Personal Geography (29 page)

No, stop it, India. If Crispin ever did something so sweet, you’d bite his head off
.

*

“Why is it
you only went to do a site visit after managing the authority for four months?”

I’m sweating. I don’t sweat. “It’s not standard procedure to—”

“You think I give a fuck about standard procedure?”

“I think you should. It’s your office that wrote it, and following it is where our liability rests. If it’s broken, fucking fix it. Don’t blame it on me.”

I’ve always thought hazel was a muddled color for eyes. My green one’s been my favorite since I was a kid, seeming more confident of its place in the world versus the wishy-washy, can’t-pick-green-or-brown of hazel. But I might have to rethink that because Slade Lewis is staring me down with indecisive eyes—but the choices are to throttle me or throw me to the ground by my hair and have his way with me. The feeling is mutual.

“India!”

Right. I might be allowed to pepper my heart-to-hearts with Jack with expletives, but it’s probably a bad idea with Mr. Lewis.

“She’s not wrong,” Constance says in the meekest voice I’ve ever heard out of her mouth. “If we’d like site inspections to be part of standard receivership procedure—”

Slade holds up a hand, and Constance goes silent.

“I’m holding you responsible, Ms. Burke. You should’ve been more on top of this, and if your firm can’t handle it, we’ll find someone who can. God knows we pay you enough to do more than a half-assed job. Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you people wear. What is that—Prada? You’re going to get us crucified.”

I’m impressed he seems to know his way around haute couture, but not so well he doesn’t recognize the cut of my black skirt suit as being from five years ago. And there’s no way to defend myself. Poor little rich girl. My head is spinning from his dressing-down, which is twenty minutes in.

Jack clears his throat. “If Ms. Burke is your problem, I’ll take her off the project.”

What
? Rage and embarrassment flood through me in equal measure.
He can’t do that.

“I thought you said she’s the best you’ve got.”

“She is.”

“Then you’ve got bigger problems than this project, Mr. Valentine,” Slade grinds out before turning back to me. “As have you. Your work has been sloppy, late, and some of it is downright wrong. You have a reputation, and I’ve been extremely disappointed to see you haven’t earned it at all. Do you skate by on your looks? Because I’ve got to tell you, those don’t impress me much either.”

“Slade!” gasps Constance.

This is unbelievable. But something clicks. I know this guy. Not Slade Lewis specifically, but I know his type. Hell, I’ve fucked his type. Guys who get off not on embarrassing women—a little embarrassment gets me going as much as the next submissive—but
humiliating
women. That’s what he’s doing. Publicly. He’s enjoying himself, and he’s not going to stop until I’m in tears.

If I saw this scene going down at a club, I’d shrug. It’s not my kink, but I’d know that both parties had consented and were having a damn good time. And if they weren’t, a single word would bring the whole thing to a halt.

But this isn’t a play party. There’s no safeword and no dungeon monitor or solicitous host to throw him out on his ass. He’s not following the rules, and it’s not okay. Would it still get him off if this were negotiated and boundaries had been agreed upon?

If so…god, Slade. Let me show you a world where you could find a yin to your yang. They’d be thrilled to have you. If not, then you’re just a raging asshole who should be dropped in shark-infested waters with a chum bucket for a chaser.

I don’t have the capacity to dissect Slade’s psychology any further because all my energy is being used to withstand his tirade. He continues to berate me, picking on every typo I’ve ever made, telling me Princeton called and wants their diploma back, insulting my work on unwinding this tangle of deceit—anything, everything he can think of. Constance is clued in and looks pissed. Jack seems to have no idea he’s watching sex. Not the sex I’d like to have, but it’s sure doing something for Slade. I’d bet money he’ll excuse himself for what will be a very brief visit to a private office to “make a phone call” before he and Constance head to Bakersfield.

In the meantime, his constant barrage of insults is grinding me down. I’m guessing my resistance to what surely would’ve had most people in a sniveling puddle of goo on the floor is only making this more satisfying for him. India Kittredge Burke, presenting a challenge since the day I was born.

He finally gets his way when he demands, “What are you, some kind of enchantress? A goddamn witch to have all these people falling all over you like you’re the Second Coming?”

I hate crying, and the fact I’m about to do it over news so old it’s ancient makes me even more pissed and out of control. Even replaying Hunter’s voice in my head isn’t helping. At first I hear him say I’ve beguiled him, but it morphs into every lecture he ever gave me, every time I disappointed him.

What I’d like to do is strip off my coat, get down on my knees with my forehead to the floor, and let Slade at my ass with the black leather belt yanked from the trousers of his finely tailored suit. Who is he to berate me for my fashion choices, anyway? He’s wearing fucking Burberry. But that’s part of it, right? It doesn’t matter how invalid his complaints. I still feel shitty and helpless, and tears are forming. I try to blink them back, but the constant criticism in front of Jack and Constance is too much. I swipe the first traitorous drop rolling down my cheek with the back of my hand.

Punish me any other way than this, you sadistic bastard.

