Personal Geography (22 page)

Whatever his intentions, it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes I’d wish for Hunter to be a regular boyfriend, someone who would take me to a movie, kiss me on a park bench, or be my date to my sister’s wedding. It would’ve been nice to be able to silence my mother when she berated me for the millionth time about why—despite my looks and my money and my smarts (in that order)—I couldn’t get a man to tolerate me. But for the most part, I was satisfied by what we had. Hunter had been a master of making deprivation feel like gratification.

Now Crispin wants me to meet his parents during some medical crisis? And tell them
what
about us? I don’t think so.

“Please?”

“Are you asking Kit or are you asking India?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it does.”

If he’s asking India, the answer is an unqualified no. If he’s asking Kit, it’d be yes. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’d do it. His eyes are boring into me. I want to crawl under the coffee table, but I stand my ground.

“Then never mind. Get your things. I’ll have to drop you off at the airport on my way.”

‡

I
n the two
weeks that follow, I have all kinds of time to think about my decision. Cris called Rey Sunday night to set up our next weekend, but he doesn’t call me. His phone silence teaches me that I’d gotten used to talking to him every week. More than that, I’d enjoyed it, looked forward to it. I miss it more than I could’ve imagined.

I’ve never seen Crispin angry before, but that’s what this is. He’s ripped. At me. A feeling I’m not used to sinks my stomach after Saturday passes with no contact. I’ve disappointed him, let him down, and not as my Dom. I’ve done that before and paid the price, but how does one get punished for this? Will I even get the chance to find out? Everything’s all arranged for next weekend, but maybe calling Rey was just a conditioned response. Maybe he’s had a chance to reconsider.

When I get a call from Rey Thursday night, I’m almost certain that’s what he’ll say:
It’s off.
Instead, he tells me Cris has asked if I wouldn’t mind renting a car this time. That does not bode well. Not at all. I see it as a portent that he’s tired of me, that this will be the brush-off. And if that’s true, I don’t want to face it alone, so Matty comes instead. The uncharacteristically grey skies and heavy clouds when I get off the plane don’t do anything to allay my sense of dread.

It’s only when Cris is helping me out of the Jeep that I realize he’s not angry. He’s exhausted. His broad shoulders are slumped, and there are lines on his face I haven’t noticed before that aren’t from smiling. He didn’t call on Saturday because he didn’t have the time or the energy, not because he was mad. My heart aches for him, and I want so badly to do something, anything, for him. Though it’s breaking the rules, I pull the contracts from my bag, and we sign them on the porch before sending them with Matty. As he’s driving away, the foreboding clouds burst, and it starts to pour.

When we walk into the house, Crispin collapses onto the couch and pats his lap. I climb onto him, rest my head on his shoulder, and slip my arms around his neck. His arms come around me, and he grips my hip with his broad hand.

“Is your dad okay?”

“Yeah, he’s going to be fine. As fine as he ever is.”

“I’m glad.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

A silence stretches out until he breaks it. “You know what I’d like?”

“Tell me.”

“I’d like to take a cat to your back and then fuck you senseless.”

My eyes widen. Crispin hasn’t whipped me before. The price for emotional transgressions is steep. Not that I mind him taking it out on my body—it’ll make me feel better, too—but Rey would want me to make sure he’s under control before we start. “Are you still angry at me?”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry I snapped at you last time. It’s not for punishment. When shit like this happens…the only two things that make me feel like the world isn’t coming apart at the seams are fucking and riding big surf. And unless you want me to take my board out—”

“No!” I clutch at him. Surfing during a storm seems like a terrible idea. His overtaxed St. Michael’s medal doesn’t seem up to the task. “No, don’t. Please.”

“Fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not a threat. I’m not issuing an ultimatum. Don’t tell me yes because you’re afraid of what else I might do. I won’t go out, I promise.” His reassurances comfort me, as do his strong arms holding me close. I loosen my hold to lean back and look in his eyes.

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t. It’s rule number one.”

“Rule number one?”

“Rey’s rule number one: You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’d say he beat it into me, but that seems in poor taste.”

The corner of Crispin’s mouth twitches, and some of the tension I’ve been holding leaves my body.
There he is
. I kiss the hint of a smile in absent relief, but he’s quick to take my face in his hands and make it serious, his lips pressing into mine, his tongue working into my mouth. His hands leave my face to tug me into a straddle. We kiss this way for a minute, but I can sense his frustration in the way his fingers dig into my flesh. He needs more. Coming to his feet, he lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his torso. He starts toward the studio but stops dead in his tracks.

“Are you sure this is okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need some time? I know it can be hard.”

