Personal Geography (10 page)

“Open your mouth.”

I’m greeted by a familiar but somehow strange taste. It’s like pineapple but not. It’s smoothly sweet, not acidic. Almost like pineapple candy, but the texture is exactly like the fruit. It’s delicious.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“It’s white pineapple. You can’t get it outside the islands.” He offers me another morsel, and I take it, letting my mouth surround his fingers more than necessary. I could eat it all day, unlike the few bites I can tolerate of whatever it is you can get on the mainland. He continues to feed me and I get less subtle with my attentions to his fingers. My efforts aren’t going unnoticed or unappreciated, judging by the growing pressure at my hip. I hope he’s not uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say anything, just scoops the occasional bit into his own mouth until he offers me a piece I don’t accept.

“Finished?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He pops it into his mouth and holds out his fingers. I suck off the sweet juice, continuing even after there’s no taste of pineapple left.

“I see you’re ready for round two.”

I suck harder in response, and a low noise issues from his throat. He pushes the ottoman away, puts his feet flat on the floor, and presses my hip. Adjusting to straddle him, I take his hand in mine.

“Don’t stop sucking.”

Two can multitask, Cris, and I’m a professional. Well, not a
professional
professional, but I could be. I sink into a straddle, my knees tucked up astride his thighs, still laving his fingers.

“You’ll get me off, pet. You know how.”

Yes, I do. I finish up on his fingers, aiming to leave him wanting, and lick, kiss, and nip my way up his arm. His skin is such a nice color, interrupted by the occasional pale scar. Did he get these the same way he broke his nose? I don’t have long to linger. I’ve reached his neck and make my way to his ear, running my tongue along the edge before sinking my teeth lightly into his lobe.

I get a grunt I can’t read, and I’m paralyzed until he says, “You and your kitten tongue. You’re so sweet.”

His clarification lets me go about my business with confidence. I work my way down his chest and make out that the disc on the leather thong around his neck is a silver St. Michael’s medal. St. Michael, patron saint of so many—soldiers, the sick and the dying, grocers of all things. Why does Cris wear it? It was possibly just a gift, his middle name is Michael.

I scold myself for letting my mind wander. I should be concentrating on what I’m doing. I’ve been the recipient of his full attentions, and he deserves the same. So I savor the taste of his skin on my tongue, the feel of him under my hands, his skin and the generous trail of dark hair that leads down his chest and into his jeans.

I climb down between his knees, making sure to rub my breasts against him as I go. My hands and mouth go to the waistband of his worn jeans, and I undo the button and slide down the zipper. My mouth waters when I realize he doesn’t have anything on under them. I tug at his waistband, and he raises his hips. When I’ve freed him and slipped his jeans completely off, I take a second to survey him. Yes, Cris is a beautiful man.

Every bit of him is well-formed, and I mean every bit. He’s large, both long and thick, big enough to make me feel full, genuinely penetrated. The nest of curls that surrounds him echoes the ones on his head, but coarse instead of soft. His legs are well-muscled, with still more scars that show pale against his browned skin and dark hair. He’s nice to look at, but I won’t take any longer.

Instead, I crawl close and lick cautiously. I’m relieved but not surprised that he tastes clean. He showered while I was settling in. I start my attentions in earnest, licking him from base to tip, finishing with a swirl around the head before taking him into my mouth—not much at first, teasing my way down until I have most of him. I don’t have much of a gag reflex, but this is about as much as I can do. I work at him and feel smug when his hands fist desperately in my hair when I start to use my hands, too. Yes, I’m damn good at giving head.

I don’t want this over too fast, I want to give him his proverbial money’s worth, show him I like him, but not make him feel like I’m being coy or cruel. It’s several minutes before I intensify my efforts, and he responds with a buck of his hips, fucking my mouth. I follow his cues, letting him thrust into me and set the pace that’s going to take him to the edge.

“I’m going to come.”

He doesn’t release my hair but tugs me close to be at the back of my throat. I swallow his release and stroke him with my tongue, finishing him, not letting him go until I’m sure he’s done. I stay on my knees and lay my head on his thigh, waiting for my next instructions. He pets me idly for a few minutes before he tugs at my hair. “In my lap.”

I climb up, rest against him, and savor his arms coming around me. Sometimes I chafe against being held. It feels too familiar, too intimate, but I like when Cris does it. The man can get away with murder. Kissing, holding—what’s next? Making love?
Ugh, Burke, you are losing it.

“Nicely done, pet. You’re a pleasure.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I’m pleased by his praise. He’s not effusive, but sincere. I like that Cris is taking his time. It makes me feel relaxed, cared for, willing. Ethan had been this way, too. And Jorah. Not like Krishna. Talk about insatiable. He’d had me more ways than I could count with barely a breather in between. Not that I’d minded, but sitting down had been challenging for three days after I got back. Cyrus was a different story. Most of them warm me up before getting into the heavy stuff, but not him. He was harsh from the second I’d arrived and not in a way I’d cared for. I’d nearly cried as Matty cuddled me on the plane ride back from Helena.

But the hesitant ones… They’re just as bad. Worse, in some ways. It feels like a waste of my time. With a name like Ivan, I’d been expecting better. But he’d never even gotten around to fucking me and my orgasms—the two I’d managed by virtue of the voices in my head rather than what he was actually doing to me—had been underwhelming. Terrible, indeed. No matter how the rest of this goes, Cris has made it into my top ten. If he keeps it up, he’ll slide into the top five. And if he’s holding back, as I suspect he is, he may medal. We’ll see what else the weekend holds.

