The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6)

by Tamsen Parker

  I forget about threading the steel under layers of his skin and back out again, because in the midst of this, Allie’s gone from vague interest to beseeching, his erection rigid against my pelvis and his chest rising and falling emphatically against mine. Doesn’t take much to get him worked up, magnificent man.

  That’s it, I’m over this dancing. I’m not satisfied with his joy anymore. I want his entire being, and there’s only one way I know how to get it. After another bite to his shoulder, another crescent of ownership, I shove him against the slickly tiled wall with hands planted on his pecs. When I’ve got him where I want him, his eyes wide and focused on mine, I crook my fingers so my short nails are digging into his skin and rake them down his chest, leaving streaks as I go. He sucks breath through his teeth, but doesn’t ask me to stop and doesn’t try to escape. Plants his palms against the tiles and breathes through it.

  Knowing that’s got to hurt, the strain of obedience showing on his face, it thrills me. So I sink in harder, and when I scrape over his flat brown nipple, he chokes and closes his eyes.

  “Open, Hart. I want you to watch what you’re letting me do to you.”

  He complies, his lids and lashes blinking open and looking down to watch my fingernails score his flesh. So goddamn satisfying to have this man who could break me in two do something he finds unpleasant on some level because I’ve asked. It makes my blood surge through my body so hard I can hear it pounding in my ears. Makes me want to push him even harder.

  As I mark his stomach, his muscles rippling under the strain, I assemble a plan, the pieces fitting together like a shredded treasure map, X marking how exactly to drive Hart out of his goddamn mind.

  I take up some shower gel, pouring a generous amount on a loofah, and starting with his massive shoulders, I scrub and polish him from head to toe, talking all the while.

  “We’re going to do something a little different today, Hart. Before we start our games, I’m going to clean you out. Have you ever done that before?”

  He shakes his head, his nail beds going pale under the strain of being pressed into the wall. The idea clearly makes him nervous.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m not going to hurt you, and you should know what it feels like. I don’t have a strong preference, but you’ll find some people won’t go near your ass without it.”

  He flinches, and I can’t quite tell at what. Does he dread the idea of an enema that much or is it something else I’ve said? Doesn’t matter all that much. I can soothe him the same way. I scrub him harder, lifting his arm to get the underside, and this time when he flinches, it’s because he’s ticklish. My hulking lover can be reduced to a pile of squirming giggles with a touch to the right spot.

  “Quiet and still, Hart,” I admonish, though I do it with the attempt of a smile pursing my lips because I know damn well that’s impossible for him under these kinds of conditions. He tries, god love him, he really does. But when I skim my fingers over the sparse hair of his armpit, he completely loses it, erupting into squealing peals of laughter.

  “You’re impossible.” My chastising glare is met with flushed and hurried apologies between snorts and yelps. He’s so much fun to toy with. Plus, now he’s so busy trying to behave he’s not even thinking about what I’m going to do to him when we’re through.

  I’ve been meaning to do this with him for a while now, because it’s something he should experience and I’d rather have him do it with me than with someone else. It can be quite unnerving, and I’ll be studying his every reaction, talking him through it, and easing his way. He’ll learn what it’s supposed to feel like so when he does it again later—with someone else—he’ll know what to expect and be able to tell straight away if something goes wrong.

  I only feel a smidge of guilt for taking this pleasure away from someone else. Too freaking bad. There’ve got to be some perks to my peripatetic existence. Popping people’s cherries happens to be one of my favorites.

  When I’ve scrubbed down to his feet, taking a tickle break at the backs of his knees, I spend some time on mine, taking him into my mouth to distract him from what’s coming and making an unspoken promise with my lips and tongue and throat that, at the end of it all, he’s not going to be sorry.

