Page 58 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
Patrick takes another look at the shelf itself. It’s shallow, the perfect depth for paperbacks. It has the rough look of something made by an eighth grader in woodshop. “I’ll make you an offer on the shelf, too, if it’s for sale.”
He loads as many paperbacks as he can carry into a milk crate, promising to come back later in the week for the shelf and the rest of the books. “I’m not going to write you a check forthe paperbacks,” he says, taking out his wallet and counting out some bills. “Because this isn’t a business expense.”
No matter how many times Patrick attempts to lug home a milk crate filled with books, it’s always heavier than he expects it to be. By the time he’s shouldering open the door to the shop, he’s sweaty and a little out of breath. Nathaniel’s at Patrick’s desk, mending a torn page with glue and wax paper the way Patrick taught him. Nathaniel isn’t particularly interested in book repair, but this technique is a bit of a magic trick and doesn’t require that much skill. He’s showed Iris too.
“Walt tried to eat a bee,” Nathaniel says. “Susan dosed him with hay fever medicine and he’s sleeping it off upstairs.” He puts down the paint brush he’s using to apply the glue and looks up, taking a gratifying moment to let his gaze sweep over Patrick.
“These,” Patrick says, putting the crate on the counter, “are for you. There’s more where these came from.”
Nathaniel’s gaze darts between the books and Patrick’s rolled-up sleeves and then to his face. He lifts some of the books from the top of the crate and examines the next layer. It isn’t the first time Patrick’s bought him books. It is, however, a hell of a lot of books. It’s extravagant, possibly even showy. This is the kind of gesture that’s one level up from a dozen roses or a box of chocolates: it’s a nice bracelet, or a bottle of perfume, if he’s learned anything from Doris Day movies. He hadn’t been thinking in those terms when he bought the books. He was only thinking that Nathaniel would love them. Patrick can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.
“Thank you,” Nathaniel says, getting to his feet.
“There’s also a shelf.”
Nathaniel comes out from behind the desk and flips the sign on the door to Closed, then slides the deadbolt and draws the blinds.
There’s no preamble this time, just Nathaniel gripping Patrick’s collar and pulling him in. The kiss is fast and hard, Nathaniel’s mouth soft and wet and open for Patrick. Patrick gets a foot between Nathaniel’s, nothing more than a thought, an invitation, and Nathaniel presses into Patrick’s thigh. Nathaniel takes a step backward and Patrick follows, until Nathaniel is sitting on the edge of Patrick’s desk, Patrick standing between his legs. Like this, Patrick looms over him. He has to tip Nathaniel’s head back to kiss him. Nathaniel gets his hands on Patrick’s belt loops and tugs. If Patrick had known that all it would take to get this kind of reaction was a crate full of tawdry paperbacks, he’d have cleared out the Worth Street bookstore of every damn book with a spooky house on the cover.
“Do you want—” Patrick starts, but Nathaniel pulls him close again, looking for friction. When he finds it they both groan.
Patrick’s never had sex at work and he wasn’t planning on starting today, but at this point he’ll do whatever Nathaniel wants, however and wherever Nathaniel wants. Nathaniel wants to fuck in the shop? They’ll fuck in the shop. He gets his hands under Nathaniel’s ass and lifts him so they’re pressing together at a better angle.
“We can, if you want,” Patrick says into Nathaniel’s ear. “Your call.”
Nathaniel pulls back and looks at him. His mouth is red and wet, his hair rumpled. “I’m not using you.”
“You could,” Patrick says, maybe a little too quickly. He shifts his grip so Nathaniel is sitting on the desk again, and slides a hand up Nathaniel’s back. “If you want.”
Nathaniel makes a sound.
“Yeah?” Patrick asks. “You like that?”
“Maybe,” Nathaniel says, breathless. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I keep thinking about it.”
“What do you think about?”
Nathaniel is quiet for a minute, his gaze darting helplessly between Patrick’s eyes and mouth. “I know you’d make me feel good.”
Patrick doesn’t know if that was calculated to basically incapacitate him but that’s what it does anyway. He kisses Nathaniel, breathless and desperate, fitting their bodies together as best he can. “That’s what I want too. Can I make you feel good now?”
There’s only the tiniest hesitation before Nathaniel says, “Please.”
“Is the door upstairs locked?” Since the break-in, they’ve been careful about that. Nathaniel nods.
Patrick kisses Nathaniel again, hard, then undoes both their belts. He gets a hand under Nathaniel’s shirt, seeking out the hidden skin at the small of his back, just getting Nathaniel used to the idea of Patrick’s hands on him. They’re just breathing into one another’s mouths, hardly kissing at all. Patrick isn’t sure what the right move is here. When he pulls Nathaniel out of his pants, he half expects Nathaniel to tell him to stop, but he just says Patrick’s name, again and again.
It’s nothing fancy—Patrick licks his palm and does what he’s done more times than he can count—but his gaze keeps flicking between what he’s doing with his hand and Nathaniel’s face. When he slows down, Nathaniel makes an aggrieved sound, low and gratifying. When he tightens his grip, Nathaniel pants into his mouth.
“Patrick,” Nathaniel says, warning.
“I’ve got you.”
Nathaniel’s perfectly quiet when he comes, nearly still, his eyes shut and his mouth half open, until he reaches into his shirt pocket and hands Patrick a handkerchief.
Patrick waits until Nathaniel’s eyes are open, then showily licks his hand clean before returning Nathaniel’s handkerchief to his pocket. Nathaniel looks like he might not be breathing.
“You,” Nathaniel says, reaching for Patrick, less articulate than Patrick’s ever seen him. “Let me. Show me.”