Slade hurls a few more insults my way before declaring it’s time to head to Bakersfield—but he has a call to make first.

“Is there an office I can use?”

“102.” My eyes feel swollen from my efforts to resist crying, but I stare Slade down without blinking. “There’s no window.”

He smirks at my humorless joke and leaves. Constance goes after him, not meeting my eyes. She’ll call later, but I won’t get the message. My Blackberry will be sitting on my coffee table in my sorry excuse for an apartment while Crispin cleans up the mess Slade’s made. Jack tries to talk to me, but I close my eyes and tighten my jaw.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a plane to catch. We’ll talk Monday.”

*

When Crispin picks
me up at the airport, he can tell something’s not right.

“What happened, India?”

“Don’t, please.”

“Okay.” He studies me as he closes my door. He’s wary after the last time I was here, maybe trying to be respectful of the barriers I’ve thrown up around myself.

“You remember when I asked you to be strict with me?”

“Sure.”

“You need to make that look like a nursery rhyme.”

He doesn’t try to talk to me for the rest of the drive but glances over periodically. I’ve tucked my knees up on the seat, and my arms are crossed tight over my chest. I’m trying to hold myself together until we get to his house.

I take the contracts from my bag, flip to the second-to-last page, make a change to the fourth clause on each copy, and initial by it. When I shove them across the table without saying a word, he starts to fill them out but stops when he gets to the change. Instead of reading “Pain: The submissive consents to experiencing a moderate amount of pain at the hands of the Dominant,” it now says “Pain: The submissive consents to receiving
a moderate
an extreme amount of pain at the hands of the Dominant.”

“India—”

“Don’t, please.” I drop to my knees and clutch at his jeans. “Please, Crispin. I don’t ask you for much. Please.”

My face is buried in the worn denim, my fingers grip the fabric tight, and my bare knees grind into the wood floor. My hands have started shaking, and I can’t make them stop. It seems like forever before Crispin is smoothing the hair on the top of my head.

“Ten minutes.”

I nuzzle his thigh in gratitude before heading to my room.

*

Two hours later,
I’m tethered blindfolded to the cross, my back stinging with raised welts from a harsh flogger, my ass and thighs reddened from a firm hand-spanking, followed by a paddling. Now Crispin is imprinting parallel lines over all that with a cane. It’s not enough. He’s not hitting me as hard as he can, and I’m angry.

He cracks a seventh stripe on that most diabolical of sweet spots, the sensitive crease between behind and thigh, and then the cane hits the floor. Denim-clad thighs press into my heated, raw ass, and he lays his hands over mine, untethering my wrists.

“No,” I plead.

“I think you’ve had enough, pet.” His stubble whispers against the sensitive skin behind my ear, something I usually find comforting, but it’s doing nothing for me.

“No. It’s not enough. More. Please. I need more.”

“We’re done for now. You need to rest.”

My hands scramble at the wood of the cross, the loosened straps, holding myself to it even as he undoes the rest of my bondage.

“More!”

“I said no, Kit.” He’s broken out his best Dom voice, but it barely registers.

“What are you going to do, punish me?”

“I will when you’ve come to your senses, and it’s not going to be in a way you’ll enjoy.”

I’m free, and I feel like a loaded pinball poised to careen out of control. I want to slam up against things until I stop feeling anything at all, until I’m numb. I want him to hit me so hard I disappear, cease to exist. I’m still
feeling
far too much and it’s his fault.

“What are you, not man enough for this, Cris? Your pretty little sub tells you that you need to hit her harder, and you can’t get it up for that? What the fuck kind of Dom are you?”

I shove him in the chest as a parting shot, but he doesn’t budge. He’s like the goddamn Rock of Gibraltar, and his lack of reaction brings my fury to a head. I’m about to beat on his chest when he grabs my wrists in his inescapable hands.

“I’m man enough to know you’ve had enough. You’re hurt and you’re angry, and you think the way to make it go away is for me to beat the living shit out of you. I’m not going to. You’ve had enough.”

I struggle against him, but it’s useless. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so angry. I scream at him, saying god knows what kinds of horrible things, but he keeps a hold of my wrists, letting the atom bomb that is India Burke detonate in a sparsely populated area. I’m still railing at him when his soft voice interrupts me.

“I’ll make you a deal, mili.”

I stop and flash my eyes to his, wary or maybe even predatory. I can’t resist a bargain, and he’s made some cherries in the past.

“If you take a bath and you still want more, I’ll give it to you.”

A dangerous offer. Warm water has a way of sapping my resolve.

“If I say no?”

“I can do this all night, and I’ll put you on a plane tomorrow. Or maybe lock you in your room until your flight on Sunday. Haven’t quite decided yet.”

I glare at him. I’m tempted to say no to be contrary, but neither of the alternatives sound appealing in the least. He’d do it, too. Besides, the distraction of a deal has taken the wind out of the sails of my tantrum, and if I’m totally honest, my body has started to hurt. The residual sting of the flogger, the heated ache from the paddling, and the blistering pain from the cane are fresh and present now that I’ve reemerged from subspace.