Page 63 of The Cartographer

“I was,” I agree.

Hart looks at me as though he’d like to ask for more but doesn’t press. It’s not a familiar sensation, but I feel as though I owe him. I don’t owe him anything, not in any currency I usually trade in anyhow. I’ve given him experience, knowledge, safety, and affection. He’s given me trust, access, power, and obedience. We’re even, square. Except perhaps in intimacy. He went further than laying himself bare, and what did I give in return for that? Allie is in some ways a far more generous soul than I.

Should I want to tip the scales, there are things I could offer. If I were one of my clients who was looking for a long-term and serious relationship, I would tell myself to put out. The idea does something funny to my skin, a phenomenon I can’t quite read as crawling or an embrace.

Given that I have no intention of holding Allie for the long term, it must be the former, and despite the want that’s still sculpting his strong features, I deny him. Not without offering a recompense of a different kind, though, so much easier and simpler to give.

I hold the swiftly delivered flute aloft for him to clink with his glass of water. “Now drink up, because you’re far better than I ever was and I intend to enjoy you for the rest of the afternoon.”

Hart looks as if he can’t decide whether this is a threat or a promise, but offers me his glass nonetheless, letting the sound of the contact ring out over the table.A bit of both, Allie. A bit of both.

Chapter Twenty

‡

As soon asI shut the door behind us, I’m on. There’s a pleasant hum in my veins, the excitement of knowing I’ll have him under my thumb for the next several hours. I’m a connoisseur of pleasure, and this is the thing that gives me the most: a powerful person handing themselves over to me. Power and brawn are what Allie’s built out of.

“Clothes off.”

The muscles above his collar tighten but then relax almost as suddenly. He’s as ready for this as I am. Then he’s turning to face me while he strips off his shirt. It’s such a small thing, but the way most men do that with one hand whereas women unfailingly use two… I don’t know what it is about that small detail, but it arouses me.

As does the way he looks me in the eye as he reaches for his belt. Deliberately. I don’t mind if he wants to goad me with a strip tease. Be my guest, because we both know if I told him to knock it off, he’d be naked in five seconds flat. He slips the leather through the buckle and takes his time releasing it. When I hold out my hand, he doesn’t look surprised, just hands over the belt and watches me fold and then snap it in my hands.

His gaze no longer on my face but on the leather in my grip, he reaches for the button on his jeans. I snap my fingers and point to my face. “Eyes up here, Hart. Show some manners, please.”

His throat constricts in a visible swallow, and yeah, that makes more blood pump south. Then he’s unbuttoning and unzipping and shoving the denim over his narrow hips and rounded ass, down the thick, powerful thighs that make my mouth water, and onto the floor.

Those deliciously clingy boxer briefs follow, and he kicks them away, leaving his arms loose at his sides, head held high, and purposefully broadening his chest. He might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I take a mental snapshot of him as he is in this moment and stick it in my files to be pored over later, when he’s gone.

There’s a momentary beat of sadness at the thought, but I shrug it off because this is what I do. What I’ve always done. Though Hart’s wormed his way into a place few others have managed to reach, I’ll pass him off as surely as I have the rest. No use pretending otherwise and I should enjoy him while he’s mine.

I point to the floor, and he drops to his knees, spreading them and resting his hands on his thighs. Lovely, tractable man. He tracks me with his gaze as I move closer, belt still in my hands. If he thinks I’m going to start his hiding here, he’ll be disappointed. But not for long. Instead of striping the leather across his flesh, I dangle it in my grasp, the end nearly hitting the floor, and then I bend down.

“I’d like to put this around your neck. Use it as a lead. Is that okay?”

He blinks at me, his eyes going wide, chest puffing with a sudden inhale.

“No is always an option. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. If it’s too much, say the word or shake your head. Not an issue.”

He doesn’t. Doesn’t do anything for a full minute. Then quietly, oh so quietly, says, “Okay.”

I want to do a fist pump for having earned this from him, but won’t. There are more important things to do than celebrate. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

There’s a quick duck of his chin so I know he’s heard me, and then I use the leather to circle his neck, using the buckle to form a collar and leash. It’s less than ideal in that I can’t control the tightness well, but it’ll do for now. This is likely as close to a collar as I’ll get with him.

And isn’t that irritating as he lengthens the column of his throat for me, the better to take his impromptu collar. Makes me thirst for him, all of him.Don’t dwell on it, Walter. Nothing ever came from wanting.

I tug at the end of the belt I’ve wrapped around my fist and start down the hall. Without me telling him to do so, he follows on his knees. I can’t see him crawling down the hallway, but the picture is vivid in my mind. When we get to the stair landing, I guide him to go up instead of down, and he hesitates oh-so-briefly.

“Don’t worry, Hart. You’ll get yours.”

It’s true I don’t usually use my bedroom for kink, and I can’t entirely say why I’m doing so now. There’s a veritable treasure trove of toys in the dungeon and almost none up here, but I’m not planning to light him up with the violet wand, nor am I going to take my needle kit to him, though my fingers itch with the thought of laying him out and puncturing his skin. Later.

Today, it’s going to be a good old-fashioned beating with an ass-fucking to follow. He’s going to fucking love every single second of it, even when he isn’t liking it.

He slinks up the stairs, and I don’t hurry him, relishing the idea of his hands and knees meeting the fine carpet as he follows me. Down the hall to the bedroom, and when we get there, I leave the door wide open. Not that there’s anyone here and there won’t be—I texted Matthew while Hart was in the bathroom at brunch so he knows I’m not to be disturbed until I call for him—but Hart doesn’t know that and I catch his glance toward the door.

“Don’t trouble yourself.” I’m gratified by the slight darkening of his cheeks at my instruction, the undertones going warm instead of cool. And by his answer, since I haven’t told him why not. For all he knows, Matthew could be in the house already and waiting for my summons to stand in the doorway and watch whatever I’m going to do to him.

---