Personal Geography (26 page)

“I’d do it for you.”

My lips part, and I blink at him a few times, bewildered, before I can breathe again. I frown and press my lips together, wrinkling my eyebrows before I open my mouth to say… I don’t know what. What comes out is a puff of air, a tiny, forced sigh.

“You can’t say shit like that to me, Crispin. Just please don’t.” I settle myself to look him in the eye. “You’re interrupting. You’re not supposed to interrupt. Don’t you want to hear my story? You said you wanted to hear my story.”

“I do.”

“Let’s get on with this train wreck, shall we?”

He nods, a short, sharp go-ahead.

“It was going to take a week for my stuff to make it to San Diego, anyway, so I did what I was told. I know it’s hard to believe, but I didn’t know where he was taking me until we were on the plane and the pilot mentioned St. Louis. I turned to Rey and asked why the fuck he was taking me to St. Louis.

“Rey asked me if I trusted him, and I told him I did. Farther than I could throw him. He laughed and told me not to worry my pretty little head. I could’ve pressed and he would’ve told me, but he’d steered me through the fog for a year and a half without a scratch. What was one more week?

“When we got off the plane, there was a car that took us out to these beautiful, leafy green suburbs. Right on the border of where the farms started, we pulled up to this house. No, not a house—an estate. Rey showed me in and I didn’t think I was ever going to find out why we were there, but then this man came down the stairs. He was older, maybe in his early fifties. Good-looking, but not extraordinarily so. And I could tell, I could just tell…

“Rey told me his name was Elliott and that he wanted to play. I almost died. Rey had asked me a million times if I wanted to play with someone, and I’d refused. I wouldn’t even consider it. It wasn’t until a few weeks before graduation that I could bring myself to say ‘not here’ instead of ‘not ever,’ but I hadn’t expected Rey to take that so literally. I probably should’ve been livid when he brought me to Elliott, and I was. A little. But not more than I wanted it.”

I’d wanted it like a woman who’d been wandering the desert craves water. Rey had steered me toward an oasis and told me to drink. He promised to stay with me, too, hold my hand so I wouldn’t drown. If he’d have kept asking me, I would’ve kept hedging, finding other excuses, and who knows what I would’ve done when it all got to be too much? Maybe become an alcoholic like my dad. Or worse.

“So I did the only thing I knew with certainty. I got down on my knees. And bless his heart, Elliott walked around me, laid his hand on the top of my head, and stroked my hair. I knew I shouldn’t, but when he stood beside me, I leaned into him, closed my eyes, and sighed. He called me ‘precious.’

“I knew I could’ve walked out and Rey wouldn’t have done anything but follow me, but I didn’t want to.” I’d wanted to drink from that spring and never stop. “Elliott kept me for a week. It was…heavenly. Now I’d find him too sweet, too gentle, almost cloying, but then, he was exactly what I needed. You know Elliott?”

“Schreiner?”

“The same.”

“I do, not well. Is he still in St. Louis?”

“He is. I send him a Christmas card every year.”

“I’m going to send him a case of champagne.”

That makes me giggle, although I don’t think he’s kidding.

“That’s how I started doing this. I saw Elliott a couple of times after that, to help me get on my feet, but then Rey found me someone else. And someone else after that. Whenever I’d have time, there was someone waiting for me at the end of a plane ride. They never knew my real name, and I never stayed as long as I did that first time. That’s what I’ve done for the past two and a half years. Never east of the Mississippi.”

“You didn’t find anyone you wanted to be with for more than a long weekend?”

I shrug. “I saw a few of them more than once, but…no.”

“And they let you go? No one ever tried to get you to stay?”

“Maybe they did. They didn’t have any way to reach me. Only Rey. He keeps them away with a whip and a chair.”

“More whip than chair, I suspect,” Crispin observes drily.

“Say what you will about Rey, but the man knows how to wield a cat. He’s none too shabby with a bullwhip, either.”

