The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6)

by Tamsen Parker

  “Do you have any?”

  “No.” He’s emphatic, his clipped tone emphasized by a crisp shake of his head. “Can’t secure one in my truck, and there’s no way in hell I’d ask Kendra to keep one for me. Not with the kids around. I know there are safes and everything, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night wondering if my nephew figured out how to get into it. If anything happened to them…”

  The faraway look in his eyes says his life wouldn’t be worth living. It probably wouldn’t be, as a man haunted by guilt and ruin. Unlike me, he’d probably never be able to tip the scales, to believe he’s done more good than harm. That’s how I’ve always justified my continued existence.

  “Ever think about joining the infantry again?”

  “If I could do it with the promise of not getting shipped out, I probably would. Not that it’s not still dangerous, but over there… Who’d look after Kendra?”

  I bite my tongue on the “I would” I’d like to say. Because I would. A small price to pay to let Hart do what he’d really like to do. I’d be more than happy to give up what would be chump change to me for him to be happy. However, I get the feeling I’d get the angry eyebrows and another “fuck off.” Which I’m not in the market for. I’m in the market for more information.

  “That the only thing that’s stopping you?”

  “Yeah. I liked being in the Army. I was good at it. But it’s not worth the risk.”

  “Do you ever think about having a family of your own?”

  “I’ve got a family.”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant. If the world were a perfect place, yeah, I would. It’s not. I can’t say I could see taking on more obligations than I already have, and besides, the Army might say it’s all accepting of gays now, but there’s still a lot of homophobia. So having a husband back home?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  It tweaks me Hart’s not able to have everything he wants. Why shouldn’t he? Especially when he’d be putting his life on the line for his country. Why the crap does it matter who he likes to fuck? Guy should get a fucking medal instead of sneers and microaggressions.

  “Also, I know what life is like for a military spouse. All the moving, the changes, the worry, and the pay’s not great. I wouldn’t want to rope someone into all that.”

  For some inexplicable reason, I find myself listing counterpoints to each of his arguments—I travel all the time anyway, I have plenty of money—as if it’s us talking about a future and not some hypothetical spouse of Hart’s. Which is frankly crazy talk. Spouses are for people, and I’m…something else.

  *

  A few hours later finds us back at my place, stumbling over the threshold of my front door. I hadn’t even asked if he wanted to come back to my place, because most of dinner had felt like the price he had to pay in order not to look too desperate for head.

  The urge to bring Hart to my room is strong, but at the last second, I chicken out. Stopping short, I drag him into the guest room where he stayed last time. If I exhaust him, he may stay here again, and that’s more likely to happen if we’re in the room I’ve established as his already.

  After I push him toward the bed, I peel off my coat and toss it onto the chair.

  “Strip.”

  “But—”

  “You do as I say, and I guarantee you will have an orgasm that will blow your goddamn mind.”

  He blinks, momentarily defiant, and I cock an eyebrow. Don’t test me, Hart, because you will lose.

  Not dropping his gaze, he lays a hand over his belt buckle, and I swear there’s a bulge in the front of his pants that wasn’t there before. Fucking hell, let me give this to you. I will enjoy it, you will enjoy it, the world will be a better place. What does he want, a goddamn pinkie swear? I’ve made stranger promises.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, he slips the leather through the metal buckle, and I’m riveted. Even the work of his fingers is a thing of beauty. So I breathe to give myself patience. If he’s trying to prove a point, let him prove it. I’ll prove my own.

  He pulls the end of the strap, the metal catch slipping out, and then he releases the tension, which only ups it in the air between us. I can practically smell the crackling ozone of attraction, and it’s a heady aphrodisiac.

  Allie smiles then, not showing his teeth. So smug. Then he’s reaching for the button of his jeans, toying with it before slipping it through the denim and clasping the pull of the zipper between his fingers. Never has such a small piece of metal been so goddamn mouthwatering and frustrating at the same time.

  Well, not one that’s not pierced through someone’s skin at any rate.