I shake my head no, but I appreciate the offer. I’ve gotten used to the buffer time our lunch dates provide. Doing without it won’t be easy, but at the moment, I feel like some sort of hybrid—Kindia?—and I’ll be all right. I nuzzle at him.

“I’m okay. Do whatever you need to do. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

I can’t imagine it would be, and Crispin will do more than a hack job patching up any physical or emotional damage he might inflict. I’ll be fine.

*

Crispin’s rough with
me, but not in a way I can’t handle. And he’s careful to work up to it. I’m more aware than I’d like to be—still a touch India when I’d like to be all Kit. I don’t sink into subspace where nothing much matters, but it’s easy to bear. For him. When he’s finished with the cat, he untethers me from the cross and helps me to the bed where I slither onto my stomach and rest. My mind is racing, but my body’s exhausted.

He keeps a hand on me as we lay there in silence, sorting our thoughts. I hope this has made him feel better, that taking his anguish and rage out on my back in the form of angry red lashes from a whip has been the cure for what ails him. At least for a little while. I understand feeling lost and helpless. I’m glad Crispin’s remedy is to control, strike, and dominate whereas mine is to yield, absorb, and submit. It’s not for everyone, but it works for us.

He strokes me—my neck, my hair, my face—and I get that familiar buzz of anticipation. My body is warm, supple, willing, eager. When his thumb slips by my mouth, I lick the pad. He takes my cue, broadening his attentions. He kisses my shoulder, sinks his teeth into my earlobe. I sigh. He slides my wrists to hip-level and urges me to tuck my knees underneath my chest, careful to avoid my abraded back but also to keep some skin-to-skin contact at all times. I like this habit of his.

The metallic swishing of a spreader bar being expanded cuts the quiet. He has me lift my hips and widen my knees before he attaches my wrists and ankles to the bar. I’m spread open and vulnerable, waiting and wanting, my back stinging and raw with the evidence of his need for me. I get a rush of satisfaction as he grabs my hips. Even that minor touch is laden with want.

“Okay?”

I nod, my eyes still closed. More than okay. He kneels behind me and readjusts his grip while he admires the marks he’s made, careful not to touch. He doesn’t bother with fingers; I’m wet and ready. There’s little resistance as he pushes in the first time before drawing back and slamming into me. The impact knocks a sound out of me, the ragged cry searing my throat. God, that feels good.

He doesn’t hold back, putting the full force of his body behind his thrusts. My cheek is rubbing hard against the soft sheet with no way to brace myself. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, and the feeling of being at his mercy heightens the sensations: my chest heavy against the bed, my wrists tugging against the unforgiving restraints, being penetrated over and over. When he grabs my hair, I’m done for.

“Do it, pet. Come for me now.”

I shudder and buck underneath him as best I can, but the cuffs anchored to the bar hold me fast. There’s no escape from my orgasm and no escape from him driving into me. He comes close behind me with an animal groan, emptying his angst and frustration into this pinpoint where he has absolute control.

When he’s rubbed out every last bit of his release, he pushes back from my elevated hips and unhooks the wrist cuffs from the bar, but leaves my ankles attached. We’re not done here.

*

A few hours
later, my head is so scrambled I’m not sure what I’d say if someone asked me my name. At long last, he’s removed the myriad restraints and toys he’s made liberal use of, and we’re lying on the four-poster together. He’s stroking my hair, and I’m seconds from sleep.

“C’mon, mili, I’m going to put you to bed.”

Mili
? What’s this? He’s never called me that before. I hope he’s not so fuck-stupid he thinks I’m someone else. That’s insulting.

“On your knees, Kit.”

No, he hasn’t forgotten. I drag myself up while he rolls off the bed and tugs on his jeans. He stands at the side of the bed and urges me against him. “Arms around my neck.”

He picks me up, and I lean heavily against him, my head resting on his shoulder while I wrap my legs around his waist. It’s nice to be carried this way—no pressure on my stiff back and so close to him, his gratitude and affection for me palpable as the warmth from his sun-kissed skin.

The trip to my room seems longer than usual, and by the time he lays me in my bed, I may as well be asleep. My senses are revived when he rubs salve into my back. I whimper, but he hushes and soothes me. After the first wave of discomfort, it’s not too bad. I drift off under his gentle attentions.

Hours later, I stir and something makes me blink my eyes open. I’m confused but not concerned to see Crispin sitting in the chair beside my bed. He’s freshly showered and fully clothed. He hasn’t been here the whole time. I’m about to speak, but he beats me to the punch.

“It’s all right. I came to check on you. Go back to sleep.”

This could be creepy, but it’s not. It’s reassuring. I blink a few times, but he doesn’t move. Just sits there like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be leaning back in his chair, watching me sleep in the middle of the night. His confidence and ease slow my brain. I close my eyes, and my head goes dark.

*