Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  This is one of the reasons I like Greg. He walks the talk in a way some of my clients don’t. I take his point, but he’s not done hammering it home.

  “So when you talk about cutting full-day kindergarten, you’re talking about Brody getting half of what his sister did. When you say we should cut the after-school arts program, it means Ava will either be home alone on Thursday afternoons or Joe or I will have to rearrange our schedules or pay for childcare. You’re not talking about numbers, India. You’re talking about people.”

  “Greg, I—”

  “I know. You understand. But you don’t. And most of the time, I’m glad for it. I’m glad you’re a fucking wrecking ball, making the hard decisions and pointing out unfortunate truths I might not have the balls to because you don’t live here. You don’t have kids in the schools or dogs in the parks. You don’t run into people whose lives you’ve changed at Lulu’s Chicken Bowl. You’ve got no skin in the game.”

  There’s another pause, and I close my eyes. He’s right. I haven’t had a stake in much of anything for a long time. Nothing much matters to me, so it’s easy to wield a spreadsheet like a machete and stand in front of roomfuls of people telling them that, if they want to survive, this is how things have got to be. I don’t have to live with the consequences. I pack up and come home to my neatly arranged, carefully maintained life and leave the living to other folks.

  “You’re a lucky bitch, India.” I cringe. Not because he’s called me a bitch—that rolls off easy. I’ve worked with Greg long enough to know he’s not a misogynist, and I’ve been called far worse. It’s almost affectionate coming from him. No, I cringe because I’m not sure if I’m lucky or not. Attachment means opening yourself up to the possibility of being cut open, and I understand my job is to flay people alive. I’d never thought of it that way before, but I will now.

  “Give me a few days. I have to run this by some people. I’ll have some new numbers for you by Friday.” His heart’s not in it. I get the feeling he’d rather be faced by a pack of wild coyotes who’ve developed a taste for human flesh than make these changes.

  “Okay. Greg, I’m sorry.”

  His “yeah” is clipped by the crash of the receiver into the cradle.

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  After an interminable week, I’m back in Kona. I flew in this morning and have to leave tomorrow to get back for work, but the long flights are worth it to be with him. I didn’t know I was capable of craving someone so much. But here I am, a few yards away from him, putting together curried chicken salad for lunch and wishing I was at his feet.

  Crispin is on the phone with Mary, catching up. He’s doing so much better, looking more like he’s lounging on the couch with a book by choice instead of being confined there. And he is. He can walk without his crutches—though not surf—and he can drive. He’s not stranded anymore, and it shows.

  “Fine, Mom. … Yeah, India’s here, don’t worry, I’m not going to starve.” He makes eye contact with me and rolls his eyes, but I think it’s sweet Mary’s been calling to check up on him. “No, she’s a good cook. … It’s true, she prefers me barefoot in the kitchen, but in a pinch she’ll do.”

  I fake-glare at him from where I’m chopping scallions. It’s true I’d rather Crispin cook. He’s more proficient and creative than I am, but I do passably well and curried chicken salad is one of my specialties. He pitches a knowing smile my way before turning his attention back to his conversation.

  “Tonight? Uh…” He frowns, uncertainty lining his forehead. “Lemme check.”

  He covers the speaker of his cell and says in a carefully neutral way, “My parents want to know if we’d like to join them for dinner tonight.”

  I almost skin my knuckles with the knife. Why must Crispin ask me these things when I’m handling sharp objects? The spring winds tight inside, and I try to ignore it long enough to consider. Dinner with Crispin’s parents? Being at the hospital and here with Mary couldn’t be helped¸ but going out of my way to do such a girlfriend-y thing? That I have control over. His brows have lifted in hope at my hesitation, but I shake my head. No.

  Crispin’s neutral look darkens. I knew he would be disappointed, but he must’ve known what my answer was going to be. He doesn’t bother to argue, but takes the phone to his ear and stares at his feet, soles propped against the edge of the coffee table. The coffee table I can’t look at without getting hot. Another reason to confine our activities to the studio.

