Intimate Geography Page 5

A dark brow ticks up, but he holds his tongue. Not that he’s not projecting a smug I-told-you-so out of every pore. Goddammit, Rey, you’re annoying sometimes. I scowl as I pick up my cell and make my way toward my bedroom, slamming the door in a half-sarcastic tantrum. Rey’s laugh echoes from down the hall, and I smile to myself as I dial.

  “Hello?”

  A tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying eases when I hear Crispin’s voice. We’ve been apart for nearly twenty-four hours after spending weeks in near-constant contact. I flop onto my bed to catch up, wishing I were lying next to him instead of twenty-six hundred miles away.

  Chapter Five

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  When I get back to Kona, Vera is gone. For good. Having her around cramped our style—and not just my back from the too-firm mattress in the studio where I’d been sleeping before the anomaly. That’s how I’ve decided to think of the night I slept in Crispin’s bed. While his expression darkens when I put my things in my room upon my arrival, he doesn’t seem inclined to argue.

  I’ve been acting as the lady of the house for far too long, and I’m happy to be back to the role I’m supposed to play: sometime-companion, sometime-submissive. I play the companion over lunch, but I keep catching Crispin’s gaze and we’re both squirming in our seats. Not that there was no fooling around while I was here last, but it feels like it’s been forever.

  I show off my cleavage while we take our places, brushing against him whenever I get the chance. Though it’s modest contact compared to our usual activities, we’re so deprived this pathetic excuse for foreplay has us both on fire. While I wash up, Crispin makes his way to the sitting area and I’m disappointed. Surely if he meant to play, he’d instruct me to meet him in the studio?

  When I’m finished, I kneel before him, eyes cast down, hands clasped behind my back. I wait for his acknowledgement, but nothing comes. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. It wouldn’t be surprising. Despite what he’d have me believe, his recovery has been exhausting.

  I wait a while longer with no movement from him before I flick my eyes up to check. I’m not met with a sleeping Crispin, easy and slack in rest. Instead, his flinty blue eyes admonish me.

  “Bad girl. Are you so out of practice?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  I’ve blinked my gaze back to the floor, and my heart beats faster. Perhaps we are going to play.

  “It’s my fault. I haven’t been able to discipline you like you need. But I’m feeling better and you’d do well to be on your best behavior from here on out. Are we understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoping he won’t notice, I squeeze my clasped hands, an escape valve for the arousal that’s flooded me.

  Crispin traces my collarbone, eliciting a shiver. I’m starving for his touch, aching for more than a fingertip. But he’ll take his time, torture me. He grazes the notch on my sternum and continues down to the gap in my shirt. I’d worn it hoping to provoke a response, but I’m wondering if that was wise. The front is held together by only a dozen hook-and-eye closures. He crooks a finger around the first one and tugs.

  “You’ve been teasing me since you got here, pet. These clothes…”

  My skirt’s not uncharacteristically short. When I’m standing. Sitting back on my heels, it’s slid most of the way up my thighs and barely leaves me decent. As for the shirt, I’d debated how many hooks to leave undone, going back and forth on the top one at least four times in the mirror. He unfastens it, revealing another inch of my décolletage.

  “And this mouth…” He rubs his thumb across my bottom lip, his palm cupping my chin. My body heats up, warmed and supple for him to exert his will on. “I’ve been thinking about your mouth all week.”

  The concentration with which he’s regarding me is unbearably hot. Imagining that concentration on other areas makes desire spread like wildfire through my whole body. I want him with every last particle of me.

  My tongue darts out to lick his thumb, and he grips my chin. I’m expecting him to scold me—that’s a rookie offense—but I’m desperate for him and he is for me. He lets my illicit stroke pass without punishment. This time. But when I do it again, made bold by his neglect, he seizes the opportunity.

  “So desperate for me in your mouth, are you, kitten?”

  “Yes, sir.” It comes out as a whimper. From these amateur touches, I’m soaked for him.

  “Then open up.”

