Page 66 of The Cartographer

“Yes, sir,” he pants, looking at the ceiling. He’s focusing on being open, obedient, relaxed, so I won’t make him look at me. I’ll give him the space he needs to get used to this incredibly intimate and vulnerable feeling. If I’m being honest, I could use a minute myself. When he’s calmed enough that my two fingers can make their way in and out of his passage with ease, I reach up with my other hand and cup his balls.

His back arches, and he sucks in a breath, eyes still on the ceiling, hands still grasping his shins to hold himself open for me. I take the opportunity to toy with him, palming his sac and tugging on it the way he likes. His muscles clench around me, and I can’t wait to bury myself in him, feel that same pulsating pressure on my cock. Feel him come around me as I make him cry out in pleasure. Maybe even my name.

I debate whether to work another finger inside him, but not today. He’s open enough that he can take me inside, and I don’t mind going slow, pressing inside him inch by slow inch, exerting every ounce of control I have because I want to be balls-deep inside him yesterday.

So I remove my fingers and climb over him, settling a hand above his flexing shoulder and using the other one to direct myself inside him. It’s as much to slow my pace as it is to get the angle right. And then, then, I’m inside him. Just a little, but god, it’s good. So fucking good.

I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of people—good, bad, and oh-so-ugly—but Hart feels good to me in a way most people don’t. We fit together, and I hope he feels the same way. Judging by the way his eyes have rolled back and he’s arching off the bed, he does.

“Fuck,” he mutters and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s no pain in his voice, no regret, so I don’t withdraw, but I do stop. Reach my hand up to his neck where I stroke the tendons standing out with my thumb and cover his throat, finding the beat of his pulse with my fingers, feeling him breathe under my touch.

He’s mine.

Mine and therefore my responsibility, so I ease forward, drawing back each time to give him the friction he craves and at one point adding more lube, because goddamn is that marvelous stuff. He rocks against me, begging for more, and I give it to him, slowly.

When I’ve pressed inside until I can’t get any deeper with slow movements and soothing words, he opens his eyes, and I love that drunk look on his face, as if I’m the best drug he’s ever had.

Damn straight.

“Please,” he says, his lips never fully closing and his breath barely enough to supply the word.

“Please, what?” I squeeze his throat, not enough to deprive him of any sorely needed oxygen but because I can. I bet he’d let me. He’d trust me to do breathplay, and the idea makes my hips jerk forward involuntarily, making him moan. Oh yes, I’ve hit that delectable spot.

“Please, sir?” he offers, his forehead wrinkled with hope.

I love being above him, being inside him, owning him. In this moment, I wonder if it will ever be this good again. If this is the pinnacle of what I’m allowed to expect. The thought’s alternately depressing and thrilling. Thrilling because I’ve been allowed something so magnificent, so goddamn pleasurable my brain could explode and my body break into a thousand shining pieces with the idea and the feel of him. Depressing because this might be it. This is the best I’ll ever have, and I’m having it now.

Getting older’s never bothered me. To be honest, it surprises me more than anything else. I always expected to die young, but here I am, edging up on thirty-nine. It’s as good a time as any I suppose to hit my peak. Too many people have their glory days in their teens and twenties. In that respect, I suppose I’m lucky.

“Be. More. Specific.” I hope I don’t sound as desperate as I feel, but no man should be expected to maintain this level of control forever.

“Please fuck me, sir.”

The words send a rush through me, lighting up my veins like a hot burning line of sparklers. I force myself to cock my head, creating that extra second of delay that’s going to drive us both crazy. “I think that could be arranged.”

Then I rock back, drawing out of him only to plunge back in, angling to hit that spot that will drive him wild, and I fuck him for all I’m worth. Driving into him like I’ll never get to do it again. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but I’m not going to waste this moment. I’m going to extract every particle of pleasure I can.

Every time my hips hit the welts on his ass, he makes a sound—this lovely “ngh” I wish I could record and listen to over and over again. It could fuel my fantasies for months. All because of the things I’ve done to him. That he let me do.

Though I’d like to listen to that sound forever, what I’d like even more is to possess every inch of him, to taste and feel and occupy him in every way possible. So without slowing my pace, I lean down and kiss him, take his thick bottom lip between my teeth and bite before slipping my tongue into his mouth where it tangles with his.

Breathless, I pull back and lean my forehead against his.

“Come on, Hart. Give it up for me. I want to feel you come.”

I’m not expecting it, because honestly, it takes a long time to train someone to come on command—though if you’re skilled at watching for the signs, you can create the illusion by demanding it when they’re on the edge. Sometimes a Dominant’s words are enough to push them over. But I hadn’t anticipated the hot, thick spurts of Hart’s orgasm against my stomach, how his muscles squeeze my cock, how he lets out this guttural groan that sounds like “Yes, Rey, Jesus, yes.”

Surprise is the only excuse I have for why I lose it. Just fucking lose it and come inside him, my orgasm so intense my brain goes entirely blank for a second and a sound I don’t recognize escapes from my throat. In the name of all that’s holy—

No, not all that’s holy. All that’s flesh and blood in front of me, around me, under me.

“Fuck, Hart. You’re…fuck.” At least my sense hasn’t deserted me entirely. I managed to bite back my thoughts, swallow them down.You’re perfect. Brilliant. I adore you. I love you.Because that’s exactly what your lover wants to hear from you when you’re orgasming, something you’d never say when your brains aren’t shooting out of your dick.

We move against each other, grinding out the rest of our climaxes until there’s nothing left to give. Before I pull out, I bend down and kiss him again. Sweetly, because I can’t help myself. His lips are full, warm, and languidly responsive, pressing against mine in an obliging, satisfied way. He makes another noise, this one not the pure sex of his “ngh,” but an endearing half-sigh instead.

I pull out reluctantly, glad he won’t be watching the kids for a couple of days because he’s going to be sore. Thankful for my foresight, I reach for the washcloths I wrapped around a hot stone and set in water when I was gathering my supplies. I hand Allie one, and we lay side-by-side as we clean ourselves up. When we’re through and he’s lying there looking as though he’s going to pass out, I pull a blanket over us and my heart nearly explodes when he moves closer and rests his head against my chest.

My heart pounds against my ribs, and I hope he can’t hear it, feel it. I don’t need to worry. It’s only seconds after I wrap my arm around him and brush my fingers up and down his smooth, firm flesh that he’s snoring in this completely uncouth and oblivious way. It’s charming.Sleep well, Hart.

---