Personal Geography (27 page)

“You, sir.”

“Then you’re going to come for me, aren’t you pet? Do it now.”

A few weak thrusts of my hips later, my orgasm overtakes me, and my limbs tremble and shudder in their bondage. My body feels pulled apart, the stretch and the raging against my restraints making me feel expanded and constricted all at once. His fingers dig into my hip, and I cry out, my release rolling on and on, my vision going spotty.

My muscles go limp, and the strain on my shoulders grows with the added weight. His arm stays around my hips, but the vague draw on my hair stops and my scalp is freed. Next he unclips my ankles from the spreader bar and urges my feet closer together. I should be able to take more of my own weight, but I’m wilting like an under-watered plant.

He kneels in front of me and wedges a shoulder between my chin and chest, rolling my head to the side. “You can lean on me, mili. I’m not going to let you fall.”

When I give up, give in, he releases the rope holding my hands high. I sink to my knees, landing in a limp straddle over his thighs. The blood rushes out of my head into my arms, and I try to blink away the dizziness and the ache. He lifts me, one arm bearing my weight and one holding me close, and brings me to the couch, setting me down so I’m facing the back. I rest my head on the top, absorbing the heat from leather that’s been warmed by the rays of sun spilling through the narrow windows.

His hands slip over my bound arms, caressing, inspecting. “Are you okay like this for a little while longer?”

I wiggle my fingers, and the tingling in them says I can take it. “A little, sir.”

His voice is tight as he mutters, “I don’t think this will take long.”

A glow of pleasure blooms on my cheeks, and a slow smile spreads across my face. I’m not the only one affected. His concentration’s been as focused on me as mine’s been on him, a black hole of hedonism and desire that’s sucked the air out of this room as we indulge in each other the way we like best.

There’s the unmistakable sound of a fly being unzipped before he lays his hands on either side of my head. His thighs brush mine before he thrusts into me, gliding easily through my wetness. The friction is delicious. The sensation of penetration, of being possessed, is heady. It raises the possibility that he might not be the only one to find satisfaction here. When he grips my throat, hard, possibility turns into inevitability.

“Please, sir. Oh, please.” My soft pleading is in no way indicative of my violent desperation. Luckily, he doesn’t seem offended.

“Again, pet. Come for me again.”

My climax isn’t the explosive release of earlier because I’ve been reduced to jelly already. There’s nothing left to shatter, only waves of pleasure rolling through. As my muscles contract around him, he comes with a few hard thrusts and lets go of my neck. There’s a quick pat of my hair before his weight is gone.

I rest complacently against the couch back as he unties me. My head is empty of anything except his touch and the slow loosening of the rope. He takes it off, knot by knot, strand by strand, with the same concentration with which he put it on. The ties he’d laid so carefully have tightened under my weight, and now he has to work them free. The focus and the attention he lavishes on me every time he pulls the long lengths back through the knots, careful not to pull too fast and burn my skin, simultaneously delight and mortify me. But no matter how I feel about it, I have to take it. So I do, until he’s removed it all and eases my arms to my sides.

He rubs the strained muscles and tells me to turn around, hefting me into his arms for the brief trip to the bed, where he lays me on my stomach and massages my limbs. His dexterous fingers dig into my sore muscles, helping blood find its way back to where it’s supposed to be. I moan softly as he works me over; he strokes and soothes me, laying kisses and sweet words as he goes until I’m reduced to a puddle of worn flesh. When he’s through, he says low in my ear, “Take a shower. Get dressed. I’ll see you on the porch when you’re ready.”

I was kind of hoping for a nap, but apparently, that’s not in the cards. His very well-played cards. God, he’s good. It’s been a while since I’ve been this worn out after playing. He knows how to exploit my weaknesses, and he does but not cruelly. Not in a mocking, I-told-you-so kind of way. It’s more like running your fingers over a fading bruise until you’re pressing really hard but it doesn’t hurt anymore. What were you so afraid of in the first place? It makes me feel safe. And strong.

I make myself a cup of tea on the way back through the house, then pad barefoot out to the porch where he’s waiting for me. He showered, too; his hair’s still damp. He’s pulled on jeans and yet another T-shirt from a surf competition. Does the man have an endless supply? He has been surfing for thirty-two years, longer than I’ve been alive.

