As we make our way through the bacchanalia, I keep an eye out for drugs. I know Elousia indulges in private, but she doesn’t usually permit them at her parties. Sometimes people think rules don’t apply to them, though. If that’s the case, I’ve got to get Allie out of here. If he ever feels as though he’s got the chance to go back into the military, I wouldn’t want him to be prevented from it by an arrest. He wouldn’t touch them, but I’m not going to give some douchebag cop who shows up for a noise complaint any excuse. But I see no evidence of coke nor smell any evidence of weed.
Finally, we get to a room where people are dancing, including a sweat-glistening and happy Elouisa. She’s wearing this impossibly glamorous sixties-style gown, her black hair done up in a beehive, and as always, seeing her brings a smile to my face.
“Rey!” Her exclamation parts the sea of people cavorting around her, and when she reaches me, she kisses both my cheeks. “How’s my favorite sadist?”
I don’t think Elouisa has a sadistic bone in her body, but she’s never seemed put off by my proclivities, understanding my partners are people who find the flipside gratifying. If everyone’s enjoying themselves, I don’t think she gives a shit what anyone does.
“Very well, thanks. You’re looking radiant as usual. Hope you’re feeling the same.”
“Oh, you know me. If I don’t feel that way, I fix it. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Hart, this is our hostess, Elouisa. Elouisa, this is Hart. He’s finding your soiree quite…educational.”
Allie looks far more at home now that we’re in a room that could be a club, except the music is from the sixties, that distinctive Wall of Sound. They smile and shake, a comfortable greeting, but soon Allie’s searching over Elouisa’s shoulder. Does he know someone here?
“Your friend looks as though he wants to get out on the dance floor, Rey. Don’t let me stop you.”
It’s true. I know Allie likes to dance. God help me, my balls ache with the thought. Having him grind up on me, his body hard and lithe at the same time, his movements intimating sex in a deliciously unsubtle way. Fuck me. I hadn’t planned on doing anything with him here because he’s not exactly an exhibitionist. Maybe the Motown classics won’t be so bad. Surely I can control myself during Chubby Checker’s middle school dance classic “The Twist?”
Except when Allie drags me farther into the crowd and starts to move, I realize I’m a total and utter goner. The movie was called Dirty Dancing for a reason. It’s because, despite the bubble-gum pop sound and production values that sound downright juvenile now, this music is sexy as fuck. The way he moves…
“I thought you were more of a house music kind of guy.”
Allie shakes his head as he rolls his hips into me, pressing his ass right up against the erection throbbing in my pants. “I listened to my Jackson Five tapes so much they broke. This is the music I learned to dance to. What my dad liked. My first love.”
The word coming out of his mouth stabs a knife through the easy veil of the evening, but I don’t want to let it show. I want to keep dancing, have him close to me, show him a good time. I want him to think fondly of me when all this is over.
Over.
I should start looking for someone else for Allie. A suitable partner now that he’s more confident and comfortable asking for what he wants and not being ashamed when he gets it. Maybe not a forever-type partner because he’s still so green, but at least someone to show him what else is out there. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll find someone he can bring to those family barbeques he mentions occasionally, who won’t have to fabricate what they do. Who they are.
I don’t mind playing, but I can’t see him wanting to live like that. Besides, it’s not an option. I’ve helped him, and it’s time to let him go. Like flipping a house. It’s what I do, except with people. Buy the ones no one else wants and, with varying amounts of time, money, and effort, turn them into someone’s dream home. Then I move on. I’ve made a good living this way, and I’ve been happy doing it. Deeply satisfied. Some of them have taken longer to rehab and some have been harder to let go of than others, but in the end, I find them good partners.
Helping people is the best and most important thing you can do.
The frenetic pace of the last song has melted into the slower, more sensual beat of Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs, imploring his lover to stay. Allie turns to face me, moving in close and resting a hand on my hip. When I don’t tut or scold him immediately, his eyes meet mine, asking for permission.
This moment, this dance, I don’t need control of, so I raise my chin. He grips me harder, the pads of his fingers digging into my flesh possessively and pulling me in until we’re so close I feel his every inhale, can smell the scent of his exertion. We’re pressed together from chest to hip, the layers of fabric between us providing the sweet frustration of friction. His erection is a not-so-subtle pressure at the juncture of where hip meets thigh, and I’m rubbing against him the same way.
He sets a suggestive rhythm, and I let him. Allow him to circle his pelvis, rocking into me, frustrating me. His sweat between us dampens our clothes, and I slide a hand up to the back of his neck because I want to feel it, the small, wet beads of effort. Because I can’t get enough, I tug at him, bringing his forehead down to meet mine so our breath intermingles and we become a single sultry being.
As Maurice entreats his partner, so too do I. “Stay.”
“Hmm?”
Allie’s forehead wrinkles in confusion against my own, and I resist the urge to tell him I didn’t say anything.
“Stay,” I repeat, stroking the side of his neck with my thumb as my ribcage shrinks a size. That’s by far a more likely explanation than my heart beating hard enough it feels as though it’s trying to escape into Allie’s body through layers of cotton, wool, blood, and bone. When I said it, I knew somewhere deep down I hadn’t meant it lightly. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I foster people; I don’t keep them. So like a fucking coward, I continue. “Tonight. Come home with me.”
