10. Nothing Unusual #2
Jonathan had to stand on his own toes in order to brush his lips against Connor’s cheek, like Connor had done yesterday. “Definitely okay.”
Connor left, footsteps slower descending than they had been coming up the stairs, and Jonathan took a deep breath.
He felt a bit shaky, like he’d survived a pop quiz in adult relationships.
In fact, he felt weirdly similar to the mornings when he woke up from the dream about having forgotten to go to class until exam week, and wouldn’t it be exactly his life if he started having that recurring nightmare, but now about failing at dating instead of college.
Even though this thing with Connor remained firmly in the category of hooking up, just fun sex, he hoped he’d at least given Connor reassurance that being a grown man with joyful, squishy toys, was fully as acceptable as plastic movie franchise merch.
He’d offered grace, which was the bare minimum. Jonathan needed the same often enough to recognize the requirement in others.
The three plush creatures—a croissant, a cake, and a lemon tart he hadn’t noticed—looked as cheerful as their owner.
The shiny black button eyes drew Jonathan’s finger, and their spindly legs flopped as he arranged them on the dresser into what, with the right accessories, could be a tea party. Connor might like that tableau.
Finding clothing in Connor’s closet was more difficult.
Even the tightest of Connor’s stretchy athletic shorts sagged unappealingly on Jonathan, which no amount of tightening the waist ties could change, so he opted for yesterday’s briefs.
Most of Connor’s button-down dress shirts were Oxford cloth and looked exactly like what Jonathan imagined a teacher or a straight guy bought himself, but there was one crisply-ironed white linen one that was an excellent classic wardrobe piece.
Jonathan knew he slayed in an over-sized plain white shirt with the cuffs rolled once, maybe twice, to reveal his wrists.
Fastening three buttons in the middle made it decent, and at the same time drew the eye.
Jonathan was confident that Connor would enjoy this outfit almost as much as Jonathan would enjoy the French toast.
In the hallway, he was too polite to study the framed photo collages on the wall for more than a moment, which was entirely sufficient to see that Connor came from a family of big, blond, casual-looking people who did outdoorsy things, often with horses, sometimes with sports gear, but always with smiles that reached out of the photo to stab at Jonathan with their happy-family vibe. It looked idyllic.
Family photos could lie, but he suspected Connor’s didn’t.
He also refrained from opening the door that was not the bathroom and commended himself for that personal achievement as he descended.
Nor did he stare too long into Connor’s living room from the bottom of the stairs.
He’d seen it last night when they’d arrived, but most of the previous evening had been spent in the kitchen before they had relocated to the bedroom.
The living room was simple and warm, with pale gray walls, white woodwork, and furniture upholstered in tans and blues with bright cushions.
Connor owned both candles and curtains, but Jonathan couldn’t refrain from mentally rearranging the ottoman to block the view of the dog bed.
The other jarring note was the giant television.
Jonathan only watched streaming shows on his laptop, because televisions had no vibe worth the allocation of that much space.
If he liked sports or video games he might feel differently, but thankfully, those were not his concerns.
Through the kitchen doorway, he saw Connor had donned a long apron in a denim wash so pale, it was almost white.
The ties crisscrossed twice around his midriff, emphasizing the flatness of his stomach and the narrowness of his lower ribs in contrast to the span of his shoulders and upper chest. The fabric bound his lean hips and fluttered mid-thigh as he whisked something in a stainless-steel bowl.
The side panels of the apron framed, but did not cover, his butt. Damn shame those sport shorts did.
Nothing remotely like this morning, waking up in Connor’s home and watching breakfast be made by a man who looked like he should be advertising vacations or tools or expensive imported butter, had ever happened to Jonathan.
Connor turned his head, already smiling, and froze.
Jonathan wished he’d opted for a dramatic entrance, a raised arm along the door frame or a hand cocked on his hip, because the way Connor’s expression sharpened on him wiped away every single idea of what he should do with his hands.
There must be a thousand options between lurk awkwardly and advance closer, but they vanished under Connor’s stare.
“That’s mine?”
“You said I could ransack your closet.” Of course he’d misjudged. He raised his hand to the highest of the three buttons he’d fastened.
“Come here.” Connor’s voice was low and thick.
Ah. Connor was not unhappy. “But you’re cooking.”
The click of the burner turning off sounded very loud. “Not anymore.”
Jonathan eyed the food. “I am on board with kink and food play, but I’ll need a ruffled apron if we’re doing this in front of French toast.”
“I’ll give you the next batch. I’ll eat the cold ones.” Connor’s voice had firmed into a command. “Now come here. Please.”
Jonathan shivered. For the first time in a long time, he followed someone else’s orders.