I settle myself into a cushy chair and draw up my legs, resting my still-too-hot tea on my thigh.

“Did you ever talk to Hunter again?”

If I’d thought Crispin was going to ease me back into this, I was mistaken. I can’t blame him for diving in, though. I might’ve weaseled my way out of finishing this…unpleasantness. So, though I twist my mouth up and blow a sigh out my nose, I answer.

“Yes. While I was with Rey. I called him the next afternoon. He answered the phone like nothing had happened. Called me baby. I couldn’t believe it. The fucker didn’t even pretend to be surprised. I swore at him, and he started tallying my punishment.”

Ten strokes for asking him what the fuck he was thinking and ten more after he’d asked me if I’d care to ask him again. I had, with emphasis on the
fuck
. Hunter didn’t approve of foul language. He rarely swore himself, thought it was gauche, and he wanted me to act like a lady. As I describe the call, Crispin’s jaw goes rigid. He doesn’t punish me for that sort of thing. I think he likes my dirty mouth.

“I asked him how he could do that to me, and he said, ‘I had a problem and I solved it.’”

“What the fuck was his problem?”

Crispin’s rage is bubbling out of his ears. I think if he knew where to find Hunter, Hunter would be a dead man by morning. Or at least a sorry one. The idea of the two of them facing off entertains me in a sick way. Crispin would have a couple inches and about twenty pounds on Hunter, though they’re both in good shape. I’d bet on Crispin in a fight, obviously, but I’m not sure who’d win. Hunter would be cool and dispassionate, probably have some unfair advantage I can’t fathom, whereas Crispin would be all fervency and bloodlust.

But Hunter wouldn’t fight for me. Not anymore. I have no doubt he wouldn’t have hesitated when I was his, but I’m not now. Haven’t been for years, and I doubt he thinks fondly of me, if he thinks of me at all.

“His problem was that I wanted to get a job.”

Crispin’s rage fizzles into confusion. “A job?”

“Yeah. I was going to be finishing school in a year, and Hunter wanted to know what I planned to do after I graduated. He hadn’t been thrilled when I decided to go to grad school and law school, but he hadn’t tried to talk me out of it. It reflected well on him that I was so educated. But he’d had enough. He wanted me to be all his, all the time. Twenty-four-seven, TPE.”

He’d asked for it before, many times, and I’d always said no. Would have continued to say no. I’d refused him other things, and he’d accepted my limits—with grace, even. No sharps, no breath play, no playing with other people if I wasn’t there. I trusted him to respect my denials. I was fine with him asking as many times as he wanted to, needed to, as long as, at the end of the day, my answer was what mattered most.

“And you didn’t want that.”

I stare into my mug, the cooled tea the color of putty because I take it with milk. I could say no. That’s what Crispin wants me to say, what he expects. He didn’t phrase it as a question because he can’t imagine me being anything other than what I am with him, but I wasn’t always like this.

“Sometimes it seemed like a good idea. To not have anything to worry about. To have no responsibilities. To drown out the chaos in my head.”

I drag my eyes up to his, fearing what I’ll see. Pity or disgust are both possibilities, and I steel myself for either one. But instead I get a patient, cautious nod. “I know that’s what you like about it.”

Yeah, that, and the incredible amount of sensation another person can inflict on my body, whether pain or ecstasy. Preferably a mix of both. “Anyway, I said no. He offered to let me get another degree. He’d even gotten catalogues for some programs he deemed appropriate. And I still said no. I knew he was pissed, but I thought he’d get over it. Like when I got my law degree and my master’s. I miscalculated.”

“You didn’t miscalculate. The guy’s a fucking psychopath.”

He puts verbal air quotes around “miscalculate.” Coupled with his earnest exasperation and outrage, it warms me. I think sociopath is closer to the truth, but I won’t argue semantics. “He thought he’d back me into a corner, and I’d give in.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” A burst of pride and a tiny speck of regret fill my ribcage. “I told him I wanted out of our contract. He said I could have it, but he reminded me there was a clause that stipulated it had to be broken in person. So a few days later, I showed up at his house with Rey.

