Page 50 of The Cartographer

“You missed a bit. Here, I’ll help.” I abandon my chopsticks to the side table and take his wrist in both hands, sucking first his pinky finger, followed by his bare ring finger, and then his middle finger. It’s…downright obscene. Judging by the way the blanket draped about Allie’s waist is tenting, it makes him feel as turned on as I do. Convenient, that.

I suck beyond the second joint and slide toward the knuckle, taking his thick finger toward my throat. I work at him until he’s desperate and moaning, squirming on my lap, his own mouth opening and closing as if he wants nothing more than to have something in it. That can be arranged.

Popping off his hand, I grab his jaw hard enough to make him startle.

“Suck me.”

“Yes, sir.”

It’s somewhat garbled because I’m holding him so roughly, but I’d recognize those words anywhere. They’re some of the finest words in the English language, especially when coming from someone like Allie. After I let go, it doesn’t take him long to come onto his knees and yank the blanket off my lap and get down to business, head bowed and sucking like…

My head drops back, and I cup the back of his skull, wishing not for the first time he had some hair for me to grab. I settle for taking an earlobe between two fingers and rubbing, which, judging by the way he arches his spine and spreads his legs wider, is something he enjoys. What I’d like to do is give it a hard twist and make him gasp, but if he bit down in surprise, I’d only have myself to blame. I settle for increasing pressure until he whimpers, and my dick jerks in his mouth. So hot, preposterously hot.

When I twist oh so slowly, he full-on squeals, and it’s all I can do to keep my come from spurting down his throat. Though it’s not as if I’m going to come on him, not in his sister’s living room—so I may as well. I grab both his earlobes and subject them to the same vicious treatment, making him pant and groan and squeak. The cacophony of his noises is at a fever pitch, and it makes me want to try something.

With his ears hot and throbbing between my fingers, I score the back of his neck with my nails, dragging them toward his throat, and forcing an incredible sound around my cock. That’s it. He sucks me hard, and I picture piercing him, breaking that barrier, literally getting under his skin, raising blood, and yeah, I’m done for. I shoot down his throat, and his hips thrust forward. I can tell by the sloppy way he’s finishing me that he came too. Good. The idea draws another pulse of orgasm from me, and I drop my head back again, gentling my grip on his lobes and pinching lightly until he’s done.

I pat his jaw, fingers landing behind his ears, to let him know I’m finished, we can be finished. He lets my cock slide from his mouth, and he collapses once again, head in my lap where I stroke him, so pleased with him. Because damn, that felt good, and I love that he loves to be hurt, can come from being hurt and sucking on my dick, and that’s enough.

“So this sports thing isn’t so bad.”

He laughs and burrows into my side, and it’s not long until he’s fallen asleep.

*

A few hourslater, he wakes with a snuffle and rubs his head into me. I squeeze his shoulder to let him know I’m awake. India used to scold me for being preternaturally still, so I’ve learned to let people know when I’m conscious, lest they do things in front of me they wouldn’t otherwise.

He rolls up off the couch and stretches, the blanket dropping to the floor and leaving him standing there, naked. My god is he marvelous. I could look at him all day. And all night. What I ought to do is get him some water, feed him, and get him to bed. That wasn’t a particularly strenuous or intense scene, but he’d already been hollering and fist-pumping his way through the game.

If I’d known I’d get to see him this excited about something, anything, I would’ve done this a long time ago. Maybe I’ll see if I can’t get tickets to a live game. Or would that irritate him?

Next time I should fuck someone with less pride. Though that’s one of my favorite things about Allie, so while I sometimes might have to take the long way around, I won’t complain. Too much. Certainly not to him.

He reaches toward me, and I take his hand, wondering if he’s going to shoo me out now we’ve had our fun. But no. He tugs me to my feet and mumbles, “bed,” so I follow, leaving my own blanket to fall on the floor. He tows me down the narrow hallway and to a room at the end of the hall. It must be his sister’s room because it’s got a double bed.

Not the most luxurious accommodations, but the sheets are clean, the bed made, and it’ll mean having Allie close to me for as long as this will last.

I wait for him to take up space on the bed before I lay down next to him. The likelihood I’ll sleep is not high, and it’s not as though I’ll be in pain tomorrow if I sleep awkwardly, whereas he certainly could be. When I take my place next to him on my back, it warms my heart that he uses his head to nudge under my arm, laying his head on my chest and flopping a heavy arm across my ribcage.

It’s impossible not to stroke his head, the tiny amount of stubble under my fingertips creating a sensation that’s downright addictive. I’m expecting to hear the deep, even breathing of slumber, the hot, slightly damp air emanating from his slack mouth in sleep. What I actually get is a soft sigh and a stroke of fingertips across the hair on my chest.

“Why do you act like you don’t like sports?”

“Do I?”

“Well, you don’t seek them out.”

“No,” I agree. Where precisely is he heading with this?

“But you picked up the rules pretty quickly and even made some intelligent comments. You’re clearly not as dense about sports as you pretend to be.”

My throat constricts around a hard swallow. Because I’m not. When I was a kid, I could rattle off baseball statistics like no one’s business. My particular area of expertise was Dominican players, every one of whose status and ERA I could spit out, but I knew all the conference standings on any given day, lived and died by the Mets. Because those are the games my dad would take me to when he could. Which wasn’t often. More often, I’d sneak a call to him after a particularly awesome game, leave a message on his answering machine.

“It’s something I used to keep up with but don’t anymore. Baseball. The Mets.”

He’s silent. What’s he thinking about? “Same. Phillies. I stopped because it used to be something I’d do with my dad. And then…”

Then what? Allie’s never mentioned his father, but I’ve never cared to ask why. None of my business and it’s not unusual, but now my confounded curiosity kicks up and I need to know. He left? He died? They didn’t have enough money to go? Impatience for his answer claws at me, but as so often is the key, I wait. And wait.

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