Personal Geography by Tamsen Parker

look at, but I won’t take any longer.
    Instead, I crawl close and lick cautiously. I’m relieved but not surprised that he tastes clean. He showered while I was settling in. I start my attentions in earnest, licking him from base to tip, finishing with a swirl around the head before taking him into my mouth—not much at first, teasing my way down until I have most of him. I don’t have much of a gag reflex, but this is about as much as I can do. I work at him and feel smug when his hands fist desperately in my hair when I start to use my hands, too. Yes, I’m damn good at giving head.
    I don’t want this over too fast, I want to give him his proverbial money’s worth, show him I like him, but not make him feel like I’m being coy or cruel. It’s several minutes before I intensify my efforts, and he responds with a buck of his hips, fucking my mouth. I follow his cues, letting him thrust into me and set the pace that’s going to take him to the edge.
    “I’m going to come.”
    He doesn’t release my hair but tugs me close to be at the back of my throat. I swallow his release and stroke him with my tongue, finishing him, not letting him go until I’m sure he’s done. I stay on my knees and lay my head on his thigh, waiting for my next instructions. He pets me idly for a few minutes before he tugs at my hair. “In my lap.”
    I climb up, rest against him, and savor his arms coming around me. Sometimes I chafe against being held. It feels too familiar, too intimate, but I like when Cris does it. The man can get away with murder. Kissing, holding—what’s next? Making love? Ugh, Burke, you are losing it.
    “Nicely done, pet. You’re a pleasure.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    I’m pleased by his praise. He’s not effusive, but sincere. I like that Cris is taking his time. It makes me feel relaxed, cared for, willing. Ethan had been this way, too. And Jorah. Not like Krishna. Talk about insatiable. He’d had me more ways than I could count with barely a breather in between. Not that I’d minded, but sitting down had been challenging for three days after I got back. Cyrus was a different story. Most of them warm me up before getting into the heavy stuff, but not him. He was harsh from the second I’d arrived and not in a way I’d cared for. I’d nearly cried as Matty cuddled me on the plane ride back from Helena.
    But the hesitant ones… They’re just as bad. Worse, in some ways. It feels like a waste of my time. With a name like Ivan, I’d been expecting better. But he’d never even gotten around to fucking me and my orgasms—the two I’d managed by virtue of the voices in my head rather than what he was actually doing to me—had been underwhelming. Terrible, indeed. No matter how the rest of this goes, Cris has made it into my top ten. If he keeps it up, he’ll slide into the top five. And if he’s holding back, as I suspect he is, he may medal. We’ll see what else the weekend holds.
    *
    Cris retrieves a dinner of ratatouille that I devour, the eggplant satisfying the desire for something substantial without the weight of meat. I suspect there will be more play before we go to sleep tonight, and I don’t want to gorge myself on this pleasure of the flesh if others await me. When we’ve sated our appetites for food, Cris leans back against the couch and knits his hands over his stomach. His partially clothed body tempts me even in repose.
    I ought to be exhausted. Somewhere deep down, I am. Even light play can be tiring after so much travel and a big time change. It’s not just the physical exertion, either. For however much I enjoy my lost weekends, it’s not easy to give myself over entirely to someone I’ve never met before.
    It’s not so much a trust issue. If something ever happened to me, the perpetrator would either be blackballed from the kink community and/or wind up in the back of a police cruiser before my flight touched down. Rey would make sure of it. He carries an awfully big