  He stops when his fly is loose and spread open, revealing black…it’s briefly confounding that I don’t know what kind of underwear Hart wears. I’m distracted from my pique by him stripping off his shirt. My, this man is a work of art. Someone should put him in bronze. Shapely pecs, defined abs that narrow into a trim waist, and hip cuts that make me want to trail my tongue over them. Lucky for me, I’ll be afforded that opportunity shortly. Along with the opportunity to get a better look at the ink that covers a significant amount of his torso and arms.

  Hart appears to be losing patience, his movements becoming faster and less polished, more designed to get the job done than to entice, which is fine with me. Let’s get this show on the road.

  Finally he’s standing before me in all his naked glory. It shouldn’t matter—I’ve seen so many naked bodies of all shapes and sizes one more shouldn’t make an impression of any type. Allie’s, though, reaches some basic part of me that’s driven by the most rudimentary urges, which in turn makes me feel slightly out of control. I’m never out of control.

  Which might explain why I find him vaguely dangerous. He’s tempting in a way that makes me forget my foremost obligations, and more concerning, I want him so badly I’m willing to plow through these feelings purely to have him, to call him mine however briefly.

  “On your back on the bed.”

  He smirks at me again, but does as I’ve asked, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Now what?”

  “‘Now what, sir.’”

  His cocky look dims, and he eyes me with some amount of skepticism. “Wait—”

  Holding up my hands, I feel the control coming back to me, tingling through my veins, and it balances me. “No, you wait. If you want this, you’re going to do as I say. And I’d like for you to call me sir.”

  “But it’s…demeaning.”

  “Was calling your superiors in the Army ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ demeaning?”

  His nose wrinkles, biceps flexing as if he’s deciding whether to leave his hands where they are. “Of course not.”

  “It’s a sign of respect, Hart. That’s all I ask.” Cute, Walter. As if you’re not going to wheedle everything you can out of him. “This is how I do things, and if you’d like to do them with me, then you’ll follow my rules. Up to you.”

  Hart’s mind might be uncertain about this, but his cock is very much in favor. It’s so hard it’s angled significantly off those hard, tatted abs of his.

  I make a point not to use my clients’ bodies as weapons against them—I’d never try to talk them into something merely because their body was aroused by it. The connection between mind and body is sometimes a tenuous thing, and if someone’s brain and mouth says no, they fucking mean no. Unless, of course, you’ve made arrangements otherwise.

  In this moment, though, I want to take Hart’s arousal as proof that, on some level, animal though it might be, he wants me. That I was right about him. That the sense I pride myself on and have spent years honing hasn’t led me astray. I would never take that choice from him, though. Or the confirmation away from myself. I want to enjoy this, not fret I’ve coerced him in an unacceptable way.

  His gaze is boring into me, but with a sweep up and down my clothed form, he grinds out, “Yes, sir.”

  There’s a goddamn tickertape parade within my
brain, but I only allow an upward curl of the corner of my mouth without. “Good.”

  Striding over, I take delight in the way he stays still, his eyes the only things that move. That and an eager bob of his impressive erection. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach out a hand, stopping shy of grazing his abdominals with my fingertips.

  “May I touch you, Hart?”

  It’s possible he suspects I’m asking so I can hear him call me sir again, which would explain the dark look on his face and his vexed tone. “Yes, sir.”

  Or perhaps it’s only frustration that I’m putting anything more between us. When I finally touch his skin, it’s extraordinary. I’ve been in contact with so many people, in far more intimate ways than this, and yet few things have affected me as profoundly.

  I run a single fingertip from just above his navel up the center seam of his abdominals, all the way to his suprasternal notch. As I trace his collarbones, and the designs and words etched into his skin there, he snorts, his breath hot on my hand.

  “Yes, Hart?” I don’t look at his face, but continue to study the areas where my fingers roam, itching to ask him what it all means but feeling as though it’s none of my business. Not yet.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be sucking my dick?”

