The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6)

by Tamsen Parker

  He rolls his lips between his teeth and then makes a gesture like he’s zipping them closed, locking them up tight, and throwing away the key. Once done, he bends his knees, taking hold of his shins and pulling them in toward his chest. He’s shamelessly on display, and I’m flattered I’ve gotten him so turned on he’s thrown modesty entirely out the window. His gorgeous cock is standing up at an angle just shy of vertical.

  I climb onto the bed and settle between his spread thighs. When I sit back on my heels, I stroke myself. Because I can and because he looks delightfully wanton, spread out and waiting for me.

  With an uncharacteristically desperate whine, he begs me and I tsk. “Not until I’m ready. Who knows how long I could jerk myself while you wait? Looking at that thick, hard cock of yours, how frantic you are to get my dick up your ass. It wasn’t so long ago you would’ve claimed you didn’t want this. Now look at you. Legs spread and all slutty for me.”

  He closes his eyes and he makes a choked sound, but doesn’t lower his knees, doesn’t try to close his legs. If I’m a judge of these things—and I like to think I am—his cock gets even harder, thicker, swollen and pulsing with want. Now I really can’t wait anymore.

  I tear open one of the foil packets and slick some extra lube over my cock before I pour some more on my fingers and move closer into him. I rub at his hole, coaxing and gentle, and it’s enough to make him squirm, his hardness bobbing against his stomach. Then I push. Just a little. My finger goes in easily with the copious amount of lubrication, but it still makes him gasp. Satisfaction? Craving? I can’t tell. So I push farther, gentle, because penetration is still new to him and I want him to like it. I want him to enjoy having me inside him.

  There are few things in life a satisfying as being buried to the hilt in a beautiful, compliant man, and because I’m a selfish creature, I don’t want anything to get in the way of my desires.

  I slide my finger in and out of him, the warm, welcoming heat of him surrounding me and making me wish it were my cock inside him instead of my finger. Soon enough. Stroking in and out, I let him become familiar enough with the feeling to relax. That’s when I add a second finger and coax it inside him, urging him to relax when his muscles stiffen.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Hart. I promise. I’m going to make you feel good. Do you remember the last time we did this?”

  “Yes, sir,” he pants, looking at the ceiling. He’s focusing on being open, obedient, relaxed, so I won’t make him look at me. I’ll give him the space he needs to get used to this incredibly intimate and vulnerable feeling. If I’m being honest, I could use a minute myself. When he’s calmed enough that my two fingers can make their way in and out of his passage with ease, I reach up with my other hand and cup his balls.

  His back arches, and he sucks in a breath, eyes still on the ceiling, hands still grasping his shins to hold himself open for me. I take the opportunity to toy with him, palming his sac and tugging on it the way he likes. His muscles clench around me, and I can’t wait to bury myself in him, feel that same pulsating pressure on my cock. Feel him come around me as I make him cry out in pleasure. Maybe even my name.

  I debate whether to work another finger inside him, but not today. He’s open enough that he can take me inside, and I don’t mind going slow, pressing inside him inch by slow inch, exerting every ounce of control I have because I want to be balls-deep inside him yesterday.

  So I remove my fingers and climb over him, settling a hand above his flexing shoulder and using the other one to direct myself inside him. It’s as much to slow my pace as it is to get the angle right. And then, then, I’m inside him. Just a little, but god, it’s good. So fucking good.

  I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of people—good, bad, and oh-so-ugly—but Hart feels good to me in a way most people don’t. We fit together, and I hope he feels the same way. Judging by the way his eyes have rolled back and he’s arching off the bed, he does.

  “Fuck,” he mutters and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no pain in his voice, no regret, so I don’t withdraw, but I do stop. Reach my hand up to his neck where I stroke the tendons standing out with my thumb and cover his throat, finding the beat of his pulse with my fingers, feeling him breathe under my touch.

  He’s mine.

