Personal Geography (9 page)

He steps to the far end of the table, and my mouth goes dry. He wants me. It’s written all over his face.
The feeling is mutual, Cris.
I do my best to not squirm as he studies me because I’m aching for his hands. After what seems like forever and a day, he places the heel of one hand onto my mound and presses, spreading his fingers over my low belly. Fuck that feels good. He’s such a tease, but his torture doesn’t last long. A finger from his other hand slips inside of me. I press my head back into the table but don’t make a sound.

“You weren’t lying. You were enjoying yourself.”

His finger is entering and retreating at a pace designed to be tempting, not satisfying. I’m trying to temper my reaction to him, knowing I’m not going to get any satisfaction yet. He’s making it challenging at best, especially when two fingers enter me. I sigh in pleasure, and I’m distracted enough that I’m startled when he starts to talk again.

“While I’d like to forgo your punishment altogether and go straight to fucking you, I don’t want to spoil you. I’m curious. How do you think you should be punished?”

“However you’d like, sir.” That’s obvious. But instead of the, “Very good, pet,” I’m expecting, I get a light slap between my widely spread legs that makes me jump. The contact with my clit isn’t unwelcome and I’ve been spanked this way before, but it’s a surprise.

“Don’t be trite with me. I don’t like it. You might’ve gotten away with that with someone else, but I expect a real answer. And you’ll stay still, otherwise I’ll restrain your legs as well. Do you need to be strapped down or can you behave for me?”

“I’ll behave, sir.”

“That’s right. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I’m your good girl.” I whimper as he slips his fingers in and out of me in that maddening rhythm, and I clench around him.

“Don’t even think about it. You’ll be sorry. Now, let’s talk about your punishment.”

Oh my god.
Is he going to make me talk about punishment while he’s still doing this? I’m going to expire. And by expire, I mean come. Hard. Without permission.
Fuck.

“I think caning’s a little harsh for a first offense. Would you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ditto for whipping.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the crop seems a little fussy. I’d like to work you over with that nice and slow, and I don’t want to waste time right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s making me crazy. With every option he dismisses, a picture runs through my head of him doing exactly that. For the love of all that is holy, this man is absolutely maddening, and I want him. Badly.

“I’d love to flog you, make you pink up from head to toe, but that I want to savor,” he muses, dragging a groan from me at the thought—I bet Cris is handy with a flogger—and I’m greeted by another slap between my thighs. “Quiet. I’m trying to concentrate.”

I tug at my wrists.
Me, too, Cris, me, too.
At least he doesn’t threaten me. It was more of a passing reminder.

“Paddling?”

My back arches at the suggestion. There’s very little in this world as satisfying as smooth wood or a plane of leather making diffuse contact with my ass over and over again. If it’s measured and not too, too hard, I could be paddled for hours. God, I love a good paddling.

“You’d like that?”

I want to say no. Not because I’m embarrassed, but because I think he’ll do something else if he thinks I’ll enjoy it too much. But I don’t want to be punished for lying.
That
I could see him caning me for.

“Yes, sir.”

“Better than a spanking?”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s too much variability in hand spanking, too much inconsistency. I like the predictability of the paddle. Plus, it’s challenging for Doms to hit me as hard as I like to be hit with a bare hand. Yes, paddling is preferable to spanking, and I wonder what he’s going to do with this information.

He nods thoughtfully, stroking in and out of me. I have to admire the man’s concentration. This is multitasking at its finest. I do wonder what’s taking him so long. He’s not indecisive, and he’s already narrowed the options. The only thing I can think of is that he’s playing the long game, like a chess player planning out his next half-dozen moves. I like the idea of Cris meditating on all the things he’d like to do to me in the future while driving me crazy in the present.

“I think you’ve had enough. Don’t want you earning another punishment already. Knees together, legs down.”

He withdraws his hands, and I close my legs and slide my feet over the wood until the edge of the table is at the back of my knees as he untethers me. He leaves the cuffs on my wrists and slides one hand under my back and another under the base of my skull to help me sit up. I find myself chest-to-bare-chest with him. Appealing is not going to cut it. I find Cris Ardmore…delectable.

The nearly irresistible urge to kiss him overwhelms me. I want his lips on mine, his tongue in my mouth, my hands in his hair. I want him to hold me tight against him and not let go.

This is disturbing.

I’m not unaccustomed to urges, oh no, but the urge to kiss… This is new. India Kittredge Burke doesn’t want to
kiss
. Children kiss, vanilla lovers kiss, people who don’t know any better
kiss
. I like to fuck. I like to be hit. I like to have unspeakable things done to me. What the hell?

Cris tips his head, and his brows pinch in curiosity. “Go ahead. You can touch me.”

I don’t hesitate. I grip his biceps before sliding my hands over his shoulders, his neck, and into his curly, dark hair, knotting my fingers into fists and pulling his face to mine. And when I kiss him… Yes, this is what I was after. He pulls me into him by my hair, and it’s as delicious as I imagined it to be. It’s possible I’ve underestimated kissing, but I don’t think that’s it. It’s that I’ve never been kissed like this.

We kiss for a while, and I don’t get bored. Every taste of him is delicious, every touch inflaming, setting off sparks in my core. I could do this forever. I’m so consumed by him that when he pulls away, I realize I’ve barely been breathing. That’s what this lightheadedness is from, right? Right?

“You like to be kissed?” Suspicion colors his voice.

“Only by you, sir.”

I expect a pinch or a slap or a tug at my hair for being pat, even though I’m not—not this time—but he seems to understand. He slides me off the table and leads me over to the couch, sitting in the center and pulling me next to him.

“Over my lap.”

