Personal Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  Now Crispin wants me to meet his parents during some medical crisis? And tell them what about us? I don’t think so.

  “Please?”

  “Are you asking Kit or are you asking India?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  If he’s asking India, the answer is an unqualified no. If he’s asking Kit, it’d be yes. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’d do it. His eyes are boring into me. I want to crawl under the coffee table, but I stand my ground.

  “Then never mind. Get your things. I’ll have to drop you off at the airport on my way.”

  Chapter Sixteen

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  In the two weeks that follow, I have all kinds of time to think about my decision. Cris called Rey Sunday night to set up our next weekend, but he doesn’t call me. His phone silence teaches me that I’d gotten used to talking to him every week. More than that, I’d enjoyed it, looked forward to it. I miss it more than I could’ve imagined.

  I’ve never seen Crispin angry before, but that’s what this is. He’s ripped. At me. A feeling I’m not used to sinks my stomach after Saturday passes with no contact. I’ve disappointed him, let him down, and not as my Dom. I’ve done that before and paid the price, but how does one get punished for this? Will I even get the chance to find out? Everything’s all arranged for next weekend, but maybe calling Rey was just a conditioned response. Maybe he’s had a chance to reconsider.

  When I get a call from Rey Thursday night, I’m almost certain that’s what he’ll say: It’s off. Instead, he tells me Cris has asked if I wouldn’t mind renting a car this time. That does not bode well. Not at all. I see it as a portent that he’s tired of me, that this will be the brush-off. And if that’s true, I don’t want to face it alone, so Matty comes instead. The uncharacteristically grey skies and heavy clouds when I get off the plane don’t do anything to allay my sense of dread.

  It’s only when Cris is helping me out of the Jeep that I realize he’s not angry. He’s exhausted. His broad shoulders are slumped, and there are lines on his face I haven’t noticed before that aren’t from smiling. He didn’t call on Saturday because he didn’t have the time or the energy, not because he was mad. My heart aches for him, and I want so badly to do something, anything, for him. Though it’s breaking the rules, I pull the contracts from my bag, and we sign them on the porch before sending them with Matty. As he’s driving away, the foreboding clouds burst, and it starts to pour.

  When we walk into the house, Crispin collapses onto the couch and pats his lap. I climb onto him, rest my head on his shoulder, and slip my arms around his neck. His arms come around me, and he grips my hip with his broad hand.

  “Is your dad okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s going to be fine. As fine as he ever is.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  A silence stretches out until he breaks it. “You know what I’d like?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’d like to take a cat to your back and then fuck you senseless.”

  My eyes widen. Crispin hasn’t whipped me before. The price for emotional transgressions is steep. Not that I mind him taking it out on my body—it’ll make me feel better, too—but Rey would want me to make sure he’s under control before we start. “Are you still angry at me?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m sorry I snapped at you last time. It’s not for punishment. When shit like this happens…the only two things that make me feel like the world isn’t coming apart at the seams are fucking and riding big surf. And unless you want me to take my board out—”

  “No!” I clutch at him. Surfing during a storm seems like a terrible idea. His overtaxed St. Michael’s medal doesn’t seem up to the task. “No, don’t. Please.”

  “Fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not a threat. I’m not issuing an ultimatum. Don’t tell me yes because you’re afraid of what else I might do. I won’t go out, I promise.” His reassurances comfort me, as do his strong arms holding me close. I loosen my hold to lean back and look in his eyes.

  “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. It’s rule number one.”

  “Rule number one?”

  “Rey’s rule number one: You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’d say he beat it into me, but that seems in poor taste.”

  The corner of Crispin’s mouth twitches, and some of the tension I’ve been holding leaves my body. There he is. I kiss the hint of a smile in absent relief, but he’s quick to take my face in his hands and make it serious, his lips pressing into mine, his tongue working into my mouth. His hands leave my face to tug me into a straddle. We kiss this way for a minute, but I can sense his frustration in the way his fingers dig into my flesh. He needs more. Coming to his feet, he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his torso. He starts toward the studio but stops dead in his tracks.

