Even with my coaxing, he doesn’t answer, so I take a step back. “Start with an easier one then. What’s your first name?”
He smirks, and in the next breath, he looks bigger. Stands up straight, squares powerful shoulders, and lifts his chin. He’s magnificent. “Easier?”
I’ve hit a nerve. Good.
He turns to a trio who’ve wandered up to the bar, pulls a few pints for them, and makes change before turning his attention back to me.
“How about if you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine?”
Bargaining. I’ll let him get away with it for now, but before long, he’ll learn. I don’t barter. And he’ll be begging to give me what I want soon enough.
I hold out a hand. “Reyes Llewelyn Walter, barkeep for hire.”
He snorts and takes my hand. I exert a precise amount of pressure, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull a face. Instead, a small gap forms at the center of his lips and it’s as good a cue as any to rev my engines. Yes, Hart may be just my sort.
“My friends call me Allie.” His tone makes it clear I’m not one of his friends, and I don’t feel I’ve earned that privilege either.
“You owe me more than that.”
His eyes narrow, the nearly black irises becoming slices of suspicion. How much can I trust this guy?
I want to tell him he can trust me with anything, everything. Lots of people do. I can’t, though, because that’s one of the reasons they trust me. Because I understand discretion and keeping my goddamn mouth shut.
“Aloysius Emmett Hart III.”
A tiny chamber in my heart fills up with the knowledge. Another secret to be tucked away, kept safe. I’ll never tell, though I’ll go visit the gift he’s given occasionally. Treasure it. “Hart it is.”
Never too early to teach him I won’t hurt him, I’ll respect his boundaries. We’re not friends yet. Likely never will be. But I’ll call him Allie someday, somewhere outside of my head.
The suspicion has faded but isn’t gone entirely. “You don’t look like a bartender.”
“I’m not. Why would you say that?”
“I know what kind of money a bartender makes. Your clothes are way too nice.”
Is his sister in financial trouble?
“I do okay for myself. So tell me about this favor.”
He hesitates, and I wait. People want to confess. They do. Most of them, you just need to give them time. Or a nudge and then they’ll spill. Sometimes spew. My friend Allie here looks as though he’s been sitting on too much and might blow any minute. I can wait all night. I’ve done it before, will no doubt do it again. Patience, an essential virtue in my line of work.
He checks me, double-checks me with his eyes. “My sister—she has lupus. She does her best to take care of herself and avoid flare-ups, but she’s a war widow with two kids so life can be rough. And when she gets too stressed… Fevers, fatigue, her joints and muscles hurt. Makes it hard to come to work, you know? Her boss is a real asshole. Told her if she misses another shift, she’s done. So when I get a call from Kendra saying she can barely get out of bed to make the kids lunch, what am I supposed to do? She needs the money.”
Another group spills into the bar, bigger and louder than the first. Who are these people and what the fuck are they doing getting wasted on a Sunday night? They don’t head to the bar but claim some seats in the back corner, near the booth I should’ve sat in instead of letting my dick lead me over to Hart.
A waitress claims them, probably thrilled to be getting so many customers on a Sunday night. From the way the men in the group—mostly single, if the lack of rings is any indication—stare at her…well, she’ll be bringing home good money. If Allie can keep his shit together. The urge to stay, help him, is strong, but it’s late. Matthew. My first responsibility is to Matthew.
So I nod. I won’t be getting off in the back alley, backroom, or bathroom tonight. “Good man.”
A shrill voice at the other end of the bar distracts him, and I take the opportunity to dig out whatever cash I have in my wallet. Three hundred eighty-seven dollars. When I travel, I like to keep a decent amount of cash on hand. With a quick check of my phone, I verify there’s a car with the service I use not so far away, so I don’t need to take money for a cab. I leave the lot under my half-full glass behind the bar and sneak away, hoping Hart doesn’t see me abandon him.
