Page 77 of The Cartographer

Rubbing against him, I free my mouth and trail open-mouthed kisses down his neck, enjoying the lingering saltiness of his skin and the flex of the tendons in his wrists under my hands. I find that succulent rise of muscle between neck and shoulder and I bite—hard. So hard I worry I’ve misjudged the pressure of my jaw and might break the skin, but no, barely not. That’s when he comes against me and makes this thrilling noise. It sounds involuntary in its crudeness, and the authenticity of what I’ve made him feel pushes me over the edge, my orgasm roaring through me at a rate that should make a person dizzy.

The sound I make is barely more human than his, and I have to admit I’ve said his name. Along with some expletives, naturally, but the word I still feel in my mouth is Hart. At least I haven’t said Allie. I don’t know if he’d ever forgive me for that.

As the fog of orgasm clears, I realize I’ve come in my pants. Not that this will be the first time my dry cleaners have dealt with this particular bodily fluid—luckily, Gino is a saint, a very talented saint—but it’s almost always someone else’s. What kind of grown man dry-humps his way to an explosive climax? But that’s precisely what we’ve done, and I have to laugh as I dip my head to Hart’s, resting my forehead against his and tilting to kiss him a few times.

He kisses me back, and his breathing settles beneath me.

“Are you ready for me to let you go?”

As the words leave my mouth, there’s a nagging ping in the back of my brain.I’mnot ready to lethimgo.

The corner of his mouth curls up, and his chest convulses in a chuckle. “No.”

I can’t muster a word—embarrassingly grateful for the reprieve—so I give a clipped nod and hold on, conscious of, but not really minding, the cooling untidiness in my pants. I can put up with it for a while longer to fulfill my obligations. Because that’s what Hart is. My responsibility.

*

Kendra and thekids stay at my place for a couple of days until Matthew finds them an apartment to rent in their neighborhood in Oakland. Matthew and Kendra get along well, and she’s accepted his offer to help her find a house once the insurance comes through. The fire department determined the cause of the fire was some faulty wiring, so it’s a matter of paperwork.

Allie stays too, in the room he usually does, although he acts as though he’s never done so before. I expect him to be tetchy about all the help, but he gives in some in the face of the impossible. If it were just him, he never would, but for Kendra and the kids? Anything. Including giving me something I’ve been wanting for months. I’m under no illusion he’ll stay after they go, and he doesn’t.

Which is maybe not all bad. My mother’s here again, and while I put her off about meeting Allie the first time, if he were staying with me, that would be impossible. As things are, she’s peeved with me he’s not joining us for dinner.

Matthew sets a plate of sea bream, potatoes, and asparagus in front of her, and she claps with delight. “Matthew, why aren’t you a chef somewhere?”

He beams, but slides a look to me.

“Don’t tempt him, Mother. I hear kitchens are hell to work in, but still probably more pleasant than being in my employ.”

“Nonsense, I’m sure you’re a delight. Isn’t he, Matthew?”

Matthew’s face shifts ever so slightly, the way it does when he’s about to tease me. He doesn’t do it often, but when he does, he gets a kick out of it. So be it. “That depends on your definition of delight.”

“That’s quite enough out of you two. Matthew.”

He smiles at me, knowing I’m not even a little piqued, and turns on his heel to go back to the kitchen. He’ll clean up and then head home to Peter. I don’t need him for the rest of the evening.

When he’s gone, my mother drums manicured nails on the tabletop. “Are you still seeing that man?”

That man. Most times, I’d have to flip back through my mental snapshots to figure out who she’s talking about, but not this time. It’s Allie. It’s been Allie. “I am.”

“Why isn’t he here?”

“Because he’s with his sister and his niece and nephew.”

“Ah, yes, family man.”

She takes another sip of wine, and I level her with a glare over the brim of my own glass. “Your point is?”

“Men like that are in demand. If you’d like to hold onto him, you may want to make that clear sooner rather than later.”

For the most part, my mother stays out of my business. She knows what I do for a living, knows my predilections, and insists she’s not a prude, but I’ve made it clear I don’t think it’s prudish to not want to hear in detail about your son’s sex life. We’ve come to a happy place about how much or how little I tell her, but apparently light badgering is still on the table.

Holding onto Allie? As much as I’ve enjoyed having him here for the past few days and wanted to ask him to stay—wanted to ask them all to stay—I can’t. It’s clearly my mother’s butting in that’s making me irritable and not being unable to have something I want.

“That’s fine.”

“Is it?” She takes another sip of her wine, lipsticked mouth resting on the crystal rim of the glass.

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