Personal Geography by Tamsen Parker Page A

stick. Some of it’s simply the unease that comes from being a guest anywhere. If the Dom is any good, that feeling doesn’t last long because my place is rapidly made clear. Cris is incredibly attentive, and any time uncertainty starts to creep in, he’s been ready with instructions or assurances to keep it at bay.
    “Are you finished?”
    “With dinner?”
    He smirks at my sass. “Yes, pet, with dinner.”
    Ah, pet . While we were eating, our conversation had drifted into something not exclusively Dom/sub. We’re weaving this intricate pattern of threads that need to be tied to keep the tapestry of our game steady, and so far, we haven’t let any slip through our fingers. It’s the same delighted giddiness you get when you sit down to a chessboard or walk onto the tennis court and realize your opponent is a good match. That spark of interest, anticipation, because this is going to be fun.
    “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
    “Then you’ll help me clear, get cleaned up, and meet me back here in twenty minutes.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He pushes off the couch and takes up our plates. I grab our empty glasses and follow him down the walkway to the main house, waiting a few paces away while he puts our dishes in the sink. When we pass by each other, he snags me by the hip, tips up my chin with the knuckle of his forefinger, and stares at me for a few seconds. I want to look away because of how his intense gaze makes me feel, but I can’t. Won’t.
    “I’m looking forward to it.”
    Like a drop of food coloring in water, the pleasure falls hard in my core and billows out, dissipating through my body until it touches my toes. “Me, too. Sir.”
    He smiles, sliding a hand into my hair and tugging slightly. “Good.”
    It hits again. That goddamn desperation for his mouth, for his tongue to part my lips and tangle with mine. A kiss . I have got to get a grip. I tighten my fingers around the glasses so I don’t drop them, give in to my craving, and claw at him. He releases me, and my knuckles turn white gripping glass while I wait for his footsteps to recede. I will not turn around, I will not turn around.
    Eighteen minutes later finds me pushing open the door to the studio. When I step inside, Cris is waiting. Wordlessly, he steers me to the center of the room and removes my robe. Like earlier, he examines me with his hands and his gaze. He studies my skin where he applied restraints, looking for marks, but the only ones he’ll find are the light bruises on my behind I’m certain he left on purpose.
    Still, the fact that he’s taking the time to check so thoroughly what effect his ministrations have had on me before he goes any further warms me in a way I’ve become unfamiliar with outside of when I’m under Rey’s care. Cris’s level of conscientiousness is unparalleled.
    “Are you sore?” He runs a palm over the pale blue break of vessels blooming on one side of my ass.
    “A little, sir.”
    “Too sore?”
    “No, sir.” That level of marking is child’s play. I’d be disappointed if that satisfied him. He squeezes the palmful of flesh, and I inhale as the pressure evokes the earlier spanking. When he steps behind me and begins to knead my cheeks in earnest, focusing on that same damn spot, my lips part and my eyes close.
    “You’ve been an awfully good girl for me, kitten. Perhaps too well-behaved for your own good.”
    Oh? I like where this is heading.
    “I could toy with you, spin you in circles until you screw up, but I get the feeling that could take a while. And why go to all that trouble when all I want to do is put a little color on your ass and then fuck you until you don’t know what day it is?”
    A small noise of hunger is forced from my throat, and my fingers clench in craving. Yes. Screw the reasons, the rationale. Lay your hands on me. Mark my skin before you sink inside me and make me forget everything.
    “Would that bother you, pet, if I took a paddle to you just because I felt like it and