  “Sorry, I forgot we have plans. … She goes back tomorrow so that’s a no-go as well. … Yeah, some other time.”

  I close my eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can I not do this for him? What’s the big deal? I like Mary. I’d like to talk with her again. We could gang up on Crispin and make him do a few more sessions of physical therapy for his leg. And if Crispin’s dad is anywhere near as good in the kitchen as he is—and I’ve been assured he’s superior—the food alone might be worth the agony.

  Crispin’s still chatting away about god-knows-what when I clear my throat. He looks over, and I hold up my hands, then a finger. I feel like one of those creepy ass mimes. Wait, just wait…

  “Hey, Mom? Hold on.”

  My heart is like a battering ram against the ramparts of my ribcage and I might be breathing hard enough to make myself pass out, but I will say this.

  “India? Are you okay?”

  I must look like I’m choking. Or hyperventilating. I could use a paper bag to breathe into, but one not being handy… I clutch the edge of the counter, steadying myself. Come on, Burke, don’t be a sissy. Cowboy up. “Next week.”

  Crispin’s curly head cocks in puzzlement. He and Mary have long ago moved on in their conversation, but I’ve been stuck on the prospect of dinner. It takes a second for him to connect the dots, but when he does, his face lights up and warmth floods my chest. I’ve done a good thing. I’ve made him happy.

  “Yeah, I’m still here. Are you and Dad free for dinner next Saturday? … It’s a date.”

  *

  My good deed is being rewarded. If I had known, I might’ve agreed last week.

  I’m tethered face-down to the table and have been for some time. He’s taking his sweet fucking time, and it’s driving me insane. He hustled me out of bed this morning, instructing me to put on the clothes I was going to wear to dinner.

  “Now? We’re not leaving for, like, six hours.”

  “I didn’t say you’d be keeping them on, but that’s not for you to trouble yourself about. No questions, pet. Do as you’re told.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now I’m well aware of why he had me put on my fashion show. I’m being marked wherever it won’t show and it’s making me wish I’d brought a nun’s habit instead of a sleeveless button-down and slightly-less-than-knee-length skirt.

  The flogging I’ve already taken to my back wasn’t hard. It’s difficult for him to get the leverage he’d need to really do a number on me when his leg’s not completely healed and his balance is off. But it’s better than nothing, and I’ll have a pretty scatter of tiny freckle bruises dotting my back to admire when I go home.

  He’s been pausing between each “punishment,” which gives him a chance to rest and makes me squirm. The teasing he’s been doing is out of control. I’ve half a mind to come so he’ll have to punish me more, but I want more than anything to please him so I hang on the edge, desperate to fall.

  “Open up, mili.”

  Ah, yes, breakfast. I’ve been fed in courses. Being stroked and petted in between spoonfuls of passionfruit is the latest torture. I accept the mouthful, the tart sweetness and seeds mixing on my tongue, swallowing after savoring the taste. When a drop of juice escapes my lips and slides down my jaw to the table, he bends to lick it off. I want to bite him. I pull at my hands, linked together behind me, to make an awkward lunge for a half-hearted attempt at a nip and he laughs.

  “Feeling feisty today?”

  “Yes, sir.”
/>   “I don’t mind, but perhaps you’d like to save that for later?”

  “Yes, sir.” I’d like to be mostly India when we see Crispin’s parents. From what he’s said and from the time I’ve spent with Mary, they’ll prefer a dialed-back version of that to compliant Kit.

  “Besides, I want to remind you that you’re mine to do with as I please. Have you had enough?”

  My saucy “breakfast?” is met by a swat to my flank.

  “Yes, pet. Breakfast. Unless you’re still hungry, that’s the last course. But there are several stops left on the submissive express.”

  And though my stomach’s been sated, my mouth waters. Several? I thought this would be it. “All aboard.”

  He shakes his head. I’m glad he finds me entertaining. He unclips the cuffs to refasten them at the edge of the table and leans down to bite my earlobe.

  When he straightens, he’s pulled something from beneath the table, and it takes a second for my brain to process what it is. He holds the object on the thicker end and runs a fist along its length before making a quick slash through the air in front of my face. The swishy sound of it makes my eyes widen while I take a hard swallow. Oh, my.

