Personal Geography (23 page)

Come eleven, my
standard wake-up time when I’m in Kona, I’m shoveling French toast with pomegranate syrup into my mouth. Hard play always leaves me starving, and Crispin’s put out quite the spread this morning, knowing I’ll be ravenous. It was the smell of frying bacon that roused me out of my bed at all.

He’ll have to take it easy on my back for the rest of the weekend, marked and throbbing as it is, but I’m up for—no, desperate for—more. As soon as I get my fill of this French toast. And maybe some eggs. And papaya. And coffee. Definitely more coffee.

Crispin kicks back in his chair, watching me stuff myself silly. I’m sure he ate before I got up and is politely having a few bites of sweet bread so I don’t feel like a total pig. I don’t mind, really. He takes pleasure in my enjoyment of the food he’s made; his gaze is appreciative, not incredulous or insulting, as I devour everything in my path.

Hunter used to enjoy feeding me, having me kneel beside him at the table and take morsels from his manicured hand. He’d had me do it during our first official playdate, while he and Rey negotiated the terms of our contract. It was disconcerting at first to be on my knees like some accessory or pet, but I sat back on my heels and focused on my breathing while they hashed out details of the agreement that would dictate my life for the next six years. I’d thought being fed like that would make me feel debased. That was fine. I was up for a little degradation. It would’ve been easy to stumble into humiliation with a single comment or off-glance. When no one blinked an eye, I’d let myself relax…and I’d felt precious, sheltered, revered.

After the meal was over and terms agreed upon, Hunter had tipped up my chin, instructing me to look at him. That’s when embarrassment had flooded me because he could tell how much I’d enjoyed being at his feet.

“Such a dainty little thing with such nice manners. Did you like that, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir.”

He’d eased my mortification with a sweep of his thumb across my cheek, telling me there was no need to be ashamed. He was so pleased, and everyone there understood me. I’d been so grateful for his acceptance and indulgence. I’d soaked it up like a desperate sponge. That was the first moment I’d felt truly beholden to him.

I try to stifle the bittersweet memory in my mind while chewing yet another mouthful of my feast. I’m feeling pretty successful until Crispin interrupts my reverie.

“Who’s Hunter?”

My throat goes tight, and I can’t swallow the fluffy, perfectly seasoned eggs on my tongue. I cough and choke, grabbing the napkin from my lap to smother the noises—and in case I have to spit out my food because I don’t know if I can force it down.

After a minute—during which Crispin becomes so alarmed he pushes out of his chair and I have to ward him off with a viciously raised finger—the panic subsides and my throat opens enough to let the forkful of food slip down. My heart is beating hard, and my breath is short.

“What do you know about Hunter?”

“Nothing.” He sits back down and holds his hands above the table, open as if to ward off my attack or perhaps to show he’s got nothing to hide.

You’re hiding something, Crispin. You didn’t get that name from me, and there’s no way in hell Rey gave it to you either.

“I’m going to ask you one more time before I walk out of here. What the fuck do you know about Hunter?”

“Settle down, India. There’s no need for—” I push my chair back from the table, primed to make a break for my room, and Crispin shakes his head. “Could you open up for once without me having to use a crowbar? Christ.”

I wrap my arms around my waist like I’ve just been punched. I may as well have been. I know I’m a complete and utter head case, and I’m well aware that Crispin is far more patient with me than I deserve. Which is maybe why it hurts so much when he snaps. I’m such a disaster I’ve made the second-most tolerant man alive lose his cool.

My stomach churns as I review my options. I could leave as I’ve threatened, but I don’t want to. I could give him an ultimatum—
apologize or I’m gone
—but what if he tells me to go? I’d be devastated, but I would. He doesn’t owe me jack shit, never mind an apology. My heart takes a beat that feels too big, like too much blood is trying to fight its way through the valves. However cavalier my attitude, however aloof I act, I don’t want to lose him.

I could tell him about Hunter… But the fear strikes hot, and I brace my hands against the table. Not an option.

I’m still sifting through the possibilities when Crispin lays a hand over mine. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you. Don’t leave, please.”

Despite his peace offering, my body’s still pulsing with adrenaline, and the beast inside is screaming
run
. But I’m a person, not an animal. I’ve got a PhD in self-control, and I should use it better. If Crispin hadn’t known before that Hunter’s a sore spot—well, more like a gaping wound that refuses to heal—he does now. Fuck all.

His thumb strokes across my wrist where his hand’s still covering mine. The weight and the motion settle the worst of my panic, and he dips his head until I look at him.

“Last night I came to check on you.”

I remember. I acknowledge him with a blink, and he continues.

“When I was leaving, you said ‘Hunter, please.’”

My face flames with embarrassment, and I wrench my eyes from Crispin’s. How did I say it? I begged him for so many things. I’ve been dreaming about Hunter at home, but I thought I was safe from him here. Apparently the strange and delicious magic Crispin works on me doesn’t extend that far.

My hand fists under his on the table. “What else did I say?”

“I don’t know.” I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Honest to god, I don’t. I was walking through the door, and I kept going. I didn’t hear anything else. I swear.”

I want to pull my hand away and run to my room. Slam the door, pack up my things, and leave. Never come back. But it’s not Crispin’s fault Hunter still holds so much sway over me I talk to him in dreams, and I believe that he left. He knows how rabid I am about my privacy, and he’s learned his lesson: there are lines he’s not allowed to cross.

“I don’t talk about Hunter.” Even Rey broaches the topic as little as possible. I can’t remember the last time I said his name out loud.

“Okay.”

I thread my free arm across my stomach and hold tight, my whole body wound up taut and twitchy.

“Was he your Dom?”

I hold myself tighter, wishing I could shrivel up and disappear. If I weren’t clenching my jaw so hard, my chin would be quivering.

