Praise for The Cartographer
“Funny, sexy, and touching. Parker has created two highly memorable characters—I didn’t want to let them go.”
—J.A. Rock, Award Winning Author of The Subs Club series
“I’ve been dying for Rey’s book since the very first time I read Personal Geography. The perfect and smokin’ hot resolution to a series I adore.”
—Amy Jo Cousins, Author of the Bend or Break series
“The Cartographer isn’t just scorchingly hot, it’s a gorgeous slow burn love story that had me breathless for the happy ever after from the very first chapter. There’s nothing sexier than watching a control freak lose control as they’re overtaken by love.”
—Misha Horne, Author of Old School Discipline
Praise for Tamsen’s other books
“Bewitching, humorous, erotically intense and emotional.”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers
“Intense, erotic and full of heart. A perfect mix of raw passion and tenderness makes Craving Flight irresistible.”
—Kit Rocha, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Beyond series
“If you want hot, engaging, realistic and dirrrrrty BDSM romance, Tamsen Parker is your woman. […] Lovely, hot and well-crafted.”
—Alyssa Cole, Award Winning Author of An Extraordinary Union and RITA-nominated Let It Shine
“School Ties is one of those rare books that has everything I look for in romance. It’s a perfect mix of scorching chemistry, witty dialogue, and a love story that pulls at your heart. With it, Tamsen has placed herself on my autobuy list.”
—Tara Sue Me, New York Times Bestselling Author of the Submissive series
“Parker weaves incredibly sexy, perfectly kinky novels—she keeps me turning pages until I reach the delicious HEA at the end!”
—USA Today Bestselling Author Ainsley Booth
“His Custody is by far the hottest guardian/ward book I’ve ever read. So many sexy, beautiful moments, and characters you can’t help but fall in love with. Jasper and Keyne’s story is about protection, connection, and love conquering all.”
—NY Times Bestselling Author Annabel Joseph
“[Due South is a] sexy delight from beginning to end. Tamsen Parker has created one of my favorite couples of the year. Adorkable and hot, this will be a definite reread for me!”
—USA Today bestselling author Megan Erickson
“[School Ties is an] enthralling, unique take on student-teacher romances. In true Parker fashion, she adds kinky twists and turns that kept me flipping the pages.”
—Jennifer Blackwood, USA Today Bestselling Author of The Rulebook
“I love Tamsen Parker’s books. The pain is exquisite, and the pleasure is always worth the wait.”
—Misha Horne, Author of Old School Discipline
“[Craving Flight is] very, very much worth reading. It’s satisfying and compelling and emotionally rich in both the emotional sense, but also in a cultural, almost world-building sense.”
—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
“Personal Geography is romantic, suspenseful, and pretty much everything I look for in a romance. I relate to the heroine, I want the hero to be real, and I desperately want their happily ever after.”
—Alexis Anne, Author of The Storm Inside series
“His Custody is taboo romance at its best, add in the creative kink that Tamsen Parker is well known for and you have one of the best books of 2017.”
—Romance Novel News
Reyes Walter is the man who engineers everyone’s happiness, and he’s never wanted anything else. He’s got a lucrative job as sovereign of the kink world, and he delights in playing puppet master for those under his purview…which is everyone.
Allie Hart has got his hands full trying to find a job and being there for his sister and her kids. Loyal to the bone, he’s not looking for anything to get in the way of his obligations.
When a chance encounter throws Allie into the wide swath of Rey’s concern, Rey resolves to play the hero as usual, and Allie is determined to tell him where to stick it. The last thing Allie needs is some rich know-it-all treating him like a damsel in distress.
But the attraction between them leads to more than a back-alley tryst—although not anywhere close to for-keeps. All of Rey’s previous lovers have been polished up and paired off with someone more suitable. After all, there’s always someone in need, and Rey vowed a long time ago not to let anything or anyone come between him and his responsibilities. But Allie Hart may be the one gift he’s tempted to keep for himself.
For E, for everything.
Table of Contents
Praise for Tamsen Parker
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Thank you!
Other Books by Tamsen
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Chapter One
‡
I should go to bed. If I were one of my clients, I’d tell myself to go to bed. Which would explain why I’m standing in front of a bar I’ve never been to, where I likely won’t know anyone. Straight from the airport, not bothering to stop at home because all I’ve got is my messenger bag.
The bar isn’t as polished as the places I usually frequent, but it’ll do. I don’t want to see anyone I have a relationship with right now. It’s not often I get worn out, but a weekend at a funeral… That’ll do it. Even if it’s in paradise. Maybe especially if it’s in paradise, because death shouldn’t happen in a place like that. But I suppose people die everywhere, all the time.