  “All in good time. You want the blowjob of your life? Doesn’t come easy. It’s also possible I’m a bit of a control freak in all things. So relax, you’re going to be here a while.” Longer than you’re expecting if I have anything to say about it.

  Though I’m not looking at him straight on, I still catch the roll of his eyes, and if he were mine to do with how I please, I’d pinch him for his insolence. As it is, I make a note to take even longer than I’d planned before we get to the main event.

  Despite his grumpiness about it, he takes my words to heart and does, in fact, relax. Allows me to touch him all over, as much and however I’d like. Mostly I caress him, softly, slowly, learning the curves, planes, angles, and textures of him, so while I’m no doubt bringing myself off tonight, I’ll remember precisely what he feels like. When my fingertips have had their fill, I lean over and follow their trails with my mouth, slicking over his tattoos with my tongue.

  Hart startles underneath me, but I stroke him and murmur kind truths about what he’s doing to me by affording me access. He smells and tastes as good as he looks, and I even enjoy the sound of his breathing. My Hart is a feast for the senses, and I intend to devour him whole.

  One of my favorite things about kink is that it forces people to take their goddamn time. So often when couples come to me, it’s because they’re bored with their sex life. They want to “spice things up.” While BDSM can certainly add quite a kick, what happens more often is it forces them to pay attention to each other, not rush through a perfunctory and routine obligation. Some of them end up discovering that’s what they want more than pain, bondage, humiliation, or any of the other infinite kinks I can offer them. Which can lead to the dissolution of some relationships, but far more often to the strengthening of the ones that survive. I’ll take it.

  I spoil Allie and myself until he’s a dreamy puddle. He’s not hard anymore, but I suspect, given a few carefully placed touches, that could change in a second. What’s the rush, though? Who knows when I’ll be afforded this opportunity again, so I take full advantage, bringing him back from so relaxed I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started snoring to tingling with sensual awareness and, yes, a thickening of his cock. It’s almost as if I’ve hypnotized him. Some of the submissives I’ve played with find their headspace this way, being petted and spoiled until they’re clay merely shaped as their former selves, and then you get to mold them however you’d like.

  At the moment, I’d like to mold Allie into a squirming, gasping, and yes, eventually shouting and overflowing ball of carnal energy. Turning more of my energies to the places likely to turn him on—earlobes, sides of his neck, inner thighs, backs of knees, insides of wrists—I work him up slowly until I’m centering my attentions in the obvious places.

  When I finally lay my mouth on his cock for the first time, he lets out this noise that’s half-gasp and half-sigh. It sounds like a job well done, but this particular “job” is far from over. Job makes it sound like a chore, though, and while it certainly takes concentration and effort, it’s far from unpleasant. No, not unpleasant at all. I’m finding a great deal of satisfaction in toying with the brawny man I’ve managed to get back in my house, if not quite to my bed.

  I lick from the base to the tip, swirl my tongue around the crown, paying special attention to that sensitive area on the underside. The point is not to bring him off as quickly as possible, but to turn him into a writhing mass of pleading beforehand, so I tend to him with patience and an eye to figuring out what makes him arch his back and what elicits the most desperate noises.

  It’s another hour of touching, licking, sucking, teasing, until he’s begging, and for someone who’s new to all this, he does it very prettily.

  “Please. Rey, please let me come. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to die if you don’t let me—”

  I grip the base of him hard while stroking his sac and the tiny strip of skin behind it that’s deliciously sensitive. “Then you know what you need to say. I can keep this up for… Well, frankly forever, because your body is a delight.”

  He makes a choked sound, frustrated and so very horny, but I’m pleased he thinks about it. He hasn’t been rendered so senseless he merely babbles whatever he thinks I’d like to hear. It’s far more gratifying to me to have this powerful man give himself over to me with a bit of struggle than with mindless abandon.

  With a breath so deep it swells his belly, he clutches the pillow he’s been resting against between his long fingers. “Then please, please, sir, I need…I’m begging you to please, sir, let me come.”