“Hunter had my things ready to go, boxed up by the door, but he invited us in like we were there for a cocktail party. And it made me want so badly to go back to the way things were, to pretend nothing happened and be led down the path Hunter paved for me. It was Rey who kept me anchored to reality, to do what I needed to do. If he hadn’t been there…”

If Rey hadn’t been there, I’d probably be with Hunter right now. On a Friday evening? Depending on the company, I’d either be on my knees at his side, being fed bites from his plate in exquisite submissive silence, or I’d be discussing the latest Dave Eggers over cocktails. A thrill of want runs through me. To be back in that house, under Hunter’s iron hand, always knowing what was expected and the consequences if I didn’t make the grade—it was so fucking simple.

The temptation to give in was real, despite the fact that he’d mangled my life beyond repair. Maybe
because
he had. That’s what made Hunter so dangerous. And so goddamn good. “Anyway, I’m glad he was there.”

“Me, too.”

Crispin’s soft words yank me back to the present and wedge a crowbar under the bands of metal crushing my insides, loosening it enough for me to catch a breath.
Jesus, Burke, get your shit together. This happened a lifetime ago. Read the fucking script. Make it entertainment.
I look into his earnest eyes and crack a smile.

“Hunter said he still wanted me, and when I said, ‘Not in a way I’m willing to give you,’ he lost it. Called me names. I think my favorite was ‘obdurate cunt.’ I kind of want to put that on my business cards. It’s a good one, right?”

Crispin doesn’t bite down on my bleak humor, but I didn’t think he would. I’ve dragged him too far down into the muck to propel him out with a cheap trick. “After Hunter calmed down some, Rey left us alone.”

“He left you alone with that—”

“I asked him to. I needed to know I could walk away myself.”

And part of me—the part that hadn’t had enough time or distance to disentangle myself from the treacherous web Hunter had woven—had still been loyal to him. Felt I owed him. Exhibit A: our contract. Sending those pictures had to have shredded that precious agreement, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to disregard it. It had been carved into my body and mind for so long that, despite his betrayal, I couldn’t completely let go of the urge to honor the rules we’d established. What was another few minutes in the scheme of six years?

“Did Hunter apologize?”

I shake my head and huff a laugh. “No. I didn’t expect him to, nor did I want him to. It wouldn’t have been sincere. The only thing he was sorry about was that things didn’t work out the way he’d planned. The way he was so fucking sure things were going to go. So I kneeled with my head in his lap for a few more minutes and then I left. That’s the last time I saw him. He never tried to contact me again. Rey still gets invites for his parties. He’s gone a couple times when he’s been in town.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Don’t be mad at Rey. I told him he should go. It’s too important for his East Coast contacts to not. Hunter may be a world-class asshole, but he also knows a lot of people. He wouldn’t ask Rey about me. He acts like I never existed. Really. Besides, someone needs to keep an eye out for his new girl.”

Rey had agonized over that decision. His first instinct had been to burn Hunter to the ground, rat him out to everyone, get him banned from the scene, but a few things had changed his mind, the first being that I didn’t want my story told. It was over, and I didn’t want anyone knowing what had happened. The other thing was Rey’s fear that, if Hunter had been so dangerous operating in the relative light of the community, what might he be like in darkness? I shudder to think.

I’m sure Rey made it clear to Hunter that he was effectively on probation and another incident would lead to dire consequences. If Rey was a power player when we met ten years ago, he’s a force of nature now. I’m not completely familiar with his sphere of influence, nor do I want to be, but Hunter is smart enough to understand the cost should he piss Rey off again.

Crispin is still fuming about Rey despite my reassurances. He looks like he might boil over but turns it down to a simmer. I wait for him to cool a little further before I ask, “Anything else you want to know?”

I pray for him to not press me further about Hunter. I’ve been candid, more forthcoming than I have been with anyone else, save Rey. But it’s possible I’ve left something important out. Something he wouldn’t think to ask.

Hunter had justified his actions by claiming I wasn’t fit to be out in the world by myself, that he was doing me a favor by taking the choice away from me. He’d said I was too stubborn to see the truth of it, but I needed him because, at my core, I was a terrified little girl with absolutely no common sense or survival instinct. Thinking about it sends the contents of my stomach into a riot. Not because of the fallout, though I’m still dealing with the consequences. It’s really the idea that he played this game, lived this life, with someone he didn’t believe could truly give consent. That’s just flat-out wrong.