There’s someone here.
Sidney Blount sits at one of the long tables stretching down the middle of the room, his toned frame hugged by a black turtleneck sweater and gray trousers. He’s poring over a piece of paper, the fingers I thought so much about last night following a line of text as he reads. The snowy half-light coming in from the windows at the end of the library is faint enough that he has a lamp on the table, and the light casts the strong lines of his face into arresting plays of shadow and glow.
“Good morning, Ryan,” he says without lifting his eyes from his paper.
My name on his lips is shocking, electric magic, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
“Good morning, Sidney,” I choke out.
“Mr. Blount will do,” he says crisply, finally turning to face me.
I flush with either indignation or shame . . . or both. “I—ah, okay?”
“Is that going to be a problem? Me calling you Ryan, while you call me Mr. Blount?”
I suppose it should be, but as I reflect on it, I find that it isn’t. I’m used to it, after all. I’ve spent the last four years delivering every formality and courtesy to the people around me, and of course, it’s expected in the world of kink that language and names acknowledge the power play between Dominants and submissives. Not that Sidney and I are playing a game like that now.
I think.
“It’s not a problem if it’s on purpose,” I say.
“I would think it being on purpose would be worse.”
“No, because you asked if it was okay and I’m telling you it’s okay. If you didn’t ask, if you didn’t think about why you needed the honorific and I didn’t, then I’d know not to trust you.”
Sidney studies me for a moment, firm lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Noted. And will it bother you if I work in here?” He gestures at the boxes and folders in front of him. “It’s easier if I have room to spread out.”
Spread me out instead. Work on me until I’m shivering and crying. Work on me until I beg for mercy.
“It won’t bother me,” I say, walking forward enough to set my mug at the edge of the table. I hope I look casual and collected, and not like I’m already planning to jerk off thinking about him again. “As long as it won’t bother you that I’m in here?”
“Of course not. I overheard part of your conversation with Mr. Cremer yesterday, and I understand you’re looking for a book?”
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I can’t tell if he’s being polite or if he truly wants to know . . . until I meet his gaze, and then there’s no mistaking his interest. His stare is keen and his eyebrow is arched, as if he’s impatient with my hesitation in answering.
“Yes,” I say. “The Tragicall Story of Tristram and Iseult of Lyonesse. There’s only two copies known to history, and one was destroyed in Germany during the war. The other copy is possibly here.”
“Possibly?”
“There’s a letter from John William Waterhouse thanking an Estamond Guest for letting him peruse the library while he stayed here during a house party. He mentions finding the Tragicall Story deeply inspiring and that he’d love to paint the lovers, which he did many years later. However, the letter is from the 1870s and there’s no hint of this book being here after that.”
“And what is this book to you?”
“A job,” I say honestly.
“Are you getting paid?”
“It’s not that kind of job.”
Sidney narrows his eyes. “And who is it that asks for this job? Who has enough loyalty from you to claim your time like this?”
“It’s not—” my hands move a little helplessly, as if I can make the shape of the situation I’m trying to describe. “I think Merlin is trying to do me a favor. Give me a purpose. I’ve been a little . . . lost . . . after the President’s death.”
Sidney seems to relax a little at my answer. “Merlin . . . Merlin Rhys?”
“You know him?”