Chapter Two
‡
The lights in the house are still blazing when I get home. Matthew’s awake, even though he has my permission to go to bed. I hope he hasn’t been pacing anxiously. He does that sometimes, despite my efforts to get him to stop. Not my best efforts, mind you, or he would’ve stopped, but still.
I find him at his desk, poring over spreadsheets, god love him. The only person I know who works harder than Matthew is India. My exquisite little s-types, so desperate to please. Fondness sits like a hot meal in my stomach, and I smile as Matthew scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.
He’s tired. Probably sore from being in front of his computer all day. Maybe frustrated. I can do something about all of that.
I close the distance between us, and before he can turn around, I grip his neck and force his head down to the desk. He turns his cheek and reflexively clasps his hands at the small of his back. Stroking my thumb along that sensitive spot behind his ear, I take a great deal of pride in how soft he’s gone, how relaxed he is as soon as he knows I’m here. It’s fun to turn him into a bowl of Matthew jelly.
Easing his worries with a practiced touch, I study his face—the way his dark lashes fan across his cheek, how his hair could use a cut. He’s been putting it off because I’ve needed him more than usual in the past few weeks, and I need to stop. He needs to take care of himself, and he won’t if he thinks he needs to take care of me.
“Welcome home, sir.”
“It’s good to be back. Everything is in order?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I should be around for the next several weeks. I’m sorry all of this fell on you. You should take some time if you’d like it.”
I expect a hurried no, because Matthew enjoys service. Working is…not precisely like working for him. I don’t get one.
“Sir, I…”
Interesting. Not stopping the soothing motion because he’s re-tensed under my touch, I wait. And wait. Nothing comes, so I give him the barest nudge. “Yes, Matthew?”
“We can talk about it tomorrow. You must be tired from your trip.”
I am, but I’m also not crushed under the weight of other peoples’ anguish and heartbreak anymore, so altogether, home is a better place to be. Plus, my flirtation at the bar has added some levity to my day.
“It’s not going to matter whether you tell me today or tomorrow. What’s going on?”
He releases his hands from behind his back and lays them on the desk alongside his head. I’ve loved those long, elegant fingers since the day I met Matthew; coveted them, wished for them to touch me. They have, nearly every day for the past ten years. I let him up with a last stroke, and he looks in my eyes, his expression tight.
“You know I’ve been seeing Peter.”
“Of course.” Matthew and I have never been exclusive, and I’m well aware of his other partners. What had been a multitude of other partners until recently. One by one, they’d fallen away until it was me and Peter.
Peter, that bear of a man. He’s fond of my Matthew, likes to mark that light brown skin and beat him until he cries. I don’t blame him. Matthew suffers quite beautifully. I’ve noticed, too, how Peter praises him in quiet words, rests his enormous feet gently on Matthew’s back, and waits until Matthew can fetch something for him instead of asking another eager sub. Yes, I’ve seen the way Peter looks at Matthew when neither of them think anyone else is watching. Matthew especially should know better. I’m always watching.
“He, well, I…”
“Are you afraid of me, Matthew?” I’d nearly called him darling boy as I do sometim
es, which he’s always liked, but I’m not a stupid man. If I hadn’t been so distracted for the past several weeks with the business of dying, I would’ve expected this before now. However, since it’s become abundantly clear what this is about, I’ll behave accordingly.
“No, sir. Never.”
Pride pools at the back of my skull. No, Matthew’s never been afraid of me. Very few people have ever been truly afraid of me. If they have been, it’s because they ought to be. I like to think I wield my power responsibly. Matthew has nothing to fear. He’s good, honest, and loyal, and he’s been rewarded fittingly.
“So tell me.”
Matthew purses his full lips, and I regret momentarily not having that mouth wrapped around my cock one last time. Matthew gives one of the world’s best blowjobs.
“Peter. He’s asked to collar me.”
Yes. Another chess piece taken off my board, though I hadn’t been trying to move this one. I’ve been entirely content with Matthew as he’s been for the past decade, and he’s been the same. Until now. “That’s wonderful.”
