Personal Geography (11 page)

I do. Being trained out of that particular impulse had been unpleasant, and it’s a mark of how long it’s been since I’ve been with someone this good that I’ve sunk into such a bad habit. I take a deep breath, let loose, and that’s when he hits me, warming me up with a hand spanking. The intensity is automatically higher because of the bruises, and he works up slowly until he’s got my behind glowing hot with the impacts.

There’s a pause and his hand is at my lower back again, warning me, and then, a second later, there’s the welcome feel of what I’d guess is a leather-covered wood paddle. He’s not reluctant now. No, he’s forced a sound and keeps it up until my ass is throbbing and hot, my whole bottom half swollen with want. He’s hit me hard and long enough to have me squirming, genuinely dreading the next strike, without drawing tears. Damn near perfect.

When I think I can’t take it anymore, the paddle clatters to the floor, and Cris’s hands are cool on my heated behind, fingering the marks he’s made.

“The way you color is textbook. I couldn’t dream a more perfect shade of red.”

It’s not as if I can control it, but his compliment pleases me. It’s not the kind of praise I get every day. Then he grips my hips and thrusts hard against me, making me mewl. “That’s what you’ve done to me. That’s what’s going to be inside of you. Would you like that?”

“Yes, sir.”
More than anything.

The sound of clothing being removed and dropped to the floor makes me smile. Soon he’s behind me, letting out the chains attached to my wrists and ankles to give them more play. When he’s satisfied, he drags my hips back a few paces until the bonds are taut again and angles them to give him access. I think he’s going to fuck me and I’m primed for him, but he drops to his knees and suddenly his tongue is lapping hot at the apex of my thighs, toying with and teasing my clit, his fingers digging into my hips.

The sensations drag moans from me, and with each one, he pinches or tweaks one of the marks he’s made. I’m seconds from coming when he stops and kisses the base of my spine and those two indentations above the rise of my ass. He trails kisses and nips up my back, then grabs my hips hard and eases into me.

He takes his time, pressing slowly but steadily, and when he’s fully seated, I sigh. He fits inside me like I was built to hold him—snug with enough of a stretch to make me feel full, possessed, but not split open or violated.

His forehead drops to my shoulder, and his arm circles my ribcage. It’s thick and warm, a band of protection holding me close and tight as his breath drifts hot and fast across my skin. “God, do you feel good.”

He pulls out, only to thrust inside me again. I cry out, the raw sound mirroring the violence of the air being forced out of me, but he doesn’t stop.
Don’t stop
. I close my eyes, focusing on how good he feels inside of me, on being soft and receptive to let him take me over. He reaches a hand around to provide a surface for me to rock my clit against, and soon, I’m ready. So ready my mouth’s gone dry from panting.

“Come on, pet. Come for me.”

My body’s been holding out for his permission, but now it takes advantage, pulsing around him. The sensation urges his own ground-out release, his thrusts becoming uneven as he buries choked sounds of pleasure where he’s sunk his teeth into the curve of my neck and shoulder.

His chest heaves against my back until our breathing evens out, and then he withdraws, quickly untethering me from the cross and turning me around to hold me close. I lay my head against his chest, enjoying the solid beat of his heart. I hold up a hand, hesitant, before he says, “Go on, kitten. Touch all you like.”

I wrap my arms around him, my forearms on either side of his spine, my hands covering his shoulder blades. His skin is smooth under my greedy fingertips and covered with the barest sheen of sweat.

He lays a cheek on the top of my head and pulls me tight against him, but somehow it’s not enough contact. I want to be surrounded by him and his clean smell and the heat that’s keeping me warm now that I’m coming down. He squeezes me before letting go, and I can’t help the whimper that escapes as he takes a step back.
Please don’t go.

But he takes me up in his arms and carries me to the bed where we lie down together, limbs tangling until I’m nearly close enough. He strokes my hair and my back and tells me sweet things until I feel pieced together instead of blown apart.

He leans back to brush some stray strands from my face and smiles, slow and lazy, a smile I can’t help but return. Then he leans in for a kiss, and I melt.

“Not bad, right?”

I laugh and shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Think we can do better?” The way his eyebrow kicks up makes me want to bite it, but I purse my lips instead.

“I’d be willing to give it a shot. Sir.”

‡

W
hen I wake,
I don’t open my eyes right away. I’ve slept well, and I feel rested. The bed is comfortable, the soft sheets light on my skin. I left the door to the balcony open last night, liking the distant sound of the waves and the smell of the air. It’s at once the salty tang of the ocean and the lushness of the surrounding greenery. I allow myself a smile, remembering last night, wondering what’s to come today. With a sigh and stretch, I roll onto my side and nuzzle into the pillow.

When I reluctantly raise my lids, it’s to see the stormy blue eyes of Cris Ardmore staring back at me from the chair against the wall. I blink once before I remember myself and look down.

“Good morning, pet.”

“Good morning, sir.”

He sounds amused, although I can’t see his face to say for sure.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes, sir. Very well, thank you.”

“I could tell.” His tone is light, but my eyes widen.
What the fuck time is it?
“It’s almost eleven.”

Shit.

“I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Not to worry. If I’d wanted you earlier, I would’ve woken you.”