  Mine and therefore my responsibility, so I ease forward, drawing back each time to give him the friction he craves and at one point adding more lube, because goddamn is that marvelous stuff. He rocks against me, begging for more, and I give it to him, slowly.

  When I’ve pressed inside until I can’t get any deeper with slow movements and soothing words, he opens his eyes, and I love that drunk look on his face, as if I’m the best drug he’s ever had.

  Damn straight.

  “Please,” he says, his lips never fully closing and his breath barely enough to supply the word.

  “Please, what?” I squeeze his throat, not enough to deprive him of any sorely needed oxygen but because I can. I bet he’d let me. He’d trust me to do breathplay, and the idea makes my hips jerk forward involuntarily, making him moan. Oh yes, I’ve hit that delectable spot.

  “Please, sir?” he offers, his forehead wrinkled with hope.

  I love being above him, being inside him, owning him. In this moment, I wonder if it will ever be this good again. If this is the pinnacle of what I’m allowed to expect. The thought’s alternately depressing and thrilling. Thrilling because I’ve been allowed something so magnificent, so goddamn pleasurable my brain could explode and my body break into a thousand shining pieces with the idea and the feel of him. Depressing because this might be it. This is the best I’ll ever have, and I’m having it now.

  Getting older’s never bothered me. To be honest, it surprises me more than anything else. I always expected to die young, but here I am, edging up on thirty-nine. It’s as good a time as any I suppose to hit my peak. Too many people have their glory days in their teens and twenties. In that respect, I suppose I’m lucky.

  “Be. More. Specific.” I hope I don’t sound as desperate as I feel, but no man should be expected to maintain this level of control forever.

  “Please fuck me, sir.”

  The words send a rush through me, lighting up my veins like a hot burning line of sparklers. I force myself to cock my head, creating that extra second of delay that’s going to drive us both crazy. “I think that could be arranged.”

  Then I rock back, drawing out of him only to plunge back in, angling to hit that spot that will drive him wild, and I fuck him for all I’m worth. Driving into him like I’ll never get to do it again. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but I’m not going to waste this moment. I’m going to extract every particle of pleasure I can.

  Every time my hips hit the welts on his ass, he makes a sound—this lovely “ngh” I wish I could record and listen to over and over again. It could fuel my fantasies for months. All because of the things I’ve done to him. That he let me do.

  Though I’d like to listen to that sound forever, what I’d like even more is to possess every inch of him, to taste and feel and occupy him in every way possible. So without slowing my pace, I lean down and kiss him, take his thick bottom lip between my teeth and bite before slipping my tongue into his mouth where it tangles with his.

  Breathless, I pull back and lean my forehead against his.

  “Come on, Hart. Give it up for me. I want to feel you come.”

  I’m not expecting it, because honestly, it takes a long time to train someone to come on command—though if you’re skilled at watching for the signs, you can create the illusion by demanding it when they’re on the edge. Sometimes a Dominant’s words are enough to push them over. But I hadn’t anticipated the hot, thick spurts of Hart’s orgasm against my stomach, how his muscles squeeze my cock, how he lets out this guttural groan that sounds like “Yes, Rey, Jesus, yes.”

  Surprise is the only excuse I have for why I lose it. Just fucking lose it and come inside him, my orgasm so intense my brain goes entire
ly blank for a second and a sound I don’t recognize escapes from my throat. In the name of all that’s holy—

  No, not all that’s holy. All that’s flesh and blood in front of me, around me, under me.

  “Fuck, Hart. You’re…fuck.” At least my sense hasn’t deserted me entirely. I managed to bite back my thoughts, swallow them down. You’re perfect. Brilliant. I adore you. I love you. Because that’s exactly what your lover wants to hear from you when you’re orgasming, something you’d never say when your brains aren’t shooting out of your dick.

  We move against each other, grinding out the rest of our climaxes until there’s nothing left to give. Before I pull out, I bend down and kiss him again. Sweetly, because I can’t help myself. His lips are full, warm, and languidly responsive, pressing against mine in an obliging, satisfied way. He makes another noise, this one not the pure sex of his “ngh,” but an endearing half-sigh instead.