  “Are you sure this is okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need some time? I know it can be hard.”

  I shake my head no, but I appreciate the offer. I’ve gotten used to the buffer time our lunch dates provide. Doing without it won’t be easy, but at the moment, I feel like some sort of hybrid—Kindia?—and I’ll be all right. I nuzzle at him.

  “I’m okay. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

  I can’t imagine it would be, and Crispin will do more than a hack job patching up any physical or emotional damage he might inflict. I’ll be fine.

  *

  Crispin’s rough with me, but not in a way I can’t handle. And he’s careful to work up to it. I’m more aware than I’d like to be—still a touch India when I’d like to be all Kit. I don’t sink into subspace where nothing much matters, but it’s easy to bear. For him. When he’s finished with the cat, he untethers me from the cross and helps me to the bed where I slither onto my stomach and rest. My mind is racing, but my body’s exhausted.

  He keeps a hand on me as we lay there in silence, sorting our thoughts. I hope this has made him feel better, that taking his anguish and rage out on my back in the form of angry red lashes from a whip has been the cure for what ails him. At least for a little while. I understand feeling lost and helpless. I’m glad Crispin’s remedy is to control, strike, and dominate whereas mine is to yield, absorb, and submit. It’s not for everyone, but it works for us.

  He strokes me—my neck, my hair, my face—and I get that familiar buzz of anticipation. My body is warm, supple, willing, eager. When his thumb slips by my mouth, I lick the pad. He takes my cue, broadening his attentions. He kisses my shoulder, sinks his teeth into my earlobe. I sigh. He slides my wrists to hip-level and urges me to tuck my knees underneath my chest, careful to avoid my abraded back but also to keep some skin-to-skin contact at all times. I like this habit of his.

  The metallic swishing of a spreader bar being expanded cuts the quiet. He has me lift my hips and widen my knees before he attaches my wrists and ankles to the bar. I’m spread open and vulnerable, waiting and wanting, my back stinging and raw with the evidence of his need for me. I get a rush of satisfaction as he grabs my hips. Even that minor touch is laden with want.

  “Okay?”

  I nod, my eyes still closed. More than okay. He kneels behind me and readjusts his grip while he admires the marks he’s made, careful not to touch. He doesn’t bother with fingers; I’m wet and ready. There’s little resistance as he pushes in the first time before drawing back and slamming into me. The impact knocks a sound out of me, the ragged cry searing my throat. God, that feels good.

  He doesn’t hold back, putting the full force of his body behind his thrusts. My cheek is rubbing hard against the soft sheet with no way to brace myself. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, and the feeling of being at his mercy heightens the sensations: my chest heavy against the bed, my wrists tugging against the unforgiving restraints, being penetrated over and over. When he grabs my hair, I’m done for.

  “Do it, pet. Come for me now.”

  I
shudder and buck underneath him as best I can, but the cuffs anchored to the bar hold me fast. There’s no escape from my orgasm and no escape from him driving into me. He comes close behind me with an animal groan, emptying his angst and frustration into this pinpoint where he has absolute control.

  When he’s rubbed out every last bit of his release, he pushes back from my elevated hips and unhooks the wrist cuffs from the bar, but leaves my ankles attached. We’re not done here.

  *

  A few hours later, my head is so scrambled I’m not sure what I’d say if someone asked me my name. At long last, he’s removed the myriad restraints and toys he’s made liberal use of, and we’re lying on the four-poster together. He’s stroking my hair, and I’m seconds from sleep.

  “C’mon, mili, I’m going to put you to bed.”

  Mili? What’s this? He’s never called me that before. I hope he’s not so fuck-stupid he thinks I’m someone else. That’s insulting.

  “On your knees, Kit.”

  No, he hasn’t forgotten. I drag myself up while he rolls off the bed and tugs on his jeans. He stands at the side of the bed and urges me against him. “Arms around my neck.”