This is why I can’t go home yet. Have to get some of this leftover melancholy out of my system before I ruffle Matthew’s mother-hen feathers. He’d mean well, but I don’t feel like being clucked over. So I tug open the door, the curved metal of the handle smooth and slick under my touch, and walk through the door.
The bar’s dark, but even so, scanning the room, I don’t see anyone familiar. For the most part, I enjoy running into clients in the wild. I take their cues, either making conversation or not. Mostly not. I’m a shameful secret for many of them. I get it. I provide a service. An essential one, if they’re to be believed, but a secret one nonetheless.
I’m very good with secrets.
There’s an empty booth at the back. I head toward it because having your back to the wall is always a good idea. But a movement behind the bar attracts my attention and I hesitate. Handsome man. Black, tall, built. His black T-shirt is stretched taut over his broad chest, and he looks harried, even though he’s got a bright, white smile plastered on his clean-shaven face. But there aren’t many people crowding the wooden counter—oak probably? Reclaimed? Because that’s
the kind of place this is.
A familiar voice sounds at the back of my head: What is he worried about? What does he need? Helping people is the best and most important thing you can ever do.
I slacken my tie and tip my head as I undo the first button of my shirt, loosening my collar. Leave it, Walter. I came here because I need not to care about someone else for a couple of hours. No shame in that.
But that stupid voice—it won’t shut up. It never does. Besides, nothing makes me feel better than being in control, and helping someone is a good way to gain control.
So I change course, sling my messenger bag under an empty stool at the far end of the bar, take a seat, and watch. The guy’s a mix of graceful economy of movement—I’m guessing military, but maybe a serious athlete—and uncertainty. As if he has no idea what he’s doing. New? It’s a Sunday night, not a bad time to start a new guy.
He wipes his hands on the short grey apron tied around his hips and spins, looking for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it because his eyes land on me. In that blink, I can tell: gay. Or some stripe of queer. Whatever he is, he likes the look of me.
Sure he does. There’s a slight constriction in my chest, a silent laugh. I’m worn out. I should be at home, having Matthew undress me and catching up on the non-urgent communiques I let slide while I was in Kona. Instead, I’m in some random-ass bar, trolling this bartender who seems out of place somehow. Vanilla, for all I know. I raise an eyebrow and tip my head toward the couple he was serving. Back to work, barkeep.
He blinks at me again, shakes his head, the hint of a smile curling up one side of his full mouth. The possibility of the words “yes, sir” coming out of that mouth enters my mind and…yes. A possibility. He finds the bottle opener he’d been looking for, cracks a couple of craft beers, and hands them over to the couple before heading over to me.
“What can I get for you?”
You, on your knees in the bathroom in five minutes?
If there were another person working the bar, I might say it. It works more often than you’d think.
“Manhattan.”
What I’d really like is a Laureate. I could be at home, having Matthew make up a batch, but instead I’m perched on an uncomfortable, vinyl-covered barstool and wondering what the bartender’s shaved head would feel like under my fingertips while he eagerly undid my belt. Would he enjoy it if I slipped it out from the beltloops and put it around his neck? Not tight. I don’t do breathplay with newbies—or hardly anyone, really—but I could tighten it enough to make him feel vulnerable, controlled, mine. Maybe he’d like that.
I study him as he makes the drink, and I get the impression he’s not new. No, it’s worse than that. There’s enough confidence, competence, in the way he carries himself he could pull it off if that were the only issue. I suspect not only is this guy new at this bar, but he’s not, in fact, a bartender at all. The moment he reaches for the gin, I’m sure. I let him do it because sometimes you’ve got to give people enough rope to hang themselves before you show them how to tie a knot.
He brings it over, and I pay cash, telling him to keep it, which is a better-than-necessary tip he thanks me for. I’d like to invite him to linger, but he drops a nod and turns to the register to ring in the sale. Before he can turn back or I can ask a leading question I bet would have him elbows on the bar and looking at me with intent, there’s a commotion at the door and a crowd of people surge inside. This is clearly not their first stop.
Since I can’t flirt with my bartender, I take a sip of my drink and…fuck. That is disgusting. I didn’t think it’d be good, but it’s blatantly atrocious. If I were a better person, I’d let it go. Slip off the stool and head home where I belong, where Matthew is undoubtedly waiting for me. I’d texted him to let him know I wasn’t coming home right away, but I shouldn’t keep him up too late.
There’s something about this man that calls to me, though. Maybe the vulnerability or maybe the tats snaking up his arms and under those sleeves. I want to know what they say. I want to know his story. Such a weakness, this need to seep into people’s hearts and minds and souls until I can crack them wide open like water that freezes in a rock.
I get his attention with a raised finger, and he heads over, glancing over his shoulder at the rowdy crowd making their way over.
“Something else?”
“No. This…” I tap the bar next to the martini glass of death, shaking my head. “This is not a Manhattan. This is more like a Camden.”