“It is.” Matthew’s jaw tightens before he swallows, and his fingers knit together in his lap. My sweet, sweet boy. This is breaking his lovely little heart. “Except he’s asked me—”
“To not see anyone else?”
The color rises in Matthew’s cheeks, and his long eyelashes flutter. “Yes.”
“How do you feel about that?” Just because Peter’s asked doesn’t mean he’s going to receive, but I know the gist of Matthew’s answer before he opens his mouth.
“I feel…” His lips part, and he looks past me, no doubt picturing his lover. When his eyes go oh-so-slightly wider and his mouth softens into an easy smile, I know with certainty. Matthew’s not to be mine anymore. “I feel good. Peter is…”
“Peter’s a good man, a better Dominant, and he adores you. I’d think you’d be quite pleased as long as you think you can stand the monogamy.”
Matthew laughs, a windy melody that always makes me feel as if I’m lying on a beach in the sun. “He said maybe not forever, but for now. When it’s new. When we’re established, perhaps he’d be willing to share.”
That dreamy look on Matthew’s face says it all. He’s enjoyed that kind of objectification in the past. We’ve played out a scenario more than once in which I hand him over to someone else for their use because he’s my chattel and I can do with him as I please. It’s always been for play. With a collar around his neck and that kind of promise made? I’d be surprised if he wasn’t hard from thinking about it.
“Do I get to keep any of you, or will I be placing a very peculiar wanted ad tomorrow?”
He laughs—as I meant him to, because the idea of me hiring someone off the street is preposterous—and shakes his head. “I’d love to keep working for you if you’ll have me.”
“I’d have to hire at least three people in your place, so you’re a bargain.” My teasing masks a sense of panic that’s more unsettling than nearly anything I’ve ever experienced. Though Matthew moons over me, to me he’s irreplaceable. “I’m assuming sex is off-limits.”
Matthew ducks a quick nod. Yes, I can’t imagine Peter would want to share that ass.
“What about the kink?”
That’s going to be trickier. Working for me is service, and for Matthew, service is kink. Not that everything I ask him to do is sexual, but there’s a deep and abiding sense of pleasure he gets from performing tasks. I could pay him minimum wage and he’d still be perfectly content to come to work every day. Hell, I probably wouldn’t have to pay him at all, just provide room and board, and he’d be happy to stay. I keep him busy, I respect his abilities, I trust him with information no one else has access to. Altogether, that keeps him a very happy boy.
“Service is fine. I don’t think Peter completely gets it. I hope even if he did, he’d still be okay with it.”
To be honest, I don’t completely grok the pleasure to be found in service either, but I fake it pretty convincingly. I’d expect the pleasure Matthew finds in service is similar to the pleasure I find in him serving me.
“Pain?”
Matthew squirms in his seat, the shift of his narrow hips making me wonder if he’s not making some newly laid welts or a fresh boot print come alive. They’re not ones of my making.
“Not okay, then. I’d imagine bondage is also off the table.” He nods tightly.
Though there’s an effectively endless list of kinks, those are Matthew’s biggest. We’ve wandered into humiliation, exhibitionism, and countless other games, but those are easy to put aside. I won’t miss them, and I doubt he will. My jaw tightens before I ask him this last because I’m honestly not sure what I’ll do if he says no.
“Will you still be able to perform your…inspections?”
His hurried, breathless “yes” relieves some of the tension, although the disorienting feeling of weightlessness remains. With so much routine and someone so lovingly dedicated, I’ve been able to forget exactly how precarious my position is and he’s reminded me. I stuff the resulting anger down because it’s not his fault. It’s no one’s fault.
Matthew drops from his desk chair to his knees, bows his head before me, and some of my equilibrium is restored.
“I’ll do it now if it pleases you, sir. It’s late. You should go to bed.”
Though the most important parts of Matthew remain—his dedication and his loyalty, not to mention the talent we share of absolute discretion—I will miss beating him, hurting him, tying him, fucking him.