  Victory is sweet.

  I swallow him down whole, stroking with my tongue and then with rhythmic pulls of suction. Added to a gentle squeezing and rolling of his sac, it’s then I’m given my other reward for my patience. He gives me a warning I don’t need that he’s about to come, and then his release is coating my throat while he hollers. Curse words and blasphemies, sure, but also, he says sir. It guts me—he hasn’t reverted to my name, hasn’t rescinded the respect I had to earn so grudgingly, but gives it to me in this moment of abandon. Worth. It.

  *

  I slept in Hart’s bed last night. It wasn’t exactly what I’d call pleasant because he’s not a small man and has a tendency to starfish, but getting to be so close to him for such a long period of time while he was unguarded was worth it. This morning, when he snuck out of bed early, I let him go without saying a word, without letting him know I was awake at all. If he wants to steal out after last night’s activities, that’s fine. I figure I have a better shot of being with him again if we don’t have a heap of awkwardness in the morning.

  I shower and dress, taking my time because I’ve got a full day ahead of me even though my morning’s unscheduled. Shirt and tie on nonetheless because that’s what I always wear to work. Even shoes so Matthew doesn’t get after me.

  When I’m well and ready, I head downstairs, bracing myself for the disappointment of finding Matthew at his desk, working away, and him telling me Hart left a long time ago. That would be fine, truly. As I descend, however, some ridiculous optimism tricks me into hearing voices in the kitchen. Surely Matthew’s just listening to music? But no.

  Hart’s sitting at the breakfast bar with a half-eaten…what I think is a breakfast burrito resting on his plate next to fruit salad and hash browns. He and Matthew both turn my way when I walk in, and I have to hide my hopeful smile. I could get used to this, but I shouldn’t.

  “Good morning, Hart, Matthew.”

  They both mumble a good morning, and when Matthew catches my eye, I point toward Allie’s plate to say I’ll have what he’s having. Looks good, smells even better. As if to prove it, Hart scoops up the rolled tortill
a, takes a huge bite, and makes a borderline obscene noise.

  “Matty makes a phenomenal burrito. I might start coming here for breakfast every morning.”

  I smile, my mouth a bit tight because I’m holding back the words: you’re welcome to. Matthew would probably appreciate it. He enjoys cooking, and I travel too much for him to do it as much as he’d like. Not to mention I don’t eat much when I’m at home. A hazard of eating out so much on the road—I prefer healthy, small meals while at home. This one morning I’ll indulge, though. That’s what it is to sit with these two, listen to them talk. It’s nice to have another voice in the house, someone neither of us knows so well they don’t have to voice what they want or what they think because we already know.

  By the end of the meal, I’m tempted to offer to drive Hart to wherever he’d like to go, but the truth is I don’t have time for that. While I’m not above rescheduling things, I have a feeling this client really needs me. He’s not always good at saying so, not over the phone, but he’ll cop to it in person. Can’t cancel. So it’s with regret that I hand my Hart off to Matthew, though there’s no one else I trust more to take care of him.

  Before I have to say goodbye entirely, I stop Hart in the hallway and slip something into his hand when we shake our farewell.

  Naturally, Hart’s got to wrinkle up his nose and hold the thing up in the air as though he’s bringing evidence in a murder trial. “What the fuck is this?”

  “It’s a key.”

  “Yeah, I got that, but—”

  “It’s a key to my house, and if you ever find yourself inebriated or not wanting to cram yourself into the back of your truck for any reason, please feel free to use it. The room you stayed in last night will always be ready for you.”

  He looks like he’s going to protest again, so I dig deep. What is going to make him take this fucking key? Which is the first step to him actually using said key, a process I can only imagine will be excruciating and take for goddamn ever. One step at a time.

  “Hey, even if you never use it, at least take it as a gesture? If you ever find yourself in a jam, it’d be easier to crash here than bother Kendra and the kids, right?”