I turn and drape myself over his legs, one below my breasts, the other at the juncture of my hips and thighs. I fold my arms to rest my head on and settle. He’s stroking my back and my ass, and I start to purr. This is familiar, and the pleasure I take in it isn’t uncomfortable. Not like the kissing. Jesus.

“Tell me why you’re going to get a spanking.”

“For not being quiet like I was told, sir.”

“Is that good behavior?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you deserve to be punished?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Every time you make noise without permission, this is what’s going to happen. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir,” I confirm, and I’m barely able to keep still. He’s going to make an example of me, and I can’t wait.

“You don’t need to be quiet, but can you keep still for this?”

“Yes, sir.”

I’m disappointed, not surprised, when the first blow lands.
That’s it?
But when he gets no response, the next one is harder. And again. He works up steadily, but then he stops, a warm hand resting on my low back and his voice quiet in my ear.

“Are you okay, Kit?”

I’m startled he’s used my name, but other than that, I’m fine. I nod.

“Are you sure?”

Oh, no. This happened once before. Rey took a chance, and the guy I ended up with was reluctant to hit me. I wanted to take him over my knee and show him how it’s done, and I so rarely get the urge to top. Ugh. And everything had been going so well. While I wouldn’t normally offer anything other than a “yes, sir,” I hate the idea that things are about to go downhill. Cris doesn’t seem prissy, just cautious.

“It would be…difficult for you to hit me too hard. Sir.”

There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s disturbed by this. Lots of guys are, but not most Doms. As long as everyone’s signed on the dotted line, we’re usually good to go. Hardcore sadists aren’t really my bag, but a little further along the spectrum you find my sweet spot: Dominants who like to tell me what to do and have enough of a sadistic streak to enjoy administering a good beating. I’m hoping Cris is located somewhere in the latter category.

When he strikes again, he forces a sound out of me: a small grunt. Now we’re talking. It’s followed by one that’s still harder and another. He’s thorough, not skimping on time, effort, or force until he reaches a plateau I’m okay with—measured, consistent, nearly hard enough. Good coverage, too, though there’s a spot he returns to over and over, hitting forcefully and frequently enough I’m guessing he’ll leave a mark. Means to leave a mark. It’s not a paddling, which I’ve got my fingers crossed he’s saving for later, but it’s satisfying.

He starts to pause between strokes, rubbing me, and I know we’re nearing the end. I give Cris a B+ on spanking.

“Nicely handled. I like my pets to be able to take a solid spanking. I’m pleased with you. Now spread your legs.”

A thrill runs through me, splitting the warm glow of his praise. I know what he’s going to find. He’s going to be even more pleased with me. I’m rewarded with a noise low in his throat as he slips two fingers inside me.

“You’re a dream come true.” I push my hips back to meet him. “That’s right, you’ve been a good girl. You deserve a reward. Go on, I want to see you come.”

I thrust back, his hand a solid backstop, his thigh providing a counterpoint of pressure as I rock. It only takes a couple minutes before I’m panting.

“That’s right, give it up. Show me what a good girl you are and come for me.”

His words are my undoing, and I come hard around his fingers. I moan wordlessly and continue my motions—erratic, in time with the aftershocks running through me—until I’ve wrung every last bit out of my orgasm. I’m left breathing heavily, collapsed over his lap with his fingers still inside me. Oh, that was good. For a first time especially? So good.

‡

I
’m draped across
Cris’s lap in a state of pleasant oblivion. His thighs are thick, warm, and muscular under my torso. I’m so very comfortable. Especially when he withdraws his fingers and starts to stroke my stinging ass, occasionally tweaking his favorite spot. I’m going to be bruised. Not your typical souvenir from a Hawaiian getaway, but one I’ll enjoy.

“And you like the paddle better?” His tone is light with amusement.

“Yes, sir,” I confirm with a modest nod.

“I’m a lucky man.” He runs his hand over my cheeks, which are likely a ripe shade of watermelon, and admires the canvas of my body he’s colored. He strokes me in silence for a few more minutes as my eyes close and my breath evens out. I might take a catnap.

“I think you’d better let Mr. St. James know you’re okay before you fall asleep.”

“Yes, sir.” He’s right. It’s been several hours since Matty’s left, and I owe him a text. I start to push up, but I’m met with resistance between my shoulder blades.

“You don’t need to get up. I’ll get your phone if you don’t mind me in your room. You can rest. I’m not finished with you, not by a long shot.”

That rouses me a bit, but not enough to refuse his offer. “Please, sir. It’s on the desk. Thank you.”

He lifts my hips to slide out from under my legs, and takes his shirt off, draping it over the arm of the couch. I’d like to take the worn fabric between my fingers and hold onto it until he gets back, but I won’t. Instead, I watch him walk away. His back is beautiful, smooth muscles rolling under tanned skin as he heads toward the door. I’ll have to remember to have that under my fingertips the next time we kiss instead of putting my hands in his hair. I drowse on the couch while he’s gone, daydreaming of all the places I’d like to touch him.

He can’t just be getting my phone. He’s gone for almost twenty minutes before the door opens. Cris sets a wooden bowl on the ottoman in front of me before going into the bathroom and returning with two glasses of water.

“Sit up.”

I tuck my legs up and sit to one side of the couch. He hands me my phone, warm from his pocket, and nudges the ottoman closer. I text Matty:

Sea bass.

And just as quickly as it sends, I delete the record, laying the phone next to the bowl. Cris sits close to me and hands me a glass I sip.

“More?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

He takes my glass, sets it down with his, and beckons. “In my lap.”

I climb onto him and nestle in, laying my head on his shoulder and a hand on his bare, flat stomach. I wait for him to scold me for touching, but he doesn’t, so I rest my hand more heavily.

“I brought you a treat.”

“Another one?” My sass is rewarded with a light slap to my behind. I smile, pleased. He doesn’t mind a little banter.