  I pull out reluctantly, glad he won’t be watching the kids for a couple of days because he’s going to be sore. Thankful for my foresight, I reach for the washcloths I wrapped around a hot stone and set in water when I was gathering my supplies. I hand Allie one, and we lay side-by-side as we clean ourselves up. When we’re through and he’s lying there looking as though he’s going to pass out, I pull a blanket over us and my heart nearly explodes when he moves closer and rests his head against my chest.

  My heart pounds against my ribs, and I hope he can’t hear it, feel it. I don’t need to worry. It’s only seconds after I wrap my arm around him and brush my fingers up and down his smooth, firm flesh that he’s snoring in this completely uncouth and oblivious way. It’s charming. Sleep well, Hart.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‡

  Stepping out of the shower after I’ve finished up with my Pilates—because it is, in fact, a Thursday—my phone rings. Not an unusual state of affairs, so I pick it up with my towel wrapped around my waist while I study myself in the half-fogged mirror. Not bad for thirty-eight, I don’t think.

  “This is Rey.”

  “Hey, it’s Hart.”

  Oh. My reflection looks surprised and stands up straighter. Hart rarely calls me; it’s almost always the other way around. Me issuing invitations to parties, to go out, to come over, and him saying yes or no depending on his mood. Mostly yes these days. Calling me, though? That’s new.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I slide my fingertips across my chin, my jaw, cautious curiosity building. Perhaps he’s calling with his own invitation? That would be novel. Like a foolish kid picking out their outfit before they’ve even been invited to the big dance, I start running through my mental calendar to see if there would be anything standing in the way of me accepting.

  “I wanted to tell you I’m not going to be able to see you as much anymore.”

  That’s why you’re not supposed to count chickens before they hatch. Although whatever this is, I should be grateful. Perhaps he’s started dating someone. Which is what I want. I like it when that happens, when people move on of their own accord. Which doesn’t explain the thing poking me in the side. But I’ll keep my response neutral.

  “I see.”

  He pauses, as though he was expecting more, and I rub a pair of fingers over my brow bone. He didn’t give me much to work with, so I don’t know what he needs from me right now. Luckily, he finds his tongue before I have to formulate a plan.

  “I…I got a job. Start tomorrow. It’s temporary, construction, but it pays enough I can start looking for a place again. So I’ll be busy.”

  The corner of my mouth pulls up, and honest happiness rolls over me. He’s perhaps using the pretense of not being able to see me so much anymore to call, but I think what he wanted was to share this with me. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  I bite back my offer to help him find an apartment because he wouldn’t like that. If he has more good news in the future he wants to share with someone, I want him to call me.

  “It’s good too, because it won’t interfere with watching the kids or with Kendra’s classes, so…”

  So what? I know he’s not waiting for my approval, would probably bite my head off if I offered it. Is this his way of saying he doesn’t want to see me at all? Why wouldn’t he have led with that? Or stopped answering my calls? Could have, though I’d like to think he wouldn’t.

  Another possibility occurs to me. I don’t want to overstep if this isn’t what he’s after, but Kendra doesn’t work or have school on Thursdays, so he might, possibly, be calling because…

  “Well, if you’re not busy, I’d love to take you out to celebrate. There’s a new Persian place I’ve been wanting to try. Then we could bring the party back to my place?”

  “That would be great. Do you have clients or could you pick me up at Kendra’s at seven?”

  No clients, no nothing. I’d been planning to catch up on some personal correspondence and phone calls, but that can all wait. I don’t think a one of them would mind being neglected for another day if it means I get to spend time with Allie.

  “That works for me. I’ll see you then.”

  “Cool.”

  Then there’s silence on the other end of the line, and my reflection stares back at me, looking smug as fuck. Yeah, yeah, you smug bastard, we all know you’re going to have a good time tonight.

