodoo Doughnuts, the barista at Powell’s Books nudged Connor’s solitary latte to the end of the counter, making him wish he had two cups to carry.

He could almost see himself gathering one in each hand and turning to catch the eye of a slim, dark-haired man with one side of his lips quirked as Connor approached. He’d offer the paper cup to him, and their fingers would brush.