  Then I turn him to face the wall and take my time scrubbing his back, his shoulder blades, studying the tattoos etched in his skin. They’re actually beautiful in a brutal way, and they make me appreciate him. What he’s been through, what he’s going through, and how he’s really quite wonderful. Not even in spite of it all, but perhaps because of it. I lay a gentle kiss at one of the points of his ink, and it makes him tense, probably because he expects it to be followed by a crack of my hand against his firm ass. Not this time. Right now I want him pliant and soft for me, so I’ll take my time to settle him.

  After I’ve rubbed him all over with the loofah, polished him until his skin gleams, I pour some shower gel in my hand and use it like massage oil, slicking it over his back and his shoulders, working my fingers into the tight muscles there. I tell him how gorgeous he is, how lucky I am to be able to use him and do as I please with him, how he thrills me with his obedience.

  When he lays his head back against my shoulder and sighs while pressing against me, I know I have him. He’s going to do beautifully. I run my hands over his firm body until he’s putty in my hands, and then I shut off the water and grab towels, telling him to stay where he is and put his hands against the wall.

  He does as he’s told, and I wrap a towel around my waist before I dry him off. When there’s not a drop of water left on him, I do myself without nearly as much care. After I’ve gotten myself serviceably dry, I tell him to stay where he is, fetch a few things from the closet and lay them on the floor outside the shower stall, and then head to the kitchen to get the rest.

  Allie’s still standing, hands against the wall when I return. The sight of him—this big, strong, self-sufficient man standing still for me simply because I’ve asked him to—gives me a rush. As does his compliance when I tell him to lie on his side on the bath mat with his knees tucked up.

  He makes a desultory sound of protest but does it, resting his head on the folded towel I’ve handed him. I set up, hanging the bag filled with warm salt water and assembling the tubing, and when I’m done, I sit down behind him and stroke him from shoulder to flank.

  I tell him exactly what to expect, how it might feel, and what’s important to tell me. From his carefully measured breathing—it’s so different from what it sounds like when he’s not regulating it but letting his body do its own work—and periodic bob of his Adam’s apple, I can tell he’s still nervous. He’s going to do it anyway.

  I expect him to crack jokes or snap at me with coarse words and sarcasm because that’s frequently what he does when he’s afraid. There’s none of that this time, and I can’t quite tell whether it’s because my assurances have made him brave or because he’s moved beyond fear into dread.

  Regardless, it’s time to go before the water gets too cool. I part his cheeks and find his hole, slicking some lube over it before greasing up the nozzle I’ll put inside him. It’s strange I’ve done so many things to him, had fingers and my dick inside him and he barely blinked, but this is unsettling him.

  I tease him some with my finger because I can and because I hope it’ll get him to relax.

  “Do you like it when I push my fingers inside you, Hart?”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice is thin and faraway, and I want to bring him back down to Earth, with me. I don’t want him to be so wound up. So I ease the tip of my finger inside him and it makes him inhale.

  “Like this?”

  He makes a wonderfully strangled sound, and I have to smile. It’s enough to get his attention, but it’s not enough to be terribly pleasurable. Hopefully the memories of when it’s turned to ecstasy will allow him to project and picture what’ll come. I stroke inside him, not pressing for an answer, and when he’s settled under my touch, I withdr
aw and replace my finger with the nozzle. I can see how his eyes squeeze shut, the tension around them creasing his skin. It’s hard to be dignified during this process, but he’s awfully sensitive to the humiliation aspect. Doesn’t take much with my Allie sometimes.

  I wipe my fingers on a towel, and then it’s time. I could ask him if he’s ready, but it seems cruel to make him agree to this. Later, certainly, but not his first time.

  “It’s going to start now.”

  I flick the clamp to let the water flow through, and he makes a small, startled sound as it enters him. It can be unsettling the first time, such a foreign sensation, but some subs tell me they come to enjoy this, very much. Not so surprising, given how intimate this can be.

  Stroking and murmuring to him, I watch the water flow out of the bag and into his body. After a while, he grunts and clutches at his stomach.

  “It hurts. I think I’m full.”

