*
I happily bust my ass for the rest of the day, writing up a grant for Alameda County and sending the revised report to Cooper. I drop copies of everything on Jack’s desk and hustle out to my car, cranking up my stereo for the drive to the restaurant where I’m meeting Rey. It’s some swank Asian fusion place where it’s impossible to get a table, but when I pull up and Rey takes my hand, we’re shown right to the best seats in the place.
“Do you still want to kiss me?”
“I’d do more than that if I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Rey chuckles. “Matty did say you had a good time.”
“I really did.”
“The talking?”
“Not so bad.”
“And the rest?”
I swoon in my chair, and Rey laughs.
“I see. The feeling appears to be mutual. He must’ve called right after you left.”
More butterflies. Why the fuck have I turned into a giggly adolescent? I want to roll my eyes, but I’m too damn pleased. It wouldn’t be the first time someone called Rey as soon as I walked out the door, but it’s the first time I’m as eager.
“When do you have time?”
“Not until July.”
“Oh, kitten.”
“I know. This sucks. I asked for passable. Why’d you have to find me perfection when I don’t have any time to enjoy it?”
The thought of Cris giving up on me makes me queasy. I know I was so eager to be the rebound fuck, but the idea of Cris with someone else makes me feel… Is this jealousy? Is that what this is? The fury and pukey feeling and possessiveness that come over me when I think of his hands on someone else?
“Do you think he’ll wait?”
“From the phone call I got last night? Yeah, he’ll wait.”
Relief extinguishes some, but not all, of the annoying and unfamiliar feeling. I down the remainder of my mojito to try to get rid of the rest.
*
I pull up my email and start sifting through my leftovers from yesterday. Jack’s got a twenty-four hour rule on emails, and more than one associate’s been fired for breaking it. I bang out a dozen replies, setting up meetings and conference calls and answering easy regulatory questions, and mark off a couple others to dig into when I’ve gotten through the rest. I dash off quick responses to let them know I’m working on it and I’ll have an answer by the end of the day. Before I get the chance to start my research, there’s a knock and a flustered-looking Jack—no tie, no jacket, and crazy hair—storms in.
“What are you doing for the next week?”
“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re going to Denver. Fucking Leo had a heart attack.”
“Is he okay?” Leo’s not my favorite, but I don’t want him dead.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s going to be fine, but he’s not getting on a plane anytime soon.” Jack paces in front of my desk and gesticulates like a raving lunatic.
“Jesus, Jack. How about you lead with that next time? You’re going to give me a heart attack, and then where would you be?”
“Please, India, don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t got a heart. But you have got a nice rack. I like this get-up. Sexy.”
“Just what I was going for.” I shake my head with boredom. Let’s get this show on the road. “So, Denver?”
“File review. You’re taking Patterson, Rodriguez, Evans, and Chow.”
Shit. Evans makes me want to staple my hand to the desk.
“Do I have to take Evans? You know he has a crush on me. It’s pathetic.”
Evans, like my trainer Adam, is a purebred puppy dog. Not a golden retriever, though—not that All-American and good-looking. Maybe some sort of spaniel? The round, adoring, melty chocolate eyes fit. Sit, stay, stop drooling. Good Evans.
“I’m not paying to change another plane ticket. You’re taking him. I’m sure your charm in close quarters will extinguish any torch he might be carrying for you. Just don’t wear that.”
I heave a sigh. If Evans ever got me naked, he wouldn’t know what to do with me. Fucking Boy Scout. No, not even a Boy Scout. Scouts are handy with knots.
“Fine.”
“You, minion, are too saucy. You get this done, and you can have next Friday off. Does that make up for the puppy dog eyes you’ll have to endure for the next seven days? Have him fetch your coffee. It won’t be so bad.”
Next Friday off? Two weeks is far better than two months. If Cris is even free. I need to call Rey, stat.
“Actual Shakespeare, Jack? Color me impressed. He’d have to get down on his knees and lick my Louboutins to make it worth my while, but next Friday off is a good start.”
