Page 89 of The Cartographer

He’d never have clients run into each other, ever, because he’s meticulous that way, but he might, I don’t know, “accidentally” keep one waiting longer than normal? Infatuation at first sight, a few more “chance” meetings, hints sprinkled with care during sessions and follow-up calls, and there you have it: a compatible couple, done and dusted. I’m a motherfucking genius.

Before I can put my matchmaking machinations into motion, I’ve got to deal with this distasteful business.

Slipping into my favorite chair, I put my feet up on the ottoman and immediately miss the feel of Matthew’s lungs expanding under my feet. Wood and leather aren’t as good, but it’ll have to do. Having a Matthew who’s anxious because he has work to do is no good to me either.

Folders to my right, orange juice to my left, and let’s begin.

Within half an hour, I’ve whittled the pile to half of what it was. Unsurprisingly, all but one of Matthew’s selections made the cut. The only one that didn’t is a man I have plans for. I do one more pass to separate the wheat from the chaff, and then I’m left with half a dozen men.

Matthew comes in with a quiet knock to the doorframe. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

I raise my glass, and he doesn’t wait for further instructions, just takes it and returns a minute later with it filled with another measure of juice. Once it’s in my hand, I shove away the ottoman and point to the floor. He sinks like a ribbon and positions himself at the precise distance.

We both sigh when I cross my ankles at his sacrum. Perfection.

I flip through the folders one more time, each of them bearing a Post-it because, though he’s modest, Matthew knows people nearly as well as I do.

Phillip, Cyrus, Seb, Wiley, Arctic, and Julian. I’m going to make one of them a very lucky man. It’s possible I should let Allie have some say in this, but choice might paralyze him and as I told Matthew, I’m not sure he could even identify exactly what it is he wants. With encouragement and open communication, I think he could put names to them and say what hedoesn’twant, but he’s still not quite at the projective state yet. Truthfully, a lot of tops will enjoy the uncertainty.

I flip through them one more time, considering them carefully. All financially solvent, all emotionally stable, all sadists to some degree. I trust them to treat Hart well, so now it’s down to tastes and that ever-elusive chemistry.

“Matthew?”

“Yes, sir?”

I list off the names and ask him to rank them from one to six. He hesitates, but I tell him it’s an order so he rattles them off in an order that nearly matches my own.

“What don’t you like about Phillip?”

“Oh, I like Phillip very much.” A miniscule wriggle of his hips confirms. Oh, yes, I remember that night. Phillip did quite a number on Matthew, and oh, did he ever enjoy it. “However, I don’t think he’s the best fit for Mr. Hart. A bit too attached to protocol. I don’t think he’d tolerate Mr. Hart’s more…unrefined aspects.”

Right, the swearing. I find it charming, but Matthew’s right, Phillip would not. Not in a fun-to-correct way either. They’d grow frustrated over what should be a misunderstanding or a bit of play. Phillip goes in the discard pile.

“Wiley?”

“May I be frank, sir?”

“Always.”

“I’ve seen the way Mr. Hart admires your physique. And mine for that matter. Wiley might be too bulky for him.”

It’s true Wiley’s a bit of a bear, and I’d have to agree with Matthew’s assessment that Hart has an eye for leaner men. Not that build has anything to do with effective dominance, but off-the-bat attraction would be a good start. I send Wiley back to the pond. He’s a wonderful top; perhaps I’ll make him my next project when I’m finished with Hart.

We go through a couple more and then we’re left with Cyrus and Julian. I weight them in my hands and try to picture them with Allie. This is futile because, when I see him being hurt by someone or being pleasured, it’s always by me. Which is what happens when I hold on to my charges too tightly for too long. I should’ve brought him to more parties, forced him to play with more people, but he never seemed quite ready.

I’ve done the science on these two, and they have equal marks for and against. Now it’s time for the gut, but at the moment my gut is useless because, as they say, it’s got shit for brains. Perhaps Matthew’s will have better input.

“Between Julian and Cyrus, which one would you pick for Hart?”

Julian’s the classic British boys’ school type top: enjoys paddles and buggering, and he’s quite handsome. Raised in Hong Kong by a Chinese mother and an English father, he’s got fabulously British-accented English to show for it. He’s a trans man who doesn’t have any interest in surgery to transition, partly because I know he’s planning on a family and wants to have babies himself. He binds and packs though and has perfected the art of walking through the world as a man.

Meanwhile Cyrus looks like an Adonis: blond hair long enough to pull into a low club and beautifully lean. He’s a fashion photographer, and he dresses to kill. He frequents the clubs and looks absolutely drool-worthy in the leather pants and boots he favors. Abs even I’d like to lick if I didn’t think we’d tear each other to shreds in the end. He might appear to be mild-mannered, but the man can be stone-cold when he’s topping. Perhaps a bit too cold.

I appreciate Matthew’s thoughtfulness, knowing he’s giving this due consideration. When he answers, it’s with confidence. “Mr. Davies, sir.”

Julian, then. “Why’s that?”

My question’s more out of curiosity than anything else. I happen to agree, but I’m interested to see if Matthew’s reasoning is the same as my own or if he’s thought of something else that will tip the scales further in Julian’s favor.

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