“You’ll never hear me say a word against Rey Walter.”

I know what he’s doing, softening me up with oblique compliments, but it’s not going to work. “It’s easier that way.”

“So this is…?”

“Highly irregular. And not easy.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special, pet.”

I’m taken aback before I realize he’s teasing, not mocking. I purse my lips and arch a sly brow.

“I sure do.” I slink off the couch and onto my hands and knees and start over to him in a languid crawl. “I make you, in particular, feel very special. I’d like to make you feel that way now. If it would please you, sir.”

He’s about to protest. He has more questions for me, questions I’ve said I’ll answer, but Crispin’s a marathoner, not a sprinter. He’ll take his time if he thinks it’s worth it. It’s one of the things I like about him.

I nuzzle his knee and blink up at him, waiting for his response.

“You’d like to please me?”

“Always, sir.”

“What would please me is to have you ready and waiting in the studio in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Off with you, then.”

I don’t bother to respond, but rise to my feet and walk with grace toward my bedroom to prepare. On my way down the hall, I let out a sigh and realize how tense I’ve been. I hate talking about myself. At least I won’t be saying much of anything for the next few hours.

‡

M
y head is
busy, buzzing with too many thoughts I can’t silence.

“Hey.” Crispin’s voice snaps me back to attention. “You’re mine now, and you’d best remember it. Don’t make me remind you again.”

“Yes, sir.”

My cheeks heat. It’s embarrassing to be called out, and a phantom Rey clucks over my shoulder. He’d be so displeased. He trained me better than that.

“If you’re having trouble focusing, maybe I can help you with that.”

Oh, please.
“Yes, sir.”

He guides me by my clasped hands to a vacant corner of the studio. He’s never brought me over here before, but I’ve stared longingly at the metal hooks and attachment points from where I’ve been tethered to the table or draped over his lap on the couch.

When he urges me into where the walls meet, I start to get wet. He lets go of my hands, places them at shoulder height on opposite walls, and kicks my feet apart until my stance is noticeably wide.

“Nose against the wall, bad girl.”

The spring loosens as my pelvis tightens. This is the kind of discipline that gets me unbearably hot. I lean forward until my nose grazes the wall, my back bowed slightly and enough weight in my arms that I feel it, will think about it.

“You’ll stay there until I come back. While I’m gone, I want you to think about all the things I’m going to do to you.”

If that weren’t enough to draw my attention back to the present, the warm, broad hands sliding up the insides of my thighs would be. He stops short of where I’m aching for him and backs off. I mewl in protest. That’s met by a firm smack to my ass, as I knew it would be.

“If you move or make a sound, you’ll be punished. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”

“No, sir.”

No, I don’t. I want him to praise me, reward me with his approval. I will stand in this position until he deems me forgiven for shirking my responsibilities.

He leaves me with a brush of his hand over my ass, and I close my eyes and sigh. There are sounds in the studio as I stand against the wall: Crispin opening and closing drawers, withdrawing the tools of his trade. With every slide of the runners in the tracks, I speculate about what he’s getting. Cuffs? A gag? Clamps? A paddle? My kingdom for a paddle.

His devious plot works. I get so focused on every sound he makes, every demand he might impose, that by the time he’s close by, my mind is now racing with thoughts of him. He lays his hands over mine and bends down to murmur in my ear.

“Not so distracted now, are you, pet?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You can stand up straight, relax.”

I ease my nose off the wall and immediately miss the sensation, but I’ve traded it for more contact between my body and his. A more than fair exchange. I slide my feet closer together, and he guides my hands off the walls, leaving them to rest by my sides.

“I’m going to put you through your paces soon enough. You need a break.”

My eyes bug slightly. He rarely warns me about what he’s going to do. This is going to be good. There are sounds and motions behind me, and I’m at a loss as to what he might be doing. Then he slips thick leather cuffs around my wrists and each ankle. Cuffs are standard; that doesn’t help me narrow down the possibilities.