My retort gets me a shake of Jack’s head but a short laugh to go along with it. Rest of the office, you should all get down on your knees and kiss my shoes for digging Jack out of what could’ve been a days-long funk. A screaming, throwing-stuff, firing-people-left-and-right funk. But you’d do it badly, and that’s insulting.
Denver, huh? I can do Denver.
*
Rey messengers me Cris’s new contract while I’m at my hotel in Denver. Cris had been quick to say he’s free, and I’m excited to have proof that I’ll get to see him again—and so soon. It’s a welcome distraction from the numbers and codes swimming in my head. I fucking hate file reviews. And Jack was wrong. Close contact with Evans doesn’t seem to have doused any fire he thinks he’s got burning in his loins for me; on the contrary, he’s gotten worse. Now he makes me want to stick a letter opener through my eye.
I give the contract a cursory glance—I’d be surprised if anything much had changed—but when I come to the end, I frown. Nothing has changed. Well, the dates, but that’s it. Not even the weird talking clause at the end. What the fuck? Cris doesn’t strike me as lazy. I’m insulted he’s not even bothered to review the damn thing before sending it back. I fill the tub and climb in before I punch Rey’s number into my cell.
“Hey there, Rocky Mountain Highness.”
“What the hell? He didn’t even look at it, just sent it back.”
“Not true.”
“The only thing that’s different are the dates.”
“Yes.”
Goddammit, Rey, you’re annoying. I’m sure he can feel my glower from across the Rockies.
“I’m insulted, India. Did you think I wouldn’t have looked at this before I sent it to you?”
“No.” Rey’s very thorough.
“I thought it was…unusual, so I called him. He’d like to speak with you.”
“Again?”
“Apparently.”
Oh, I’d like to wipe that smug look off of Rey’s face. “Why?”
“Maybe he liked you.”
Crap. I don’t want Cris to like me. I want him to like Kit Bailey-Isles, submissive edition. Contracts, fake names, and the ten-foot-high barbed wire fence of anonymity Rey erects around me—that is how I roll. I don’t do relationships. The damage Hunter did still smarts, and I’m not stupid enough to let that happen again.
“Did you not like him?” Rey prods.
I scowl. I did like him. Too much. And because Rey has some sort of trainer telepathy, he knows.
“I see,” he says. “I suppose you could call it—”
“No!”
“That’s what I thought. Matthew will see you there. Be good, be careful.”
Chapter Ten
‡
“Kit,” he greets me, opening my door and offering me not only help down from the annoyingly high Jeep, but also a deliciously crooked smile.
“Cris.”
He’s even more attractive than I remembered—and that was pretty damn attractive. As my skin meets his, a thrill slips through me. He offers Matty a cursory nod and steers me to the main house with a hand at the small of my back.
“I hope you had a good trip.” His voice is casual, but strained. He’s nervous, too.
“I did, thank you.”
Again the long
flight was welcome, giving me a chance to sleep uninterrupted. Unlike when I was in Denver, with visions of Evans’ hangdog face haunting me at night.
“It’s a pleasant surprise, seeing you again so soon. When Mr. Walter told me July, I thought it was a nice way to give me the brush off—” I’m about to protest, but he cuts me off with a smug smile. “—but I was assured that wasn’t true.”
Goddammit, Rey, what did you say?
“It’s just that I’m very important and extremely busy.” My attempt at self-deprecation is a major fail. It’s not my strong suit.
“I don’t doubt it.”
He shows me into the house, and it’s exactly as I remembered it, including the big dining table set for two. I wonder if it’s ever full. He pulls out my chair, and I sit while he heads into the kitchen, returning with plates filled with seafood paella.
I don’t waste time, spearing a shrimp on my fork. So good. We eat a few bites in silence before I tease, “So, Mr. Ardmore, you wanted to speak with me?”
“I did.”
“And why this time? I know it’s not because you think you’ll be stealing my virtue.”
