6. One Hundred Percent Positive Reinforcement #3
Clearly nothing was off limits. Jonathan threw his forearm over his eyes, defeated by persistence and also, he was ninety-nine percent certain, gamesmanship. “There’s a spare in my teal-colored bag. You might as well look through everything.”
He supposed he should get up and brush, too. He could take off his makeup, which would give Connor enough time to decide whether he wanted to stay or go. He’d only have to wander to another floor; he wouldn’t even have to put his shoes back on if he didn’t want to.
Who was he kidding, the man had purloined moisturizer, a spare toothbrush, and probably cleanser. He didn’t intend to leave.
More oddly, Jonathan didn’t feel like suggesting it.
And then Connor asked if Jonathan had anything for, as he so glibly put it, cleaning back there, or should he go to his room for supplies, and Jonathan once again stopped breathing. Connor was a big, silly jock, and yet he could toss out a question about douching without a hint of nerves.
“In the red bag. It’s new.”
“Cool. Cool. On it.”
So. That was happening.
He might as well find his phone and use the advantage of being in his own room to grab the robe from the closet.
After twenty minutes and a not unreasonable amount of running water noises, they switched places in the bathroom with a scowl from Jonathan, an angelic smile from Connor, and an exaggerated amount of brushing of arms across chests from both parties as they maneuvered past each other through what wasn’t actually a small space.
By the time he’d finished with his double cleanser, hydrating toner, a serum, a calming moisturizer that calmed exactly none of the weird feeling in his stomach, and an absolutely essential lip balm, he definitely hadn’t heard the room door open and close.
He tightened the belt on the hotel robe, appreciating the soft waffle-weave of the fabric, and strolled back into the bedroom.
He’d assumed Connor would be in the bed, but hadn’t expected him to be propped up on the stacked pillows, sheet puddled on his lap, holding the magazine upside down as if he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend to read.
“Surprise?” Connor grinned at him.
“At this point, no.”
“I’m sorry.” Connor looked as if he was trying for a contrite expression, but his eyes were sparkling as he extended the magazine to Jonathan.
“I don’t think you are.” Jonathan rounded the end of the bed, took the offering, and rolled it into a loose tube. Connor’s eyes followed Jonathan’s hands, and his lips parted.
Jonathan tapped the rolled paper lightly against his other palm and waited to see what Connor would do.
“I think I need to learn a lesson or two.” He tucked his chin down toward his chest and looked at Jonathan, lips quivering with the world’s fakest pout. “From you.”
The sound of the magazine slapping his palm was loud enough to be heard despite the air-conditioner’s hum. “What, precisely, should I teach you?”
“Lots!”
Jonathan wasn’t sure he’d met anyone outside of story hour who spoke with so many exclamation marks.
“For instance, I could learn not to take other people’s products. I could learn how to say please and thank you. I could learn—”
“How to be quiet.”
“That.” He nodded rapidly. “That’s quite difficult for me. Might have to be pounded in for it to really stick.”
The beat stretched, both of them fighting to keep their faces impassive. Both of them dying to laugh. Both of them ready to burst or pounce or all of the above.
Unsurprisingly, Connor broke first.
Somehow in the night they both slipped their briefs back on. Connor knew that he’d grabbed his when he’d stumbled to the bathroom to shower away the cum and lube after Jonathan had punished him long and hard into the headboard.
He wasn’t quite sure why he’d returned to crash in Jonathan’s bed rather than going to his own, which didn’t even require leaving the building.
He guessed middle-of-the-night Connor was a clingy sort.
Early-morning Connor nestled close enough to Jonathan’s back that one arm draped around the other man’s hip and his hand spread over Jonathan’s smooth stomach. The tips of his fingers rested on silky-feeling underwear.
Even though he’d embraced boxer briefs as armor against the intimacy of letting someone he didn’t know watch him succumb to a post-sex coma, he hadn’t realized Jonathan had also slipped on a layer.
With only the input from his fingers, he could tell they were different from the nearly not-there white lace thong Jonathan had worn last night, the ones Connor had watched him remove while he’d pressed obediently against the door.
He could feel fabric across Jonathan’s hip and lightly traced the edge. These were short and smooth. If he peeled back the duvet, Jonathan’s legs, sleek and slim, would be fully showing.
Although his own were recycled from last night, they were his best pair of ball-cupping, moisture-wicking, support-hugging boxer briefs, and luckily they hadn’t been covered in cum after he’d humped Jonathan against the door.