  *

  I’ve just fucked the ever-loving hell out of Hart after I had my way with him downstairs. For someone who was so reluctant to bottom, he sure has got the hang of it. And my, does he ever suffer beautifully.

  He’s not suffering now, though. Not even a little bit. We’re lying together in my bed, me propped up against pillows and him with his head in my lap while I feed him. I don’t usually eat in bed since I’m rather fastidious when it comes to my own personal space—I like it quiet, simple, clean—but this fits. Allie has no need to know exactly how uptight I am about things that have no consequence. The color of his socks, sure, but knowing I have a thing about stains and crumbs in my sheets? He can do without.

  Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, dark chocolate chips, and almonds. These are the things I offer to him, that he takes between his lips and savors, that I can feel his jaw work around as he turns to look up at me.

  In between feeding him from three separate bowls—wouldn’t want the chocolate or almonds to get wet from the freshly washed fruit after all, and yes, fine, I like controlling even what flavor he’ll have in his mouth next—I’ve picked up my phone and not put it down again. He doesn’t seem to mind, exhausted as he is. In between bites, I run my hand over his scalp, sometimes brush a thumb behind his ear.

  The next time I offer him an almond, he shakes his head. “I’ve had enough. Thank you, though.”

  I eat it myself and then let my hand drift to caress him again. While I sometimes miss having hair to grab onto and stroke, I’ve become accustomed and rather attached to the smoothness of Allie’s head when he’s shaved that morning and the barest of prickles when he hasn’t.

  I expect his breathing to even out, the deep, mouth-open sounds of sleep and the heavy weight of his head in my lap. What black magic is it that people seem to gain weight when they’re unconscious? I swear it’s true. But instead of a dozing Hart cozying into my thighs, he shifts. And shifts again.

  Tearing myself away from a client issue, I look down at him. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what’s with the fidgeting?”

  “I…”

  Hmm.

  “Go on, Hart. You know by now you can tell me anything.”

  “I had something to ask you. Not tell you.”

  Even more interesting. Especially given the already intimate tenor of our evening. Not the sex and the kink, because sure, but the congratulatory dinner. Of all the friends and family he has, he wanted to celebrate with me.

  “Go ahead, then.”

  He doesn’t say anything right away, so I go through the motions of pickin
g up my phone again, punching in the code. Sometimes it’s easier for people to spill if they think your attention’s divided. Doesn’t usually work with Hart, but this doesn’t seem like your everyday kind of request. Please, sir, I’d like to try the rubber flogger. Would you show me what a paddle feels like, sir? If he gets ticked off, it’s easy enough to let him know he has my undivided attention. Perhaps more of it than he would’ve liked.

  My trick seems to work, though, and he takes a swill of air. “My sister’s having people over for a barbeque and watching the Raiders on Sunday. She asked if you’d like to come.”

  Oh. Not that I never get invited to these things—in fact, I frequently double as a plus-one, though usually to formal events because I clean up well and already have my own tux. But backyard barbeques and—the Raiders play football, right?—football games aren’t usually the thing. Especially not with family. Which also means Hart’s told Kendra we’re seeing each other. Not just fucking. She had to know something was going on with him and someone at the rate I see him, but still.

  I’ve had the experience of the blood in my veins running cold from fear and hot from lust, but this feels like something else entirely. A clement, pleasant warmth. As if it’s tea at the perfect temperature being pumped by my heart. It’s quite something, and I wouldn’t want to trade it for anything in the world.

  He’s only told me I’ve been invited, though. He hasn’t said how he feels about this, which is the important part. Though Hart isn’t thoughtless or rude. Coarse sometimes, certainly, but not cruel. So I doubt he’s mentioning this to tell me I’m not welcome. Which means…

  “So I…I’m asking you if you’d like to.”

  I put my phone down on the bed, done with the pretense and needing to see his face, to glean every ounce of information I possibly can from the way his emotions arrange his features.

  “Would you like me to?”

  There’s hesitation and, if I’m reading him correctly, shyness. “I would.”

  “Then I’m there.”