  His thumb pushes between my lips, and I lave him with my tongue, savoring the taste. I’ve missed him, missed this, and I pretend it’s something else I’m fellating, knowing he’s imagining the same thing.

  He withdraws his thumb, and I whine in protest.

  “Stand up, skirt off, and lie down on the coffee table on your back.”

  I strip off my skirt, not bothering to be sexy about it; it’s a utility strip. While I do, he edges the table closer to where he’s sitting. I hesitate because he’s not told me which way to lie.

  “Head at the far end.”

  I love that he can read my cues of confusion—and other things—and meets my needs. Or not, sadistic sonofabitch. He makes his calls using the information he’s gathered, and if I’m uncomfortable, it’s because I’m meant to be, not because he doesn’t know any better. The thought sends desire coursing through my nerves. The attentiveness. Dear god, the attentiveness.

  I lie down as he’s instructed, knees bent to keep my feet on the smooth wood surface and eyes gazing up to the herringbone pattern of the wooden ceiling. What is he planning?

  “Spread your legs, pet.”

  I grip the outsides of the coffee table and slide my feet to the borders, bracing myself, trying not to arch my back. He makes me lie there for long moments, my breath heavy. Though my eyes are glued to the ceiling, I can feel his gaze through my clothes.

  When he grasps my ankles, I gasp at the touch. So modest, yet so hot. What am I, some Victorian lady to be scandalized by baring an ankle? Hardly. I’m spread out on top of a coffee table in the middle of a house made of glass. I’m not a huge one for exhibitionism, but on occasion, it can be a turn-on. The illusion of being exposed without the chance of discovery trips a circuit, and I moan, my eyes slipping to his.

  A smile creeps over Crispin’s face, one less predatory than I usually get when we’re playing—the earnest pleasure he’s taking from being able to light me up this way shines through.

  “You’ve missed me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  His hands have been sliding up my calves, fingers grazing the backs of my knees in a caress that makes me shiver, and continue up my thighs. He hooks thumbs through the sides of my underwear and tugs. I lift my hips to do my part, and he slides the lace down the skin he’s touched.

  Dipping a finger inside me, his eyes close for a moment as he slips in unimpeded. He adds a second, stroking, searching for the spot that’s going to drive me crazy. He finds it with his fingertips and teases me.

  “It’s been agony not being able to fuck you properly. I can’t wait to be able to tie you up and fuck you until you beg me to stop.”

  “Don’t stop. Please, sir.”

  “Oh, you’re not coming like this.”

  If I were stronger, the wood between my fingers would splinter. As it is, I’m white-knuckling the edges of the table so hard it hurts, and I press my head back so I won’t vault off the table and mount him.

  “Please?”

  “You’ve never been the begging type, pet. At least not this early in the game. You must be as desperate as I am.”

  “More, sir.”

  Withdrawing his fingers, he takes them into his mouth. “I’ve missed how you taste. I miss everything about you.”

  What I’m missing is his fingers inside of me and I protest their absence with a squeak.

  “Turn around.”

  I sit up and spin one-hundred-eighty degrees on the smooth surface, rearranging myself into a mirror image of how
I’d been lying before.

  “Good girl.”

  He strokes the underside of my chin and my neck, grasping me tight enough to assert control but not hard enough to cut off my air supply.

  When I’ve been put in my place, he releases me to unhook the eyelets halfway down my shirt. Something about being half-dressed is more wanton than being naked, and I pant as he spreads the fabric so my chest is exposed. He thumbs the lacey cups of my bra to where the underwire is, and my nipples harden from the exposure.

  “Touch yourself.”

  I blink into his grey-blue eyes and uncurl my stiff fingers from the edges of the table. I slide my hands up my hips, waist and ribcage to cup my breasts. They fit neatly into my palms, and I squeeze.

  “Show me how you like to be touched.”

  I like to be touched by him, but since he’s asked for a performance, I’ll give him one. I circle my hard nipples with my thumbs before taking them between my fingers and pinching. I roll them between thumb and forefinger, twisting up to the edge where pleasure meets pain, not slacking.