“Please, Matthew. Thank you.”
He stands and heads upstairs, and I follow.
*
As he removes my suit coat, I can’t help but ask, “What did you tell Peter about this?”
“I said I act as your valet.”
I issue a small, gruff noise of approval. To most people, I’m sure it would look that way, and that’s a thing Peter will understand, won’t object to, as it falls quite neatly under service.
Matthew’s placed my coat on a chair and comes around to unbutton my shirt. I stand completely still, enjoying his deft fingers working the buttons, and take a deep breath, inhaling the spicy scent of his hair as he attends to his task with singular concentration. Cinnamon. That’s what the top of his head smells like.
He strips the shirt from my shoulders, and I raise my arms for him to grasp the hem of my undershirt and pull it over my head. When he’s discarded it, his fingers settle on my shoulders. The light pressure is familiar, comforting, and I close my eyes, waiting for him to tell me something I don’t know.
Lifting first my left arm and then my right, his fingertips skim along, telling me where his attention is drawn to. He’s methodical, having done this almost every day for years. He’ll be especially thorough with me having been gone for nearly a week. Those are the times I get myself into trouble, especially when I’ve not been traveling for pleasure. Kona wasn’t work, exactly, but it was taxing, and that’s when I put other people’s needs above my own, because they need me to and I can take it.
Neck, chest, torso, then around to my shoulders and back go Matthew’s gaze and his hands.
“So far, so good,” he volunteers.
I’d thought so, hadn’t seen any marks in the mirror when I’d had to do this myself while staying in the guest hut in Kona.
Matthew settles onto his knees in front of me and undoes my belt, slides the leather through the loops and sets it aside, then slips a hand down the front of my pants before unbuttoning and unzipping them. I rest a hand on his shoulder to step out of them. Part of me longs to cup his jaw, drag him in, have him suck me off because I could use the relief, but I’ll be respectful of his wishes, of his new relationship.
He and Peter have the potential to make each other happy. I hope they will. Matthew is wonderful, and he deserves someone who makes him feel precious. In a romantic way, not in the supermarket-before-the-storm essential way he likely gets from me. He’s a person, not a bag full o
f milk, eggs, and bread.
When he sits back on his heels, I head to the bathroom, knowing he’s not quite done yet but he’ll wait for me with unadulterated patience. When I’ve finished in the bathroom, I lay facedown on my bed, cradling my head in my arms while his fingers search my scalp, an inspection that turns into a caress, and I sigh.
“Please tell me massage counts as service,” I mutter into my arms. Matthew’s fingers trail down the sides of my neck and then his thumbs apply pressure at the base of my skull.
“I say yes.”
He laughs at my soft grunt of approval. Matthew St. James is a godsend.
Working his way down my body slowly, he appears to be in no apparent hurry, though I wonder if Peter is lying in a bed, waiting for him. I take a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that Matthew is here with me instead of him. Because at the base of it, I’m as selfish as anyone else, probably more so. I’m just better at hiding it. Because I’m better at hiding everything.
When he gets to the soles of my feet, he tsks at me. “You’ve got a splinter. It looks infected.”
Goddamn wooden deck and Cris and India traipsing about barefoot all the time. I should’ve kept my shoes on, but sometimes it’s nice to pretend I don’t have to worry about such things. But I do, and now Matthew will fret for days until it heals completely.
He retrieves my well-stocked first-aid kit from the bathroom and sets to his work. I start formulating my to-do list for tomorrow. So many clients, so little time. When he’s finished, he lays a hand on my shoulder and I turn over to receive his report.
“It should be fine, but please wear shoes. You know that’s one of the places you forget to check.”
I reach out to ruffle his hair, somehow coarse but soft, and gift him with a smile. “I know. I’m sorry to make you worry. Thank you. Now go along home to Peter. He’ll probably take his belt to you for being out so late.”
“Or not.” Matthew shrugs and shows his fine white teeth.
“You pain sluts are tricky to manage.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 2