  He picks me up, and I lean heavily against him, my head resting on his shoulder while I wrap my legs around his waist. It’s nice to be carried this way—no pressure on my stiff back and so close to him, his gratitude and affection for me palpable as the warmth from his sun-kissed skin.

  The trip to my room seems longer than usual, and by the time he lays me in my bed, I may as well be asleep. My senses are revived when he rubs salve into my back. I whimper, but he hushes and soothes me. After the first wave of discomfort, it’s not too bad. I drift off under his gentle attentions.

  Hours later, I stir and something makes me blink my eyes open. I’m confused but not concerned to see Crispin sitting in the chair beside my bed. He’s freshly showered and fully clothed. He hasn’t been here the whole time. I’m about to speak, but he beats me to the punch.

  “It’s all right. I came to check on you. Go back to sleep.”

  This could be creepy, but it’s not. It’s reassuring. I blink a few times, but he doesn’t move. Just sits there like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be leaning back in his chair, watching me sleep in the middle of the night. His confidence and ease slow my brain. I close my eyes, and my head goes dark.

  *

  Come eleven, my standard wake-up time when I’m in Kona, I’m shoveling French toast with pomegranate syrup into my mouth. Hard play always leaves me starving, and Crispin’s put out quite the spread this morning, knowing I’ll be ravenous. It was the smell of frying bacon that roused me out of my bed at all.

  He’ll have to take it easy on my back for the rest of the weekend, marked and throbbing as it is, but I’m up for—no, desperate for—more. As soon as I get my fill of this French toast. And maybe some eggs. And papaya. And coffee. Definitely more coffee.

  Crispin kicks back in his chair, watching me stuff myself silly. I’m sure he ate before I got up and is politely having a few bites of sweet bread so I don’t feel like a total pig. I don’t mind, really. He takes pleasure in my enjoyment of the food he’s made; his gaze is appreciative, not incredulous or insulting, as I devour everything in my path.

  Hunter used to enjoy feeding me, having me kneel beside him at the table and take morsels from his manicured hand. He’d had me do it during our first official playdate, while he and Rey negotiated the terms of our contract. It was disconcerting at first to be on my knees like some accessory or pet, but I sat back on my heels and focused on my breathing while they hashed out details of the agreement that would dictate my life for the next six years. I’d thought being fed like that would make me feel debased. That was fine. I was up for a little degradation. It would’ve been easy to stumble into humiliation with a single comment or off-glance. When no one blinked an eye, I’d let myself relax…and I’d felt precious, sheltered, revered.

  After the meal was over and terms agreed upon, Hunter had tipped up my chin, instructing me to look at him. That’s when embarrassment had flooded me because he could tell how much I’d enjoyed being at his feet.

  “Such a dainty little thing with such nice manners. Did you like that, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’d eased my mortification with a sweep of his thumb across my cheek, telling me there was no need to be ashamed. He was so pleased, and everyone there understood me. I’d been so grateful for his acceptance and indulgence. I’d soaked it up like a desperate sponge. That was the first moment I’d felt truly beholden to him.

  I try to stifle the bittersweet memory in my mind while chewing yet another mouthful of my feast. I’m feeling pretty successful until Crispin interrupts my reverie.

  “Who’s Hunter?”

  My throat goes tight, and I can’t swallow the fluffy, perfectly seasoned eggs on my tongue. I cough and choke, grabbing the napkin from my lap to smother the noises—and in case I have to spit out my food because I don’t know if I can force it down.

  After a minute—during which Crispin becomes so alarmed he pushes out of his chair and I have to ward him off with a viciously raised finger—the panic subsides and my throat opens enough to let the forkful of food slip down. My heart is beating hard, and my breath is short.

  “What do you know about Hunter?”

  “Nothing.” He sits back down and holds his hands above the table, open as if to ward off my attack or perhaps to show he’s got nothing to hide.