He snorts. Whatever he thought might be left of my virtue when I arrived last time, he took care of it.
“No. I just… I liked talking to you.”
My heart thumps, and I have to work up the nerve to open my mouth. “I liked talking to you, too.”
He regards me curiously. “Do you not usually speak with them?”
“No one’s ever asked.”
“I’d say that’s a shame, but I’m glad.”
“Why?” Why does Cris give a crap about whether other guys have wanted to talk to me?
“You wouldn’t have gotten to me if any of them had bothered to get to know you. They’d never have let you go.”
There’s an explosion of warmth in my chest. Is this what it’s like to have a man say he likes you? Not just wants to fuck you? Or that you’ve done good work? That he likes you and not the pretty little submissive you shape yourself into to have some fun or the frigid bitch you affect to get shit done? It’s delicious and terrifying at the same time. I’m so flustered I can’t even make a joke.
I reach for something, anything, to say before I start to blush. “How did you break your nose?”
He’s surprised by the non sequitur but unlike me isn’t so nonplussed he can’t cover it. “Is that fair, Kit? You get to ask me personal questions, but I don’t get to ask you?”
He’s poking fun, a half-smile lighting up his face, but fairness is a big thing for me.
“You’re right.” I look down at my rapidly emptying plate. “It’s not fair. I apologize.”
“Hey.” He uses his stern voice, and I’m feeling more like Kit than India. This is not going well. What was I thinking? How long did I think I was going to be able to pull this off? He waits for my eyes to meet his, and his face has softened. “I was teasing, Kit.”
“I know.”
“You’ve already got more dirt on me than the CIA.”
“I don’t.”
“What do you mean? I think the only information Mr. Walter didn’t ask for was my shoe size.”
“And Mr. Walter’s the only one who knows most of that information. Him and Mr. St. James.”
His brows crease, trying to put together the scattered pieces of the Kit Bailey-Isles jigsaw puzzle. “All the more reason for us to have a conversation. You know, there’s an easy way to make this fair.”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, finding my feet. I’m perfectly willing to trade sexual favors for information.
“You can ask me a question, and I get to ask you one.”
That is not what I had in mind. “No.”
“Two for one?”
“Two for one, and I have veto power. You don’t.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Isles. Are you an attorney?”
“Answer two questions and you might find out.”
“Shake on it?”
I look into his slate-blue eyes. Can I do this? But he’s warm and earnest, and he’s ceded so much control. For people like him, that’s no small thing. I put my hand in his and shake.
“You have yourself a deal, Mr. Ardmore.”
He holds on too long, and it makes something pool in my belly. A handshake? Really, India? Are you going to start going weak in the knees when you meet a client? Swoon when you seal a deal at work? For fuck’s sake. Although, when he lets go, I’m disappointed. I liked his skin on my skin.
“What would you like to know, Kit?”
This power is heady. I can ask Cris anything I’d like. How many lovers he’s had, his worst fear, how much money he makes… But I don’t want to abuse what he’s handed me, so I reiterate, “How’d you break your nose?”
“Which time?”
Ah. I thought it’d been more than once. “Will that count as more than one question?”
“No. It’s all the same, anyway. I’ve broken it three times, surfing. Once on a reef, once on some rocks, once on my board.”
“And you still surf?” It’s out of my mouth before I can help it, but he offers me an out.
“Are you sure that’s how you want to use your second question?”
“Sure.”
“Then, yes, I still surf. Nearly every day.”
That’s how he got that body. That tan. The pale scars that dot his skin. Surfing. I picture Cris on a board amongst the waves. It fits. As does the St. Michael’s medal—protection against dangers at sea.
“Your St. Michael’s medal isn’t really doing the trick, is it?”
He blinks and fingers the disc at his throat, a compulsion. “My mom gave me this the first time I had a serious wipeout. I think it’s done a yeoman’s job, considering. I’m still here, only a little worse for wear. Other people haven’t been so lucky.”