  He’s sat back to enjoy the spectacle, and I’ll make it well worth his effort. I tug and squeeze, trying to show him I remember his touch, how much I like what he does to me.

  “Enough.”

  I press my lips together in protest, willing myself to not make a sound. He cradles the nape of my neck and inches me over the edge of the coffee table so my head drops back.

  “Is this uncomfortable?”

  “No, sir.”

  The blood is rushing into the crown of my head. I wouldn’t be able to do this for hours, but for what I think he has in mind, I should be fine.

  “You’ll tell me the second it hurts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stands up and shucks his shirt and jeans. The last is a little awkward, but it’s the sexiest sight I’ve seen in a long time, despite the bandages wrapped around his thigh and the difficulty.

  He sits at the edge of the chair and takes himself in hand with a few rough strokes. My brain has to reorganize for the strange angle, but a weird possessiveness slides through me. I don’t want him touching himself. I want to do it. I want to be the one giving him pleasure. Mine. He lets go to drag the table a few inches closer, and I admire the strength of his arms, the swell of his biceps as his muscles work, the ease with which he controls my movements.

  “Open.”

  I open my mouth and my throat and close my eyes, sighing when he directs himself between my lips. Oh, yes.

  He thrusts in and out; the movement and the taste of him are familiar, but the feeling is novel. It’s easier to take him deep like this; my throat’s open in a way it can’t be when I’m on my knees. He keeps the back of my neck cradled in one hand as he fucks my face. Cupping my breast with his other hand, he performs the same motions I had earlier, but this feels a million times better. His hands. His.

  He drops his hold on my breast and releases my fingers from the edge of the table, urging them over my hip to the apex of my thighs.

  “Get yourself off. I want to see you come with me in your mouth.”

  I hum a groan around him and dip my finger in my own wetness before touching my clit. I rub in circles as he pinches and twists a nipple before switching to the other side.

  Slipping a finger inside myself, I moan again, wishing it were Crispin inside me. One of my slim fingers is not going to cut it so I add another, thrusting with the heel of my hand bumping against my clit. The stimulation all over my body is overwhelming. It’s not long before I feel my orgasm building, heat balling low and tight in my belly. My hips thrust to meet my fingers’ forays, and Crispin urges, “One more.”

  I slide a third finger inside and that’s enough. He knew it would be enough. “Go ahead, pet. Come for me.”

  My body pulses around my fingers in spasms of pleasure, the strong muscles clenching. It must feel so good to Crispin when I squeeze around him this way. I hum low in my throat, and the vibration takes him over the edge. His grip on the back of my head tightens. “I’m going to come.”

  I know. His body is almost as familiar to me as my own. He’s not the only one who gathers corporeal details and compiles carnal footnotes. I don’t need words. The tightening of his muscles and the change in tempo of his movements gives him away every time. But I love to hear the strain in his voice when he tells me so, hear the power I have over him even while under his thumb.

  His release spills at the back of my throat, and I swallow, stroking him to the finish. When he’s sated, he withdraws, holding the back of my neck until I can inch forward on the table to have the support under my head. I collapse, spent, my limbs dangling off the too-small surface.

  “Come here.”

  I roll off the table, my bones barely able to support my weight, and crawl toward him, resting my head in his lap as I cling to his good leg. His arm drapes heavy around my shoulders, and his fingers clutch me tightly. A craving to be held, to be cradled in his lap floods me. But that’s not allowed because it would hurt him. Tears well in my eyes. I stifle them, not wanting him to know I ache for more. He’d feel helpless and inadequate, and he shouldn’t.

  But I hate wanting him, needing him. I can’t be a barnacle, so committed to something I can’t break free if there’s a sea change in his affection. And there could be. There’s nothing to stop him from leaving, from betraying me. Panic tightens my throat, and I push back, trying to come up for air.