Geography humor. I wish India were sitting next to me; she’d appreciate it. Or not. She doesn’t have much of a sense of humor these days.
I pitched my tone harsh, and the way his face crumples—as if he’d be blushing if his skin weren’t quite so dark—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. Very much.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, did he have to say sir? If I hadn’t wanted to pin him over the bar and fuck him senseless already, that would do it. God have mercy on my damned soul. Though, who am I kidding? I’ll have so much more fun in hell, being the fucking cruise director of the River Acheron. “I don’t want an apology.”
I lean across the bar and school my features. It wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to get this guy on his knees in the alley behind the bar after he finishes his shift, would it? “I want a name.”
“Name’s Hart. I’ll make you another one.”
I want to laugh, but his earnestness curbs my less charitable instincts. I do, however, let my eyebrow kick up. “I’d rather you didn’t, actually. Besides, you’re going to have your hands full in approximately ten seconds.”
He glances over his shoulder at the swarm that’s about to hit the other end of the bar before looking back at me, hopeless.
“Go on.”
How quickly this happens. Sometimes. Not all the time. Maybe too much of the time. I came here not to be responsible for anyone, not to have another person’s wants and needs heavy in my hands, and already I find myself giving permission. While a break wouldn’t be a bad thing, I can’t bemoan my lot in life. Who am I kidding? I fucking love it. It’s really goddamn good to be me.
Hart. I should’ve asked for a first name. Time enough.
I watch as he struggles to juggle the dozen orders getting slurred at him, and I want to beat the horde back, force them into a neat, orderly queue that will have some fucking manners. Ask him nicely, savages. Instead, I wait. But when a glass shatters to the floor because he’s too overwhelmed to pay attention to where he’s left things, I can’t help myself.
I shuck my suit coat, strip off my tie, roll up my sleeves, and vault over the bar. Coming up behind Hart, I grip his arm. He’s got a couple of inches on me and probably about thirty pounds of pure muscle. It’s a joy to feel his biceps flex under my touch. I’d like to harness that power, have it be mine. His secrets too. Whatever weakness is lurking under all that power. Tender nerves I’d like to expose and then soothe.
“What’s the order?”
Confusion muddles his face, and he looks at me like I’m a nut job. Just you wait, Hart. You have no idea what else I’m going to ask you for.
“Tell me the order and I can help you.”
“Three Hoegaardens, two cosmos, and an appletini. More coming.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, but this should be no problem. “I’ll get the cocktails, you get the beers.”
When I haven’t been staring at Hart, I’ve taken inventory of the bar, so it’s not hard to find what I need and shake up the trite cocktails. I bet they order the same damn thing at every bar they go to, and they’re not even good. If you can trust the bar, order one of the house cocktails. Always. If you can’t, go with a classic. Which is what I thought I’d been doing, but I should’ve gone with a gin and tonic. Even Hart shouldn’t be able to mess that up; name’s on the tin.
Hart’s handed over the bottles, and I pass him the cash and cards to deal with while I take orders from the
rest of the swarm. Two lemon drops, three Stellas, a G&T, and a long, slow screw up against a wall for a woman who is trying far too hard to attract the attention of some moron with her risqué drink order.
I mix the orders, pass them over, get lost in the easy rhythm of it. I’m not Matthew, who’s a genius behind the bar, but I manage well enough. While Hart’s finishing up at the register, I dump the hideous concoction he’d made and make myself an actual Manhattan and sip at it.
When he turns and sees me leaning up against the bar, he laughs. “Thank you. You’re drinking on the house for the rest of the night.”
I nod, knowing this is the only one I’ll have. Have to get home to my Matthew, and I don’t want to be sloshed when I do. Also, there’s the possibility I’ll get a phone call from India and have to go straight back to Kona, and flying blitzed is no fun.
“So tell me what you’re doing here, Hart. You’re not a bartender.”
His mouth turns up in a wry half-smile. “That obvious, huh?”
“You can’t make a classic cocktail, your ice is running way low, and you couldn’t manage a handful of orders at one time. No way. So tell me, what are you doing here?”
“A favor.”
His voice changed when he answered, gotten somber, serious. Who is he protecting?
“For who?”
“My sister.”
“Younger?”
“Yeah.” The way he can’t meet my eyes when he says it and how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat with a hard swallow makes me wonder.
“She in trouble?”
“You could say so.”
“You don’t need to keep secrets from me, Hart. I’m good with secrets.”
He looks up, eyes slightly hooded, and it pulls at the same damn heartstring. He’s worried and stressed and trying to do the best he can. Help him. I say his name again, because it’s a human thing above all: I recognize you, I see you, my thoughts are on you. Yet it’s also a dominance thing: every time I say your name, you belong to me a little more. I make you feel more comfortable, safer. I create conditions under which you can give yourself over to me.
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 1
