Page 49 of The Cartographer

Suddenly the towel makes way more sense. And he’s not got it quite right. I don’t participate in sports, nor do I watch them when I can help it, but it’s not because I actively dislike them. The truth’s a bit more convoluted. As it usually is.

“So you had no intention of watching the game, but every intention of getting fucked six ways to Sunday?”

“Hoping to, at least.” His chipper tone is a reward unto itself.

“You have to know I would’ve been far more likely to accept an invitation for that than watching an organized athletic competition. Is there even a game on?”

“There is. Are you saying you’d rather watch it than…” He shapes his face into something goofily suggestive, and I almost laugh. Instead, I’ll make this a teaching moment.

“Hart. When you’ve invited someone for a particular activity and they’ve taken the time to prepare for said event—” I spin so he can see exactly how appropriate I am. Sharks hat, a jersey for a player Matthew assured me was popular, jeans because my usual sartorial fare seemed a bit stuffy for this, and sneakers of all things. And of course, the foam finger I haven’t taken off. Hart gives me a dirty look because he knows as well as I do I did nothing of the sort. This is all Matthew’s doing. “—you should give them what they’ve paid for, so to speak. I came here to watch hockey, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“You’d rather watch a game you care nothing about than fuck me?”

“I don’t see why we can’t do both. If I’m being completely honest, I’d planned to fuck you during halftime. You think there are only groceries in that bag?”

Hart’s expression is a wonderful mass of contradicting emotions. Interest, yes, but also disbelief and, if I’m not mistaken, fond amusement. He holds up the hand that’s not hefting the paper sack, surrendering, and even in this small thing, his acquiescence is delicious.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He heads to the small galley kitchen and drops the bag on the scuffed counter, his eyes going pleasingly wide when he hears the thunk and rattle of what I’ve stowed in the bottom, underneath the snacks I’ve brought.

He points through a doorway to what must be the living room, a chair and a corner of a TV visible, and I follow his implied direction. When I’ve made myself comfortable on a sizable sectional, he pokes his head around the corner.

“You should know there is no halftime in hockey. There are three periods, so you’re going to have to fuck me twice.”

I give him a withering glare, and what I say is, “Actually, I believe I’m going to do whatever the hell I want, and if you don’t stop mocking me, it’s not going to include you coming at all.”

What I’m thinking is that hockey is a marvelous game.

The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly, as if he can see through my expression and my words and into my thoughts, and for once I don’t mind so much.

“Now go get dressed please, because I’m anxious to see this…sportsballing.”

“You know there’s no—”

“Yes, I know. There’s a puck, not a ball. So there. Clothes. Now.”

He full-on grins at me, and I immediately regret my decision to teach him a lesson about proper hosting responsibilities. I want to get him on his knees as soon as humanly possible, instead of watching a bunch of guys with sticks skitter around a big sheet of ice.

Chapter Sixteen

‡

Alittle lessthan three hours later, the game is over and our team was victorious. I’m sprawled on the chaise end of the sectional, and Allie’s lounging on the long end with his head in my lap. We’ve already fucked twice, as promised, and now we’ve gotten back into the snacks. As I extract another Cheeto from the bag, Allie gives me a look so dubious I almost glance over my shoulder.What?

“Are you seriously eating those with chopsticks?”

I crunch down on the powdered-cheese-encrusted snack food and chew idly before answering. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“Are you sure? It seems like the only sensible way to go.”

“Positive.”

“Then what do other people do about the cheese dust issue? It’s bad enough it gets on my shirt—” The dubious look is back. “Or would, if I were wearing a shirt. But it gets under your nails and it’s impossible to get rid of. I can’t have fluorescent orange cheese powder on my hands.”

Allie sticks a hand in the bag—a hand!—and extracts an entire fistfull. He eats them one at a time, pausing between each and keeping eye contact throughout. He’s sass eating. That’s what he’s doing. I’d be annoyed, but I’m honestly impressed. When he’s finished, he shows me his hand, covered with exactly the shade of orange I’m afraid of, and proceeds to lick. First his palm and then finger by finger.

Despite having gone twice in the past two hours, I’m immediately hard. When he’s finished, he shows me his palm and then his knuckles. Despite not seeing a shred of evidence, I catch him by the wrist.

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