  You’re hiding something, Crispin. You didn’t get that name from me, and there’s no way in hell Rey gave it to you either.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time before I walk out of here. What the fuck do you know about Hunter?”

  “Settle down, India. There’s no need for—” I push my chair back from the table, primed to make a break for my room, and Crispin shakes his head. “Could you open up for once without me having to use a crowbar? Christ.”

  I wrap my arms around my waist like I’ve just been punched. I may as well have been. I know I’m a complete and utter head case, and I’m well aware that Crispin is far more patient with me than I deserve. Which is maybe why it hurts so much when he snaps. I’m such a disaster I’ve made the second-most tolerant man alive lose his cool.

  My stomach churns as I review my options. I could leave as I’ve threatened, but I don’t want to. I could give him an ultimatum—apologize or I’m gone—but what if he tells me to go? I’d be devastated, but I would. He doesn’t owe me jack shit, never mind an apology. My heart takes a beat that feels too big, like too much blood is trying to fight its way through the valves. However cavalier my attitude, however aloof I act, I don’t want to lose him.

  I could tell him about Hunter… But the fear strikes hot, and I brace my hands against the table. Not an option.

  I’m still sifting through the possibilities when Crispin lays a hand over mine. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you. Don’t leave, please.”

  Despite his peace offering, my body’s still pulsing with adrenaline, and the beast inside is screaming run. But I’m a person, not an animal. I’ve got a PhD in self-control, and I should use it better. If Crispin hadn’t known before that Hunter’s a sore spot—well, more like a gaping wound that refuses to heal—he does now. Fuck all.

  His thumb strokes across my wrist where his hand’s still covering mine. The weight and the motion settle the worst of my panic, and he dips his head until I look at him.

  “Last night I came to check on you.”

  I remember. I acknowledge him with a blink, and he continues.

  “When I was leaving, you said ‘Hunter, please.’”

  My face flames with embarrassment, and I wrench my eyes from Crispin’s. How did I say it? I begged him for so many things. I’ve been dreaming about Hunter at home, but I thought I was safe from him here. Apparently the strange and delicious magic Crispin works on me doesn’t extend that far.

  My h
and fists under his on the table. “What else did I say?”

  “I don’t know.” I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Honest to god, I don’t. I was walking through the door, and I kept going. I didn’t hear anything else. I swear.”

  I want to pull my hand away and run to my room. Slam the door, pack up my things, and leave. Never come back. But it’s not Crispin’s fault Hunter still holds so much sway over me I talk to him in dreams, and I believe that he left. He knows how rabid I am about my privacy, and he’s learned his lesson: there are lines he’s not allowed to cross.

  “I don’t talk about Hunter.” Even Rey broaches the topic as little as possible. I can’t remember the last time I said his name out loud.

  “Okay.”

  I thread my free arm across my stomach and hold tight, my whole body wound up taut and twitchy.

  “Was he your Dom?”

  I hold myself tighter, wishing I could shrivel up and disappear. If I weren’t clenching my jaw so hard, my chin would be quivering.

  “Was he your first?”

  Crispin’s prodding, gentle as it is, is not acceptable. I need to nip this in the bud, so my tone is enough to snap him like a too-curious twig. “What part of ‘I don’t talk about him’ did you not understand?”

  There’s hesitation from the other side of the table. He’s weighing his options as I’ve weighed mine, and perhaps this will be the time he decides that he’s had enough, that what he gets from me isn’t an even exchange for what he gives. It’s not. For once, I wish that I could shut off the panic that electrifies my mental fence and drop my emotional drawbridge—because he deserves it.

  But instead of a bitten-off curse and instructions to go pack my things, I get more rhythmic stroking of my skin that lets me loosen my hand under his. “Can I ask you one thing?”

  I smother the kneejerk “no.” I can give him one question. One tiny, vomit-inducing, rib-crushing question. I hate how small my voice sounds as I say, “Make it good because it’s the only one you’re going to get.”