Page 6 of The Cartographer

He strips the shirt from my shoulders, and I raise my arms for him to grasp the hem of my undershirt and pull it over my head. When he’s discarded it, his fingers settle on my shoulders. The light pressure is familiar, comforting, and I close my eyes, waiting for him to tell me something I don’t know.

Lifting first my left arm and then my right, his fingertips skim along, telling me where his attention is drawn to. He’s methodical, having done this almost every day for years. He’ll be especially thorough with me having been gone for nearly a week. Those are the times I get myself into trouble, especially when I’ve not been traveling for pleasure. Kona wasn’t work, exactly, but it was taxing, and that’s when I put other people’s needs above my own, because they need me to and I can take it.

Neck, chest, torso, then around to my shoulders and back go Matthew’s gaze and his hands.

“So far, so good,” he volunteers.

I’d thought so, hadn’t seen any marks in the mirror when I’d had to do this myself while staying in the guest hut in Kona.

Matthew settles onto his knees in front of me and undoes my belt, slides the leather through the loops and sets it aside, then slips a hand down the front of my pants before unbuttoning and unzipping them. I rest a hand on his shoulder to step out of them. Part of me longs to cup his jaw, drag him in, have him suck me off because I could use the relief, but I’ll be respectful of his wishes, of his new relationship.

He and Peter have the potential to make each other happy. I hope they will. Matthew is wonderful, and he deserves someone who makes him feel precious. In a romantic way, not in the supermarket-before-the-storm essential way he likely gets from me. He’s a person, not a bag full of milk, eggs, and bread.

When he sits back on his heels, I head to the bathroom, knowing he’s not quite done yet but he’ll wait for me with unadulterated patience. When I’ve finished in the bathroom, I lay facedown on my bed, cradling my head in my arms while his fingers search my scalp, an inspection that turns into a caress, and I sigh.

“Please tell me massage counts as service,” I mutter into my arms. Matthew’s fingers trail down the sides of my neck and then his thumbs apply pressure at the base of my skull.

“I say yes.”

He laughs at my soft grunt of approval. Matthew St. James is a godsend.

Working his way down my body slowly, he appears to be in no apparent hurry, though I wonder if Peter is lying in a bed, waiting for him. I take a small amount of satisfaction in the fact that Matthew is here with me instead of him. Because at the base of it, I’m as selfish as anyone else, probably more so. I’m just better at hiding it. Because I’m better at hiding everything.

When he gets to the soles of my feet, he tsks at me. “You’ve got a splinter. It looks infected.”

Goddamn wooden deck and Cris and India traipsing about barefoot all the time. I should’ve kept my shoes on, but sometimes it’s nice to pretend I don’t have to worry about such things. But I do, and now Matthew will fret for days until it heals completely.

He retrieves my well-stocked first-aid kit from the bathroom and sets to his work. I start formulating my to-do list for tomorrow. So many clients, so little time. When he’s finished, he lays a hand on my shoulder and I turn over to receive his report.

“It should be fine, but please wear shoes. You know that’s one of the places you forget to check.”

I reach out to ruffle his hair, somehow coarse but soft, and gift him with a smile. “I know. I’m sorry to make you worry. Thank you. Now go along home to Peter. He’ll probably take his belt to you for being out so late.”

“Or not.” Matthew shrugs and shows his fine white teeth.

“You pain sluts are tricky to manage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Goodnight, Matthew.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

He leaves, turning off the lights and closing the door on his way out, and I climb under the covers before checking my cell one last time. A quick scroll through a dozen texts, three times as many emails, and listening to a couple of voicemails tells me there’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.

Rest up, Reyes, because someone will need you again soon.

When I close my eyes, it’s not Matthew’s sad-sweet expression I see against my lids, but the virile form of Allie Hart and his honorable intentions. I can be forgiven for stroking off to thoughts of taking him in hand until I come in a hastily grabbed hand towel from my bedside table.

Chapter Three

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The sound ofthe doorbell pulls my attention from the screen in front of me. Not knowing how long I’d be in Kona, I’d built a few extra days into my schedule, and I’m glad I thought to. I’m mostly caught up on the things I missed and have put out the fires that cropped up while I was away and then some. Easier to focus, and I have a feeling I’m going to need it.

Matthew’s windchime voice welcomes my new clients. Even from here, the man’s tones are domineering. I allow myself the only eye roll I’ll get for the next few hours. We’ll see how this goes.

I wrap up my task and stand, straightening my cuffs because I like to make a good impression. With everyone, but especially people I’m working with for the first time. Walking into the entryway, there’s a man in his early fifties wearing expensive jeans and a leather jacket that hasn’t been broken in yet. He’s got a hand wrapped possessively around a pretty blonde girl in a dress I don’t think she picked out. The small movements of her shoulders look as though she’s trying to move the straps to cover more of her cleavage, but she only succeeds in deepening the already deep V between her breasts and she stops.

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