  Concern deepens a crease between his brows. “Are you all right, mili?”

  Surely he can read the wild animal terror in my eyes. I almost wish he would. Then he’d be able to offer comfort, reassurances.

  Lull me into a false sense of security.

  “I…I remembered a report I need to send to Greg Wu. He’s going to be pissed if he doesn’t have it in his inbox tomorrow morning.”

  Wrinkles form under Crispin’s eyes as they narrow. It’s unlike me to forget something. Especially for work. Will he give me a pass for this or will he dig?

  “Is that the only thing bothering you?”

  “Yeah, of course. What else would it be?” I lift a shoulder in a serviceable imitation of a casual shrug and keep my eyes focused on his. I will not look away, I will not look away.

  “Okay.” He doubts me, but he’s choosing not to argue. I should be thankful. I’ve made it out alive without spilling my guts and without making myself more vulnerable, but part of me wishes he’d push harder, even though it hurts. Part of me is screaming, I’m terrified of loving you and you hurting me. I’m scared shitless of how much you mean to me, and I can’t stand the idea of having that taken away.

  I try not to think about Hunter, but I think of him now and hate him for all the things he took away from me. The money was bad enough and my family worse, but the very worst thing he took away was my ability to trust. I hate him for myself, but also for Crispin, who deserves to be loved so much better than this and by someone who’s not so unbearably fucked up.

  I lean my head on his knee and nuzzle his muscular thigh with my cheek, seeking the comfort of his touch even if I can’t bring myself to ask for the solace of his words. His fingers find their way to my hair, and he strokes and pets me while uncertainty, insecurity, and fear throw a rave in my head. I can’t sit here anymore.

  “I should…”

  “Of course. I’ll start dinner.”

  *

  I’m back behind my desk, somewhere I’m comfortable and confident, where the earth doesn’t sway beneath me with need and want. Greg Wu and I are hashing out some budget details, and for the first time, he’s pushing back against my suggestions, hard.

  “India, you can’t cut that much from the school district.”

  “You can do what you want, but you asked for my recommendations and that’s what they are. You know I like schools, and if I saw room somewhere else, I’d slash that instead. But you’ve dug yourself a pretty fucking deep hole and there are only so many ways to dig yourself out.”


  In truth, I’d grimaced and shaken my head when I’d included those recommendations in my report. Besides essential public safety—police force, fire department, emergency medical transport, and the like—I’d rather cut just about anything other than schools. But in this case, rolling back full-day kindergarten and cutting some after-school programs is an ugly but effective way to trim some money from the budget and doesn’t make the city uncompetitive with other metro regions they might be vying against for jobs.

  I’ve trimmed all the fat I could and some muscle from other line items. Any more and we’re looking at slicing into bone and that’s never a good idea, which I’ve been trying to explain for the past half-hour. A smashing sound translates through the telephone wire. Greg’s thrown something across his office. I hope it’s not the Lego model of Taliesin III he and one of his kids had built together. I loved that thing, had wanted to bring it home with me the first time I saw it.

  I wait, giving him some space to make up his mind. There have been a handful of times when he hasn’t done as I’ve advised. I’m getting the feeling this is going to be one of them.

  There’s a sigh, and I picture Greg at his desk, elbows on his old-school green blotter, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, glasses shoved halfway up his forehead and his thick black hair in spiky disarray. What is it with men and shoving their hands through their hair when they’re in distress? I’d end up with an afro that would block out the sun if I did that every time things weren’t going my way.

  “Do you have children?”

  A fist squeezes around my heart. I don’t usually answer personal questions from clients, but Greg’s earned a candid response. “I do not.”

  “I have three.”

  I know. I’ve seen their pictures on Greg’s desk. Freaking adorable monsters, too. If you like that kind of thing.

  “Joe and I decided that, while I have this job, our kids are going to the public schools. I won’t be hypocritical and try to tell the citizens I see at public meetings and run into at Safeway that the decisions I make that’ll affect their families aren’t going to have the same effect on mine.”