Page 39 of The Cartographer

“What is that, some bullshit Dominant thing?”

If only. “Absolutely not. Being penetrated has nothing to do with submission.”

Not that it can’t be used that way, but it completely depends on the person. I know plenty of Dominants who like penetration. Like anything else, it depends on how it’s framed. Some things are harder than others to shape that way, but I guarantee I could make almost any act a dominant one given the right circumstances and participants.

“It’s just not something I do, and if you decide it’s not something you do either, that’s a hundred percent fine. But at least let me try to convince you sodomy has its perks.”

I’d gleaned from some of our conversation on the plane that, while Allie’s been with men, he’s never bottomed. When I suggested that might be something we tried while on our little jaunt, he hadn’t seemed averse, and it’s been in the back of my head ever since. Getting inside this gorgeous man would be a dream come true, and I want him to want me there.

“I think you’re the only person on the planet who could say that with a straight face.”

“Doubtful. I could name a handful of people off the top of my head.” We’ve pulled up to the hotel, and our driver’s climbed out and is coming around to my door. “Let me take you upstairs and prove it to you.”

The elevator ride up to our suite is the most deliciously tension-filled thirty seconds. Hart’s leaning up against the railing, his fingers curled around the edge, his nailbeds turning white with the pressure. I’m resting against the opposite wall, studying him.

My Hart’s so tense. Yes, I want him buzzing with anticipation, but also with desire and curiosity. I’ve got my plans, certainly, but this is one of those things you don’t rush. I’ve seen far too many people who’ve had bad experiences and sworn a thing that can be so exquisitely pleasurable and intimate off their lists because one fuckwad ruined it all. That’s not going to happen to Allie. I won’t let it.

When the elevator pings and the doors slide open on our floor, I gesture him out and admire the way the muscles bunch in his back and shoulders under that goddamn shirt. I hope he can feel the way I’m looking at him. If he can’t, it’s not for lack of trying on my part. If intensity were heat, I would’ve burned his clothes off by now. I want him feeling the weight of my gaze, how heavy it is with my desire for him. Preferably without a whiff of how much responsibility is settled on my shoulders.

I’m going to be his first, and it’s a charge I don’t take lightly.

The way he stops at the door and waits for me to slip my keycard out of my pocket is somehow charming, and I let my hand drift to his lower back as I usher him inside. Clicking on the Do Not Disturb signal, I take the only deep breath I’m going to permit myself. It’s go-time, and I need him not to sense my nerves. Not that many people do. There aren’t a lot of benefits to not being able to sweat, but muting a symptom of tension is one of them.

“Naked and face-down on the bed, Hart.”

There’s only the briefest hesitation before he’s moving on my soft command. No questions, no protests, and it swells my heart with happiness. A measure of the trust I’ve earned. He’s anxious but I don’t think afraid, and he trusts me enough to allow me this incursion into his very core. The sound of clothes dropping on the floor is music to my ears, as is the faint rustling of bed linens and the whisper of skin sinking into the plush duvet.

When I walk through the door, he’s lying as instructed, and I take some time to admire him. The perfect arch of his buttocks, the pleasing curve of his calves, and how his legs are slightly spread instead of clenched together. Lovely.

I take off my watch and empty my pockets, drape my coat over a chair, eyeing him the whole time. He’s not watching me, but he’s straining for any sound. I toe off my shoes, not being quiet about it because I don’t mind giving him some hints, and then I roll up my sleeves. Retrieving the things I’d like from the bathroom, I come back to where Allie’s still lying prone on the bed, keeping his breaths carefully measured.

The moment he hears the small snick of me opening the bottle in my hands, he tenses. For nothing, but he doesn’t know that.

Straddling his hips, I let my weight sink down on him protectively. I pour some oil on my hands and reach for his shoulders, slicking my hands over his hard body. He makes a startled noise, and I shush him.

“Relax, Hart. I’m going to make you feel good. I promise.”

So I do, kneading his muscles carefully, feeling out the grooves and knots. Working at the tense places and smoothing out the fibers until they’re loose and pliant, how I’d like him. He feels good under my hands, and it gives me the opportunity to study all of the ink he’s branded with. I do my utmost to keep the massage moving apace so he doesn’t notice how closely I’m studying the pictures, the patterns. He must know I’m looking, but perhaps not that I’m memorizing, obsessing. What does it all mean?

The amateur ones among the numerous marks reek of butchery and improvised, no doubt unsanitary tools, and I use the feel of his ribs rising and falling leisurely beneath me to mark my breath so he doesn’t know how agitated I’m getting, thinking about how he got those. Possibly what he had to do to earn them. My gentle Allie, unwinding so beautifully at my touch. It’s hard to imagine him engaging in unnecessary and excessive violence.

On the other hand, it fits. Hart’s got loyalty pumping through his veins and a need to please. His gang and the military both offered a certain thing: rules. He could make sense of his world and do his best to do what was right in that space. Which may or may not have been within the bounds of the law.

Loyalty, though—that’s one of the qualities I prize most highly. I want him to swear allegiance to me, adopt my rules as his code. I want to be the one he wants to please. To have him regard me as his authority, as someone worthy of following into battle. Or perhaps more importantly, into the extraordinary world of submission.

After I’ve worked my way up for the first time from his hips to the back of his skull, I slip my hands back over his now-glistening skin to just above the rise of his ass.

“Have we gone over the rules, Hart?”

He turns his head to the side. “There are rules for anal sex?”

His lazy drawl of a question makes me smile. “I wasn’t talking about those rules, but as a matter of fact, there are. Only three: lube. Lube.”

“And the third thing?”

“More lube.”

He snickers, his muscles momentarily convulsing. “Got it. What are the other rules?”

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