Page 28 of The Cartographer

“I’ve got a family.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant. If the world were a perfect place, yeah, I would. It’s not. I can’t say I could see taking on more obligations than I already have, and besides, the Army might say it’s all accepting of gays now, but there’s still a lot of homophobia. So having a husband back home?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

It tweaks me Hart’s not able to have everything he wants. Why shouldn’t he? Especially when he’d be putting his life on the line for his country. Why the crap does it matter who he likes to fuck? Guy should get a fucking medal instead of sneers and microaggressions.

“Also, I know what life is like for a military spouse. All the moving, the changes, the worry, and the pay’s not great. I wouldn’t want to rope someone into all that.”

For some inexplicable reason, I find myself listing counterpoints to each of his arguments—I travel all the time anyway, I have plenty of money—as if it’s us talking about a future and not some hypothetical spouse of Hart’s. Which is frankly crazy talk. Spouses are for people, and I’m…something else.

*

A few hourslater finds us back at my place, stumbling over the threshold of my front door. I hadn’t even asked if he wanted to come back to my place, because most of dinner had felt like the price he had to pay in order not to look too desperate for head.

The urge to bring Hart to my room is strong, but at the last second, I chicken out. Stopping short, I drag him into the guest room where he stayed last time. If I exhaust him, he may stay here again, and that’s more likely to happen if we’re in the room I’ve established as his already.

After I push him toward the bed, I peel off my coat and toss it onto the chair.

“Strip.”

“But—”

“You do as I say, and I guarantee you will have an orgasm that will blow your goddamn mind.”

He blinks, momentarily defiant, and I cock an eyebrow.Don’t test me, Hart, because you will lose.

Not dropping his gaze, he lays a hand over his belt buckle, and I swear there’s a bulge in the front of his pants that wasn’t there before.Fucking hell, let me give this to you. I will enjoy it, you will enjoy it, the world will be a better place.What does he want, a goddamn pinkie swear? I’ve made stranger promises.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he slips the leather through the metal buckle, and I’m riveted. Even the work of his fingers is a thing of beauty. So I breathe to give myself patience. If he’s trying to prove a point, let him prove it. I’ll prove my own.

He pulls the end of the strap, the metal catch slipping out, and then he releases the tension, which only ups it in the air between us. I can practically smell the crackling ozone of attraction, and it’s a heady aphrodisiac.

Allie smiles then, not showing his teeth. So smug. Then he’s reaching for the button of his jeans, toying with it before slipping it through the denim and clasping the pull of the zipper between his fingers. Never has such a small piece of metal been so goddamn mouthwatering and frustrating at the same time.

Well, not one that’s not pierced through someone’s skin at any rate.

He stops when his fly is loose and spread open, revealing black…it’s briefly confounding that I don’t know what kind of underwear Hart wears. I’m distracted from my pique by him stripping off his shirt. My, this man is a work of art. Someone should put him in bronze. Shapely pecs, defined abs that narrow into a trim waist, and hip cuts that make me want to trail my tongue over them. Lucky for me, I’ll be afforded that opportunity shortly. Along with the opportunity to get a better look at the ink that covers a significant amount of his torso and arms.

Hart appears to be losing patience, his movements becoming faster and less polished, more designed to get the job done than to entice, which is fine with me. Let’s get this show on the road.

Finally he’s standing before me in all his naked glory. It shouldn’t matter—I’ve seen so many naked bodies of all shapes and sizes one more shouldn’t make an impression of any type. Allie’s, though, reaches some basic part of me that’s driven by the most rudimentary urges, which in turn makes me feel slightly out of control. I’m never out of control.

Which might explain why I find him vaguely dangerous. He’s tempting in a way that makes me forget my foremost obligations, and more concerning, I want him so badly I’m willing to plow through these feelings purely to have him, to call him mine however briefly.

“On your back on the bed.”

He smirks at me again, but does as I’ve asked, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Now what?”

“‘Now what, sir.’”

His cocky look dims, and he eyes me with some amount of skepticism. “Wait—”

Holding up my hands, I feel the control coming back to me, tingling through my veins, and it balances me. “No, you wait. If you want this, you’re going to do as I say. And I’d like for you to call me sir.”

“But it’s…demeaning.”

“Was calling your superiors in the Army ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ demeaning?”

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