  Double-checking the amount of fluid in the bag, I shake my head, not that he can see it. Not even close. I close the clamp, though, to stop the flow and lay down beside him, taking my place as the big spoon and propping myself up on my elbow. I kiss by his ear, enjoying the sandpaper roughness of the hair close to his scalp, and reach a hand around to gently knead his stomach. “You’re not, but we’ll take a break. It’s normal to cramp some, and you’re having your first. Tell me when it’s over.”

  He presses his face into the towel, and I kiss him some more, down his neck and over the rise of his shoulder before trailing back down to nip at his earlobe. Normally I’d make my charge talk to me more, but I know Allie. Sometimes it’s easier for him to handle these things by himself. Makes him feel more capable and I don’t want to take that away. That’s the last thing I want to take from him.

  After a few minutes, he rolls his head to look my way, his gaze reluctant but open. I haven’t lost him. “Okay.”

  I could ask for more detail, but don’t. Some tops enjoy pushing their bottoms hard and fast, but I’ve always found more success with the slow coaxing, the building of trust and the seduction of their senses. If I prove I’ll never hurt them, they let me get away with murder and without that exasperating flinch. Reluctance sometimes, sure, because I can ask a lot and it’s intimidating, but fear play isn’t my thing.

  He’s volunteering for more of something he doesn’t particularly care for because he trusts me, and that’s the best feeling in the world. I give him a warning again and let more of the water drain into him. When he’s taken enough, I stop it and let him rest, get used to the strange feeling of being filled this way. He lies quietly, docilely, as I talk to him and touch him. After I’ve judged him to be accepting and not so agitated about this now, I get his attention with another nip to his ear.

  “You can expel it now. Would you like me to leave or stay?”

  There’s no hesitancy in his answer and it’s precisely what I thought it would be. “Go.”

  “That’s fine. You should know some Dominants won’t take that for an answer, so be prepared.”

  “Some Dominants can go fuck themselves,” he mutters under his breath, and it makes me laugh. Oh, Allie, you’ve added to my to-do list, lovely boy.

  I kiss him one last time on his temple and then lever myself off the floor. Note to self: next time bring in cushions to put under the mat. I’m not getting any younger, and I can feel the stiffness in my bones when I stand.

  Doing as he’s requested, I leave, closing the door with a snick of the latch, and I turn on some music in my room to give the illusion of greater privacy. I can still hear him, though, grunting and grumbling as he pushes off the floor himself. I can’t make out any words, but I’d make a hefty wager he’s swearing at me. That’s fine. He’s due his privacy, and I won’t punish him for something I’m not supposed to be privy to.

  I debate what clothes to put on while I wait for him. I’m going to make him wait a bit for his reward. So on with some casual slacks and a button-down, and Matthew’s washed my favorite pair of socks so I pull those on as well and lay out a blazer on the bed. Respectable enough for brunch down the street with my lover who’ll be starving. Because he always is.

  It’s not entirely surprising the shower turns on again briefly, and a couple of minutes after it shuts off, Allie emerges, face a bit flushed because I know exactly what’s been happening behind that closed door and it embarrasses him.

  “Feeling okay?” I study him carefully for signs of actual distress, and his answer confirms my evaluation.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Good. Then let’s get you dressed and get some food.”

  His brows crease in irritation, and his mouth drops open in protest. “But—”

  “Patience, grasshopper. When have I ever not made something worth your while?”

  He frowns but doesn’t argue, as he can’t. I’ve made sure of it. Good behavior and compliance are rewarded. Always. Consistency is key.

  *

  Half an hour later finds us seated on the patio of one of my favorite brunch spots. If Matthew’s not around to make me some eggs Benedict or anything else I might desire, this place will do the trick, and thank goodness it’s within walking distance. Not that I don’t like to drive—and the Tesla’s a damn fine piece of machinery—but in the broad light of day, it makes Hart uncomfortable. I suspect it’s more the conspicuous display of wealth than being seen with me, but I haven’t asked.