He didn’t want me? He doesn’t like me. I’ve disappointed him. Tears are rising, but they’re easy to stow. I thought last night was pretty great, but apparently I was the only one. Will he want me to leave now? I could change my flight…or maybe I’ll stay with Matty and we could go sightseeing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Look at me,” he commands, interrupting my contingency planning.

When I do, he’s looking at me sternly.

“I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. I’m not messing with you, and I’m not angry. I told you to sleep, and you did. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done as you were told and that pleases me. If I’d wanted you up at seven, I would’ve told you so. I don’t play games.

“You must’ve been exhausted. If I’d known how much, I would’ve put you to bed earlier. I’m glad you’ve rested, but it’s time to get up. You have half an hour to be dressed and ready and in the main house. Wear what you like. You’ll make lunch.”

“Yes, sir.” I feel at once relieved and off-balance. I believe he’s not unhappy with me, but his assertion that he doesn’t play games is disconcerting. What is this if not a game? Perhaps the philosophical musings are best left for later. For now, it’s enough he still wants me.

He ducks his chin, satisfied, and pushes out of the chair. He’s wearing a T-shirt that looks like it used to be blue, some worn khaki shorts, and he’s barefoot. Pure deliciousness. Except for Hunter, I’ve never had this much of a visceral attraction to someone so immediately…and look where
that
got me. Heartbroken, disowned by my family, and banished to the other side of the continent. If he’s a fraction as dangerous as Hunter, Cris Ardmore could prove hazardous to my health indeed.

I’m waiting for him to go before I move a muscle, but his eyes meet mine and I don’t look away. He takes a few deliberate steps toward me and plants his hand on my neck. I hold my breath and stay stock-still, not even blinking.

“Breathe.”

I inhale sharply at his command, not breaking eye contact, and he smiles his crooked smile. “Good girl. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

With a gentle tug at my earlobe that sends desire coursing through me, he leaves. When I’m sure he’s gone, I grab my phone and text Matty:

Carp.

Check-in complete, I roll out of bed and head into the en suite. It’s nicely done, which I didn’t get to appreciate last night, spent as I was. I eye the wooden bathtub covetously, hoping I’ll get to make use of it before I go. For now, a shower will do.

It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in a bathroom, and I’ve been in some nice bathrooms. But this—this is incredible.

It’s enclosed in glass and sits in a corner that juts out into space, affording an unobstructed view of the tropical flora that surrounds the house and somehow managing to feel private despite being entirely exposed. They must’ve used mitered glass at the far seam. Call me insane, but that is one of my biggest architectural turn-ons. Do other people have those?

I switch on the water and step under the stream, pausing to run my finger over the far seam.
Whose idea was this?

I shake my head.
Don’t ask those questions, India
. Questions lead to answers, and answers lead to intimacy.
You’re here for a quick fuck. Don’t make it into more than that. You’ll only be sorry
.

*

I pad down
the walkway in a camisole and skirt, still barefoot, taking a cue from the man himself. When I come into the main house, Cris is lounging on one of the sofas reading a paperback. And what does Cris Ardmore read, pray tell? He’s not close enough for me to see the cover, and I’ve already been given my instructions so I don’t have the opportunity to go look.

In the kitchen, I send a silent thanks to Rey for teaching me how to cook. When I arrived at Princeton, I literally did not know how to boil water. Play the cello, put in a respectable match on the tennis court, pull an appropriate literary quotation from thin air, or speak fluent Mandarin, sure. But cook? My parents had been so busy making sure I was accomplished they’d forgotten to make me competent.

I find several nice pieces of fish and heaps of fresh fruits and vegetables, so I set to making a salad with poached salmon. Even in the unfamiliar kitchen, the accustomed feel of the food and the knives in my hands is relaxing, and in half an hour, I have a respectable meal on the table.

I kneel in front of Cris, note he’s reading
Blindness
by José Saramago—one of my favorites—and wait for him to acknowledge me. He only makes me wait a minute.

“Yes, pet?”

“Lunch is ready, sir.”

“Let’s eat then. You must be hungry. You may look at me while we eat.”

“Yes, sir.”

He surprises me by taking my hand and waiting for me to stand before tugging me toward the table. Surprises me even more by pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit. He slides the chair in as I do. Such manners, still.

“Thank you, sir.”

He takes his own seat and begins to eat. He’s taken a few bites before he realizes I haven’t started and looks faintly alarmed. “You may start.”

“Yes, sir.”

He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “You don’t need my permission to eat.”

“Yes, sir.” I pick up my knife and fork and start to eat less delicately than I’d like, but he’s right. I’m starving. I’m aware of him watching me, but I pretend not to be.

“Are you finding your accommodations acceptable?”

“Yes, sir. My room is very nice, thank you.”

“What’s your favorite part?”

Caught off-guard, I smile. “The mitered glass in the shower.”

His crooked grin spreads over his face as he cocks his head. “You noticed that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can drop the ‘sir’ while we’re eating. I’d like to have a conversation with you.”

With his stern tone and severe expression, it’s all I can do to bite back the “yes, sir” that’s rising in my throat. “Okay.”

“Are you an architect?”

The glare he gets in return would blind a lesser man.

“Sorry, I forgot.” Consternation has an adorable effect on him, making him look much younger than he is.