  “Has anyone ever used a switch on you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Hunter preferred his tools of the trade expensive and finely crafted. A switch would’ve been deemed gauche. I suppose, in a pinch, he might’ve used one, but he would’ve donned gloves first. And the other people who’d whipped me over the years? I never knew them well enough to say why not, but no.

  “It’s not my favorite, but it doesn’t take much of an arm to make an impact.” Crispin’s studying the implement as if he’s not looked at for years, but of course he has. He probably cut the thing from one of the trees outside himself for precisely this purpose and delighted in the meditative process of stripping the bark, sanding down any raised or rough bits while he thought about laying it across my ass. “And it brings up some nice welts.”

  I whimper as he grabs my behind and squeezes hard.

  “You’ve got such pretty, pale skin, kitten. The only way it could be prettier is if it had my marks on it. What do you think?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’d like that?” he goads, making a light pass over the skin he means to mark, making me quiver.

  “Please, sir.” It comes out a squeak, and I’m flooded. Mark me. Make me yours. Give me a reminder whenever my head starts to get the best of me that I belong to you. Fuck, yes, raise up welts on my ass that I’ll feel when I shift in your parents’ dining room chairs, wishing I were kneeling at your side. “Please.”

  And then his forearm, thick with muscles flexed a hundred thousand times, is laid across my back in a diagonal of delicious pressure from the bottom of my ribcage to the crest of my shoulder. I don’t have time to take a full breath before the switch slices the air and a thin, stinging line lights up my ass.

  I yelp in surprise. That hurts like a—

  I’m startled by the smarting stripe, but the strike he’s laid down disintegrates into a heated wave rolling out from the original impact and it’s…delicious. Similar to a cane, but whippier, and oh, god. He’s hit me a few more times while I’ve been dissecting the sensation, and when I groan, he pauses, smoothing some loose curls out of my face.

  “Okay?” he asks, not letting up on his arm restraining me—trying to keep me in my headspace if I’m fine, but concerned enough to check.

  “Yes, sir. Oh, yes.”

  I can’t help the shift of my hips as he lays into me harder and I mewl. This might be my new favorite, though I’d have to be pretty desperate to enjoy it as much as I am. It’s intense and not for the faint of heart. I can’t say I’m sorry when, a minute later, he drops the switch and slides a couple of fingers inside me.

  “Christ, India.”

  I yank hard before I remember I can’t leave marks on my wrists. He fingers the fresh welts, and I groan, distracted from my fit of pique. When there’s shuffling under the table behind me, I turn my head as far as I can. What the hell is he doing? I can’t take this anymore.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when he touches my clit. He’s going to take pity on me and let me off this godforsaken train a few stops ahead of time. But instead of a welcome invitation to come, there’s a sudden, unyielding pressure on that small, sensitive part of me and I want to scream.

  That crafty son of a bitch has clamped my clit, knowing it’s next to impossible for me to come this way. “I’ll let you up if you promise to be a good girl for me.”

  I’m tempted to snarl. Only a saint could put up with this treatment, and I’m far more whore than Madonna. But there’s a method to his madness and the reward I’ll get at the end of this…

  “I promise, sir.”

  “Promise what, pet?”

  His light tone is mocking, and it’s a good thing I’m still strapped to the table because even though my murderous glare can’t kill him, throttling might—and when he’s nearly better, too. What a shame that would be. Instead, I let the words wash over me, and I’m overcome with devotion. And not a small amount of horniness. But mostly devotion. He’s given me what I asked for, what I need. And in exchange… “I promise, sir. I’ll be a good girl for you.”

  True to his word, he unclips the cuffs and undoes the rest of my bonds, helping me to stand. He laces greedy fingers through my hair and tugs me close for a kiss. He pulls away long enough to give me permission to touch, and I don’t try to blunt my response. I get the smooth skin of his back under my own avaricious grip as soon as possible, moaning into his mouth when our lips meet again.