  I tell Allie to order anything he’d like and to drink some water. Bizarrely enough, enemas can cause dehydration, and I want him in top shape for the scenario I’ve been plotting. He orders an omelet and the waffle, and I try not to let the pleasure show on my face. He’s comfortable enough to get what he wants, even knowing I’m going to pick up the check. Good.

  I get an omelet as well and a mimosa because day-drinking is one of the perks of brunch.

  As we tuck into our food, he looks up at me several times, and even if I weren’t attentive as I am, I’d notice.

  “Spit it out, Hart,” I instruct drily while my next bite of egg, cheese, onion, and spinach hangs in the air. “Stealth is not your specialty and you’ve got something to say.”

  “When we were…” He looks around to see how close we are to the other diners, if any of them are paying attention, and leans in closer accordingly. “…in the shower.”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you naked before.”

  “Of course you have.” I’d like to say I’ve been naked with Hart countless times, but I can count each precious instance on my fingers. Five.

  “Not when it’s not dark.”

  “True. Did you just want to make the observation or…?” Where’s he going with this? “Were you expecting me to have a tail? Some people actually believe I’m the devil, you know.”

  He smirks and shoves another bite of waffle, dripping with butter and syrup, into his mouth before chewing thoughtfully. “No tail, but…”

  My jaw flexes involuntarily.

  “You’ve got a lot of scars.”

  “As do you.”

  “Yeah, but you know where mine come from.” My stomach clenches because, yes, I do. Street fights and battle wounds and those damn tats that could’ve killed him slowly. I’m well aware of the toll his life’s taken on his body. “What about yours?”

  I take a leisurely sip of my mimosa—made the way I like it, with the orange juice for color—and formulate a reply that won’t invite any more questions. I don’t like to talk about this. When I’ve swallowed, I run my tongue along the inside of my teeth, grateful he can’t see the scars on the inside of my mouth.

  “I wasn’t terribly popular as a child. Bullies can be vicious.” I don’t tell him it wasn’t me the bullies were after, but other kids, and I stepped into the line of fire because I’m bulletproof.

  “You got all those from bullies?” He’s unconvinced and rightly so. Not everything was inflicted on purpose, and of those that were, it was more often curiosity than savagery.r />
  “Mostly. A few otherwise.”

  “How?” His dark brown eyes are boring into me. I’m not used to being on this end of an interrogation, and it makes me tetchy. Most people are satisfied with how much attention I pay to them and don’t pry after they figure out I’m happy to talk about them and their needs as much as they want. It’s not an opportunity afforded often, and people lick it up. Damn Hart for not being most people. To be completely fair, that’s something I like about him too. So I shrug and down the rest of my drink, gesturing to our waitress for another. My second and last.

  “I started out as a bottom, and not all tops are as careful as I am.” Not a lie. Almost none of them are, though many are shades of acceptable. I wouldn’t knowingly hand off any of my charges to anyone who wasn’t. “As you might imagine, I’m absolutely no fun as a sub, so I didn’t last long.”

  He grins at me and nudges my foot under the table, the small gesture of affection bumping at my heart far harder than the toe of his boot against my shoe. “You’d be terrible.”

  My answers found satisfactory, I let my body retake conscious breaths. Of course inviting a bit of mockery would be the way to go. He likes to know I’m human. Some people find comfort in believing I’m supernatural, but not Hart. He likes me flesh and blood.

  “I was,” I agree.

  Hart looks at me as though he’d like to ask for more but doesn’t press. It’s not a familiar sensation, but I feel as though I owe him. I don’t owe him anything, not in any currency I usually trade in anyhow. I’ve given him experience, knowledge, safety, and affection. He’s given me trust, access, power, and obedience. We’re even, square. Except perhaps in intimacy. He went further than laying himself bare, and what did I give in return for that? Allie is in some ways a far more generous soul than I.

  Should I want to tip the scales, there are things I could offer. If I were one of my clients who was looking for a long-term and serious relationship, I would tell myself to put out. The idea does something funny to my skin, a phenomenon I can’t quite read as crawling or an embrace.