Page 14 of The Cartographer

That’s when I see him. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, bearing those gorgeous forearms, and his shaved head is gleaming in the light. When he raises his arms, I can see he’s sweat right through his shirt. Hopefully he’s boiled off some of the alcohol.

Travis excuses himself after a few minutes, and I sit there, watching Allie. He’s got a damn fine physique, and it’s a pleasure to watch him roll through some pretty sick dance moves with his partner. He must’ve switched rooms, because this music isn’t the heavy trance beat that had come through the phone earlier. It’s stuff that’s been getting radio play, mixed by Travis’s DJ.

I shouldn’t watch for long because he’s expecting me, but I can’t tear my eyes away and as Travis said, he’s fine. Just dancing with that girl and clearing space around themselves because they’re that good.

After a while, he looks up from his partner and his gaze finds me on the balcony. I raise a hand in a lazy, two-fingered salute, and he smiles at me. I’m about to hoist myself out of the chair to go and collect my charge and deliver him home—wherever that is—but his expression transforms into a wicked grin that makes me grip the arms of the chair harder.

Then he starts to move. It’s different this time, not just showing off his body’s capabilities and having fun. This is dancing with intent. While Flo Rida is inviting everyone to bust it open and get loose, Allie and his girl are moving slickly along with the sexy-as-fuck horn line. If I thought his dancing had been provocative before, I was wrong. The way he’s moving now is basically public sex. Except his focus isn’t on his partner, but on me.

He hasn’t broken eye contact, and I can almost feel him pressing up on me as he’s working against her. His pelvis—and hopefully his hardness—pushing into my ass while his big hands grab my hips and move us together. It’s so vivid it’s as though I’m experiencing it now. It’s the strangest sensation, and it makes me thirst for him. Maybe get a little hard. For the first time in a long time, I feel the tingle of possessiveness.Mine.

Yes, numerous people belong to me to some extent, but this is different and the degree to which I want him is disturbing. I want to control that body. I want mine to be the voice that echoes in his head. He can flirt and dance with whomever he likes, but I want to know the second I snap my fingers, he’d be at my feet and willing to give me anything I asked for.

That’s insane for so many reasons, not limited to the fact I know next to nothing about Allie Hart. Since this is apparently not going to be a one-off blowjob in a back alley, I should probably do my due diligence and find out more about him before I get too attached.

Who am I kidding? He already belongs to me. He’s my responsibility. As such, I should probably get him home, hydrated, and into bed. Without me, unfortunately.

So I lever myself out of the chair and gesture with my head to the stairway, hoping he’ll take my meaning and meet me. I half-expect him to shake his head and turn his attention back to the woman he’s still glued to, their hips moving in seductive circles, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans down and says something in her ear. She nods, and they walk off the dance floor together, holding hands.

I head toward the staircase to meet them, curious if Hart will introduce me, but by the time I’ve made it to the top of the stairs, I see him giving her a consuming hug before she kisses his cheek and walks away.

At the bottom of the stairs, Hart’s waiting for me. His shirt is stuck to him in various places, and there’s a sheen of sweat all over him. He looks damn fine. I nod toward the exit, and he falls into step beside me.

“Quite the performance you two put on. Does your partner mind that you were eye-fucking me while you were dancing with her?”

There’s that bright smile again. “No. We go clubbing together a lot. She likes to dance but doesn’t like strange guys getting all up on her.”

“You keep the creepers away?”

He curls an arm in a muscle pose, showing off his ridiculously thick biceps. “Would you fuck with this?”

He’s still a bit slurry, so I bite back my response:I’d much rather fuck you than fuck with you.

We’ve reached the street, and we make our way through the line of people still waiting to get into the club and then we’ve reached my car. I slide into the driver’s seat as he climbs, a bit clumsily, into the passenger side. “Well, now that you’ve done your good deed for the day, let’s get you home.”

His cocky grin disappears, and there’s a momentary uncertainty etched on his face before that slightly arrogant air is back. “I’d rather go back to your place.”

I know Hart doesn’t have a lot of money. It’s in the way he dresses and the fact he was working his sister’s shift at the bar. If he had the money to make her life easier, I have no doubt he’d give it to her. He’s clearly a generous guy and cares for his family very much. I’m guessing he doesn’t want me to see his place because he’s worried it won’t be as nice as mine. Which is almost guaranteed. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to see it. I want every piece of Allie he’s willing to give me, and that involves seeing where he calls home. It likely won’t be fancy, but it doesn’t need to be. I’ll like it because it’s his. Besides, I’m not quite ready to bring him back to my place.

“Not tonight, cowboy. What part of town do you live in?”

He looks away and seems to be thinking. About what to say? It’s not a difficult question.

“How about you bring me back to my truck?”

He’s still not meeting my eyes, and my mind starts churning, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzles. There’s no way in hell I’m letting him drive when he’s in this condition. Also, he was all gung-ho about getting his just deserts not long ago, so for him to change his tune, something serious must be up. Is he married? I don’t think so, because Kendra doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would aid and abet adultery. Is his place that bad? Why is his truck not parked at his house? Parking around here is a bitch. No one in their right mind would drive. The plot thickens.

I could say no, demand he tell me his address. I could give in and take him home, but that’s not a good precedent to set. So I decide to give him more rope and see what kind of knot he’ll tie himself into.

“Sure. Where’s your ride?”

He mumbles an address that’s in a dicey part of Oakland, someplace I probably wouldn’t leave my car. Dealers and sex workers on the more desperate end of the spectrum aren’t unusual sights around there. He’ll be safer if I take him than if he tries to get there some other way and I can stop him from driving away. So I ease the Tesla through the streets and try not to be offended by Hart’s silence. He’s gazing out the window, his eyes glazed. Is the alcohol finally having the soporific effect it should? He looks tired now that he’s stopped moving.

When we get closer to the cross streets he gave me, I slow down and ask for the make of his truck.

“Black F-150.”

I see it ahead and pull in behind it, looking around for any immediate threats and not finding any.

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