Next, he unclips my hair and finger-combs the locks until they spill down my back. He gathers it up, but instead of plaiting it or twisting it, he cinches some kind of tie at the base of my skull. Tightly. He divides my hair, starts to braid, and I can tell from the light tugs that whatever he used to fasten my hair is being threaded through the plait. When he finishes, he ties off and lays the result over my shoulder. I don’t look down because he hasn’t told me I can, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see strands of thin rope dangling down my body, a bright red that’s a pretty contrast to my black hair and pale skin. In a moment of fleeting vanity, I wonder if he bought this for me.

He lays a hand against my shoulder blade and pulls back my arm, testing my range of motion. He makes an appreciative noise at how far back he can bend it. My flexible joints have been delighting bondage enthusiasts for over a decade, and now I have a pretty good idea of what I’m in for.

“No shoulder injuries?”

“No, sir.”

“You’ll tell me if this gets to be too much.”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a slight roughness to the rope that makes it impossible to ignore the drag of it over my skin. He winds it around my chest, shoulders, and arms, tying precise knots at careful intervals. You’d think his deliberate pace would bore me, but it doesn’t. I love the feel of him positioning me just so, the way the rope cradles and holds me even as his hands move on to the next knot. He’s giving me time to think about how vulnerable he’s rendering me in this very methodical way, and it both terrifies and thrills me. The pretty fishtail of color draws my arms closer behind my back until my elbows nearly touch and my wrists are cinched together.

“Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”
Oh, god, yes.

My chest is cracked open, my heart beating like horse hooves against my sternum. Grabbing my hips, he backs me up a few paces and nudges my ankles apart with a bare foot. He attaches a spreader bar to the cuffs at my ankles, easing them still farther, and my breath quickens. He wasn’t kidding about putting me through my paces. When he’s satisfied, there’s the familiar snick of a carabiner closing near my wrists and a tug at my hands. I get the urge to bow forward. Cris bands a warm forearm across my collarbones, gripping my shoulder with one large hand.

“You’re all right. I’ve got you.”

He pulls the rope taut with his free hand, supporting me with his arm as I fold toward the floor. My thighs feel the strain, and I give in, my head falling forward and my shoulders going loose. When Crispin’s satisfied with my position, he lets go of my chest and ties the rope off. It’s only then that he grasps the thin strands trailing from my hair and tugs until they’re wound around a small eyebolt in the floor. I’m completely immobilized.

He won’t be able to leave me like this for long—the strain on my muscles is already starting to tire me—but he doesn’t need to. Every last molecule of thought is focused on the predicament he’s put me in and what he might do to me. I’m hoping the answer is touch me, fucking
touch
me, and I’m not disappointed.

“You’re so pretty all bound up like this, kitten.”

He runs his hands from my forcibly spread ankles, up my legs, and over my hips to my stomach and my ribcage, coming to rest at my breasts where he fondles and squeezes, tweaks and pinches my nipples. I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. With my hair bound tightly, any movement causes a yank at my scalp. Devilish man.

After a few minutes of Crispin toying with me, my breath comes short, and I’m whimpering with desire. His hands wander back to my waist before slipping to the insides of my thighs. He runs a finger along my labia and sighs.

“You’re so wet. You love this, don’t you? Being completely at my mercy?”

I squeak as two fingers find their way inside me, and Cris winds his arm around my hips so the thrusting motion doesn’t put any more strain on my shoulders. Keeping me pinned, he drives his fingers into me over and over, occasionally slicking a thumb over my throbbing clit.

“What are you thinking about?”

His question startles me. Nothing. I’m not thinking of anything. I’m not parsing the data being flung at me. My mind isn’t analyzing the flood of sensations. It’s happening, and I have to accept it, like a sensual tide coming in. There’s nothing for it. Who’s done that for me?