  With a tug to my hair, he separates us and leads me over to the couch, directing me to my knees while he sits and unzips his fly. I curse myself for biting my lip—gluttony on display—but I can’t help that any more than I can help the clench in my belly and the throb in my clit.

  “Go on,” he urges. I don’t hesitate, taking him first in my hand and then in my mouth. He toys with my nipples while I lick and suck. Tiny desperate noises escape my throat around him. When he cradles my head and draws me in closer, I’m primed for my reward. He barely has time to warn me he’s going to come before his release hits the back of my throat. I swallow, ravenous for any bit of him, while he issues a flood of curses mingled with praise.

  He pets me while my head rests on his good leg, and though I’m aching for him, my need’s been dulled by his climax. That doesn’t mean when he says, “Over the ottoman,” I don’t double-time it, presenting myself to his appraising eye. I clutch the leather in a desperate embrace as he drives two fingers into me, making me squeal.

  When he scissors them inside of me, I almost die, and I’m thankful for the clamp that’s otherwise driving me mad because it keeps me from coming at that very second. He adds a third finger, and the stretch is pleasant. He’s not being gentle, though. The thrusts of his digits inside of me are harsh, and I’m not surprised when he pulls out, only to ease back in with four. I tense, but a grazing touch over the welts on my ass and a firm, “Easy, pet,” let me relax and accept the intrusion. My breath deepens, and I find that blissful space where I’m desperate for anything he wants to give me. This—the pressure and the spreading—is a gift, making me feel expansive.

  When I’ve calmed to his satisfaction, he releases the clamp with his fingers still inside me, and feeling floods back into that sensitive space, hot, heavy, and throbbing. Yeah it hurts like a bitch, but he’s got me so revved up, the pain reads like a spike of sensation. The rub of the heel of his hand against my clit and the thrust of his fingers are enough to send me careening over the edge, free-falling into bliss. I barely catch his words.

  “There’s my good girl. Come on, mili. Come for me.”

  *

  Hours later, we’re in Crispin’s Jeep, and my fingers are twisted in my lap. Terrible idea. This is a terrible idea. How could I have let him talk me into this? No, that’s not fair. He asked and I said no. But then I said ye
s. I wouldn’t call that twisting my arm. But all my limbs feel warped like the branches of a bonsai. This is excruciating.

  His thumb is stroking across my knuckles, and I latch onto the rhythm. Concentrate on his skin on my skin, the pad of his thumb gliding over the fragile bones. Breathe, India, dammit. Passing out won’t win you any fans.

  Crispin takes his hand from mine as we get into town and start running into stop signs and traffic lights. I focus my scattered attentions on his driving. I can’t drive a stick shift. The process is fascinating, and I can’t rip my eyes away from his movements, not to mention his cool and easy management of what seems like an incredibly complicated mechanism to go.

  I hypnotize myself, staring at the lines of him. His strong wrist and large hand manipulating the gearshift. The flex of his muscular calf to press into the pedals. The twist of his curl-covered head to look out for traffic, grey-blue eyes darting behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. His fingers resting on the wheel, bared forearm covered with a dusting of dark hair.

  He’s beautiful. And mine. He wants the people he loves to know it, to know me—this person he’s chosen, who’s at long last turned his head. I untangle my fingers and squeeze above his knee. I’m rewarded with a smile and a glance of his hand through my hair. That’s better.

  It’s a few more minutes before we pull up to a neatly kept, single-story, island-style house on a quiet residential street. The house is painted a sunny yellow, and birds of paradise blooms line the walkway. This is where Crispin grew up? It’s so unlike him, too flashy. He parks the Jeep in the drive and turns to me.

  “Ready?”

  “No.”

  “Scared shitless?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want me to drop you off at the airport instead?” He’s doing his utmost not to bust out laughing, but he’s not successful.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Ardmore.” I said I would go, and goddammit, I will go. I am going to eat the crap out of this dinner. He hops down gingerly, his leg still tender, and comes around to my side, opens the door, and settles his hands on my waist. I think he’s going to help me down from the car, but instead he leans into me, cheek to cheek.