“Was he your first?”

Crispin’s prodding, gentle as it is, is not acceptable. I need to nip this in the bud, so my tone is enough to snap him like a too-curious twig. “What part of ‘I don’t talk about him’ did you not understand?”

There’s hesitation from the other side of the table. He’s weighing his options as I’ve weighed mine, and perhaps this will be the time he decides that he’s had enough, that what he gets from me isn’t an even exchange for what he gives. It’s not. For once, I wish that I could shut off the panic that electrifies my mental fence and drop my emotional drawbridge—because he deserves it.

But instead of a bitten-off curse and instructions to go pack my things, I get more rhythmic stroking of my skin that lets me loosen my hand under his. “Can I ask you one thing?”

I smother the kneejerk “no.” I can give him one question. One tiny, vomit-inducing, rib-crushing question. I hate how small my voice sounds as I say, “Make it good because it’s the only one you’re going to get.”

“Did he hurt you?”

My lids sink closed, and the air leaves my lungs as I roll my lips between my teeth. Did he hurt me? I define pain by how Hunter made me relate to it. He’s a fucking yardstick branded into my brain. If I made a documentary about my time with Hunter, I’d call it
Dr. Strangelove or:
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Whip
. And the crop. The cane. Clamps.

The first time Hunter ordered me to crawl to him, the command sent a thrill of pleasure through me and I struggled to keep my breathing measured. When I’d settled on hands and knees, I crept toward him and felt an ache, a need deep in my core. I’d done it before, for Rey, but knowing the man on the other end wasn’t just my teacher, my mentor, but someone for whom my submission was a turn-on, raised that simple act to the sublime.

By the time I’d reached him, I was more aroused than I’d ever been. That’s how it had been with everything. Every depraved act, every filthy word—I learned to crave, beg for, love it all. Hurt and love are so closely entwined in my head. What’s the difference, really? But now’s not the time to hold a seminar on the philosophy of love. A simple answer for a simple question: Did Hunter hurt me?

“Physically? No more than you do.”

That’s a bald-faced lie. Hunter beat the shit out of me on a regular basis and in ways Crispin wouldn’t dream of, but I know what he’s asking and this isn’t a lie. Not really. I’ve answered the spirit of his question, if not the letter. Hunter followed the rules. He abided by every last word of our contract. He played safely, he respected my safewords, and he lavished me with aftercare. He was a model Dominant up until the very end. I have no physical scars from anything he did to me, as promised. As for the rest…

“Okay,” Crispin says, squeezing my hand. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

I drag my eyes to his. I’m not expecting to get off without more of an interrogation, but his expression is earnest, if pained and discouraged. He’s going to let this go. I regard him warily, waiting for him to change his mind because it’s so blatantly obvious there’s more to the story, but he squeezes my hand once again before he lets go and leans back in his chair.

“Are you finished with breakfast? I’ve got plans for you today. You’re going to need your strength, so eat up.”

The food on my plate holds no attraction for me anymore, though I’d been packing it away like a linebacker five minutes ago. “I’m finished.”

“Good.” There’s a devious glint in his eye, and more of the tension leaks from my body. I know that look. I love that look. It’s preceded some very good things in the past. He stands, takes up his plate and mine, and starts over to the kitchen. “I’ll clean up in here. You go get ready. I’ll see you in the studio in twenty minutes.”

The anxiety is dissipating, and I gather up the scraps of my uncertainty. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. He’s not thrilled, but he’s going to let me have my way.

“Go on, then,” he urges from where he’s piling dishes in the sink.

“Yes, sir.” I latch on to the familiarity of the words dropping from my lips, and it centers me, locates my body and my mind in space. I know the rules for this game. This is a part I know how to play flawlessly.

‡

I
t takes me
longer than I’d like to admit to realize what he’s up to.

He’s not touching me.

I’d been a bit smug when my standard bathing had been shorter than normal. I’d thought it was because he was so eager to start. I can’t touch emotional intimacy with a ten-foot pole, but sex is my bargaining chip. My finely honed submission is what makes me worth putting up with. I thought he’d put me through my paces to reassure himself that, even if India is off-limits, Kit is open like an all-night diner, but now I’m not so sure.

He ordered me to the center of the room and wrapped cuffs around my wrists, my ankles, my thighs, above my elbows. Surrounded by the familiar trappings of bondage, out of the wreckage of this morning’s emotional turmoil, I had started to salvage excitement and arousal. But instead of clipping together the cuffs, forcing me into some lovely contortion that would allow him to torture me, he’d arranged me like a paper doll: feet slightly more than shoulder-width apart, fingers splayed, palms facing forward and not touching my thighs.

“Whatever happens, you’re not to move. Understood?”

I’d said, “Yes, sir,” half an hour ago, and it’s only now I understand his game. He’s not fucking
touching
me. He drags silk over my skin again, and I shudder at the feather-light touch. Then comes the many-stranded suppleness of a deer-hide flogger, the cushiony softness of fur, the smooth wood of a well-loved paddle.

He plies me with all of it, but the pleasure I’ve earned from being praised for following instructions and looking so pretty as I do evaporates, replaced by an uncharacteristic flare of irritation. He’s manipulating me and not in a way I care for.

“Close your eyes.”

When I do, he ties the silky fabric around my head. Not the most effective blindfold—I can still distinguish between shadow and light—but it serves a purpose. I don’t know what he’s doing until he tugs something around my waist, then settles it down to where thigh meets torso. An audible click and a final adjustment clue me in: he’s clipped an elastic band around my hips. My realization is followed by the shock of his fingers on me, finally, parting my labia and settling something over my clit.

I don’t have time to enjoy his touch because, as quickly as it came, it’s gone and in its place—