*

Cris retrieves a
dinner of ratatouille that I devour, the eggplant satisfying the desire for something substantial without the weight of meat. I suspect there will be more play before we go to sleep tonight, and I don’t want to gorge myself on this pleasure of the flesh if others await me. When we’ve sated our appetites for food, Cris leans back against the couch and knits his hands over his stomach. His partially clothed body tempts me even in repose.

I ought to be exhausted. Somewhere deep down, I am. Even light play can be tiring after so much travel and a big time change. It’s not just the physical exertion, either. For however much I enjoy my lost weekends, it’s not easy to give myself over entirely to someone I’ve never met before.

It’s not so much a trust issue. If something ever happened to me, the perpetrator would either be blackballed from the kink community and/or wind up in the back of a police cruiser before my flight touched down. Rey would make sure of it. He carries an awfully big stick. Some of it’s simply the unease that comes from being a guest anywhere. If the Dom is any good, that feeling doesn’t last long because my place is rapidly made clear. Cris is incredibly attentive, and any time uncertainty starts to creep in, he’s been ready with instructions or assurances to keep it at bay.

“Are you finished?”

“With dinner?”

He smirks at my sass. “Yes, pet, with dinner.”

Ah,
pet
. While we were eating, our conversation had drifted into something not exclusively Dom/sub. We’re weaving this intricate pattern of threads that need to be tied to keep the tapestry of our game steady, and so far, we haven’t let any slip through our fingers. It’s the same delighted giddiness you get when you sit down to a chessboard or walk onto the tennis court and realize your opponent is a good match. That spark of interest, anticipation, because this is going to be fun.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Then you’ll help me clear, get cleaned up, and meet me back here in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushes off the couch and takes up our plates. I grab our empty glasses and follow him down the walkway to the main house, waiting a few paces away while he puts our dishes in the sink. When we pass by each other, he snags me by the hip, tips up my chin with the knuckle of his forefinger, and stares at me for a few seconds. I want to look away because of how his intense gaze makes me feel, but I can’t. Won’t.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Like a drop of food coloring in water, the pleasure falls hard in my core and billows out, dissipating through my body until it touches my toes. “Me, too. Sir.”

He smiles, sliding a hand into my hair and tugging slightly. “Good.”

It hits again. That goddamn desperation for his mouth, for his tongue to part my lips and tangle with mine. A
kiss
. I have got to get a grip. I tighten my fingers around the glasses so I don’t drop them, give in to my craving, and claw at him. He releases me, and my knuckles turn white gripping glass while I wait for his footsteps to recede.
I will not turn around, I will not turn around.

Eighteen minutes later finds me pushing open the door to the studio. When I step inside, Cris is waiting. Wordlessly, he steers me to the center of the room and removes my robe. Like earlier, he examines me with his hands and his gaze. He studies my skin where he applied restraints, looking for marks, but the only ones he’ll find are the light bruises on my behind I’m certain he left on purpose.

Still, the fact that he’s taking the time to check so thoroughly what effect his ministrations have had on me before he goes any further warms me in a way I’ve become unfamiliar with outside of when I’m under Rey’s care. Cris’s level of conscientiousness is unparalleled.

“Are you sore?” He runs a palm over the pale blue break of vessels blooming on one side of my ass.

“A little, sir.”

“Too sore?”

“No, sir.” That level of marking is child’s play. I’d be disappointed if that satisfied him. He squeezes the palmful of flesh, and I inhale as the pressure evokes the earlier spanking. When he steps behind me and begins to knead my cheeks in earnest, focusing on that same damn spot, my lips part and my eyes close.

“You’ve been an awfully good girl for me, kitten. Perhaps too well-behaved for your own good.”

Oh?
I like where this is heading.

“I could toy with you, spin you in circles until you screw up, but I get the feeling that could take a while. And why go to all that trouble when all I want to do is put a little color on your ass and then fuck you until you don’t know what day it is?”

A small noise of hunger is forced from my throat, and my fingers clench in craving.
Yes.
Screw the reasons, the rationale. Lay your hands on me. Mark my skin before you sink inside me and make me forget everything.

“Would that bother you, pet, if I took a paddle to you just because I felt like it and you’re mine to do with as I please?”

He’s stepped in close behind me, and the hardness of his erection presses through his jeans against the newly sensitized flesh of my ass. His hands wander to grip my hipbones, and he pulls me back against him hard. The minor impact forces the air from my chest and I’m left breathless, sucking in a lungful of air before I can say, “No, sir.”

Hunter used to have at me whenever he felt like it, earned or no. At first, it piqued the part of me that demands fairness, but once I gave in, I enjoyed it and could appreciate the logic. I don’t require justification anymore, an excuse to be punished. Punish me for being alive; for being in front of you; for knowing that, at some point, I earned the abuse you’re going to ply my flesh with. But most of all, do it because it pleases you to color my skin, to hear my whimpers or cries. Know that when you sink your fingers inside me, my body will confirm I’ve enjoyed it, too.

Cris grasps my arm above the elbow and steers me to the cross, pressing my abdomen into the wood. The cool surface is a mild shock that dulls as the wood absorbs my body heat, and I quickly sink back into that easy pliancy he inspires as he affixes cuffs to my wrists and ankles. When my arms have been stretched high and the cuffs attached to chains dangling from the frame, I wrap my fingers around the cool metal links, enjoying the heft of them. He urges my feet apart enough that it doesn’t feel natural, and I’m immediately conscious of how badly I’d like him inside of me.

When I’m firmly tethered, he stands close, touching me everywhere except where I want him to the most. He finally cradles my breasts and squeezes but quickly withdraws. Though I shouldn’t, I tense and wait for the first blow to fall. But all I get is the gentle pressure of his hand on my lower back and a tut.

“Relax, pet. You know better.”