Cris has had friends die out there, and he still goes. Does that make him dedicated to something he loves, something he couldn’t live without? Or insane? I don’t have time to consider because he’s turning the tables.
“That’s more than two. I believe it’s my turn.”
“It is.” Nervousness claws at my stomach. But why? I’ve got veto power. He could ask me if I liked the paella, and I could answer no comment, although I wouldn’t. It’s delicious, and I’ll tell him so before I turn into a pumpkin.
“So are you an attorney?”
“I have a law degree, and I’ve passed the bar.”
He laughs, and my insides melt. “Spoken like a true lawyer.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to contain my threatening grin. “I suppose so, yes.”
“See, that wasn’t so bad.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
We continue our chatter over lunch, and I learn that Cris has been surfing since he was eight—competitively until he left for college—and his father taught him how to cook. I’m about to ask what his favorite dish to make is when Cris checks his watch and says it’s one thirty. Oops.
Once we’ve completed the requisite paperwork and Matty’s told me to text with major US cities, I entrust myself once again to Cris’s capable hands and the games begin.
*
Cris is a creature of habit, though in a way that’s soothing, not dull. He bathes me, and by the time he’s restraining me on the table, I’m putty in his hands. After he warms me up—teasing me with bites and kisses, suckling at one breast while rolling the other nipple between talented fingers, dipping his fingers inside of me and finding me wet and wanting—he produces a riding crop.
“You’ve played with one of these before, pet?” He trails the keeper up my instep and over the inside of my calf to my thigh. At the gentle touch, my muscles clench from my knees all the way to my groin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you like it?” He draws the tip farther up to my hipbone and traces a languid circle around it.
“If they wanted me to, sir.” I’ve been both punished and rewarded with one of the
se devilish tools, and I wonder which Cris has in mind. I haven’t misbehaved yet as far as I know, but I’m more conscious than ever of my helpless, exposed state. In addition to my arms being bound above my head, my legs are also restrained. Each ankle is bound to each thigh by cuffs and a length of chain, and my legs are spread, knees resting on rolled towels and held in place with leather straps tethering them to the outsides of the table. The bondage alone has me squirming.
“I want you to.”
He drags the keeper across my pelvis to my other hipbone. The feeling it creates in my core makes me buck my hips and mewl.
“That’s right, no need to be shy.”
He continues his tour, looping around my navel and heading toward my breasts. He traces under them and around, making ever smaller figure eights until he’s just shy of my areolas. The crop leaves my skin to return with a sharp bite to my nipple. I groan, and another blow lands in quick succession, this time to the other nipple. He’s got good aim, and he’s hitting me hard enough that it’s at the border of pleasure and pain. The sensations are sending pulses south.
“Do you like this?”
“Yes, sir.” I’m panting, and if he kept this up for long enough, I could come.
“Then let me hear you.” He lands another blow, and this time I don’t hold back, letting out a moan. “That’s better.”
His words are fanning my desire, and I’m shamelessly letting encouraging noises emanate all the way up from my core.
“Could you come from this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you won’t. Not without permission.”
“No, sir.”
It’s getting harder to keep my word, my abdominals aching with the effort of trying to thrust my hips, restrained as I am. The blows stop, and I cry out in protest until the crop lands between my legs. The bite is pleasant and sharp against the most sensitive part of me. This, I won’t be able to tolerate for long. I’ve closed my eyes tight with effort, and I’m straining at my bonds.
“Go ahead. Let me see what I do to you.”
A few more licks land before my orgasm overtakes me, and my body tenses before it careens out of control. I’m gasping in time with the waves of release, glad to be tied down. I can’t make any promises about what my body might do if I weren’t. The blows have stopped, and he’s holding my hipbones, providing another point of resistance for my unruly body to rage against. When my climax has burnt itself out, he strokes his thumbs across my belly. I open my eyes, and he runs his hands up my stomach, over my still-heaving chest, to cradle my head.
Personal Geography Page 9