“Sure.” He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and I imagine that easy smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. Because obviously he’s coming home with me. Why wouldn’t he when he knows what’s waiting for him is a veritable smorgasbord of carnal delights? I should be relieved he didn’t read any more into it than that. Somehow disappointment leaches out of my core, and suddenly it’s not sex-imbued sweat between us. It feels like sour panic, and I want to forget this cloying uncertainty as soon as possible.
Allie’s mouth has always been a good distraction, so I drag him down to kiss, his perfectly supple lips giving way to mine. For the last thirty torturous seconds of the song, I kiss him, drawing him in with both hands, my fingers and mouth demanding he yield to me, and he does.
I suck at his lower lip, making it swollen and sensitive, the better to bite. Which I do—hard enough to make him gasp—before finding his tongue with mine. Luckily, the next song isn’t so filled with earnest longing, and I can pretend the things I want—Allie naked and on his knees for me, Allie in my bed, Allie craning his neck to beg for a collar—are fueled by lust.
It’s not ideal to be this attached to one of my charges, but it’s happened before. Not exactly like this, though. It’s been one thing or another. Sexual or emotional. Intellectual or the aligning of stars in the kink universe. For someone to get such high marks across the board is unheard of. Only India’s ever come so close, and that was never a real possibility for the obvious reasons. No wonder I’m feeling a bit out of my depth.
One more night then of indulgent debauchery. One more night I’ll allow us this…infatuation. That’s what it is. That’s all it is. And tomorrow…tomorrow I’ll set about finding someone good enough for my Hart.
Chapter Nineteen
‡
In the dull light of the early morning, I sneak downstairs to where Matthew’s in front of his computer already.
“Coffee, sir?”
“Please.”
If Matthew’s surprised I’ve stumbled down here in sweats and a T-shirt, he doesn’t let it show. Just gets up and heads to the kitchen. I don’t ask how long he’s been here or how long he’ll stay. I hardly ever have to worry about him or what he’s doing. He gets his stuff done and would no matter how much or how little attention I pay him.
Besides, we’ve both got the same agenda. Leave our men in bed to sleep and get our work done so we can go back and enjoy their company without the mundane to-do list eating at the pleasurable hours of the day.
So I get down to it, sorting my emails and voicemails, looking at my calendar and asking Matthew to make travel arrangements. I’m going to be out of town a lot for the next several months. Yet another reason I should start looking for someone else to take Allie. He deserves better than a part-time partner. It works well for Cris and India, but Allie’s not like Cris, who enjoys quiet and solitude and plenty of time to get out on his surfboard or putter around in the kitchen. Nor is he like India, who has so much space in her brain taken up by running her business.
No, Allie’s a social creature. He needs attention. He should have someone who will come home to him every day. If not every day, most days. Not like me, who spends the majority of my life telling other people what to do with theirs and gallivanting around the world to do it.
Matthew and I work in companionable silence for a few hours, and I wave him off around ten-thirty when he asks if I need anything before he goes.
“No, thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I smile at his “yes, sir” as he heads out the door to be with his lover. Speaking of…I’m surprised Allie hasn’t shuffled downstairs yet. He’s not usually such a late sleeper, and it’s not as though I was hard on him last night.
After I finish up the last of the imperative emails, I decide he’s slept long enough. Selfish perhaps, but that’s a perk of being me. If I want something, I get to say so, and it’s rare I get turned down.
Upstairs, there’s silence in the hallway. As there should be. Soundproofing doesn’t come cheap, but I’ve got the best. God love my contractors for being the best in the business. Opening the door to my room, I’m expecting the soft, even sounds of dreaming breaths. But no, there’s no Allie in my bed, and there’s light streaming out from under the bathroom door along with music. What is…
A smile spreads across my face as I recognize the Jackson Five playing on tinny speakers over the spray of the shower. I’ve got to teach him how to use the stereo system because the sound quality on his cell is terrible.
I knock softly before entering, but given how loud he’s got the music turned up, there’s no way he’s going to hear me. Honestly, I’d like to catch a glimpse of unguarded Allie. It’s not something I get to see outside of when we’re doing a scene or having sex. I understand why he tends to be somewhat uneasy around me. Most people are, until they’re completely comfortable. God do I love that tipping point. I coax people over the edge, issue invitations, hold out my hand, encourage them in any way I can, but always that last step is their own.
I get why Allie isn’t there yet, but I want to shove him over. Give yourself to me already. He makes me impatient, which is a dangerous thing. I shake the thought from my head, because right now all I want to do is enjoy him. And he makes it so damn easy.
When I’ve stepped into the bathroom, he’s standing in the shower, shampoo bottle in hand and he’s using it for a microphone. The song’s switched over, and he’s belting it out now, asking someone to love him till they don’t know how. It hits me someplace I don’t want to think about, so instead I focus on how he’s moving and that body.
Naked with water sluicing down his dark brown skin while he jams out to the sounds, narrow hips circling and swiveling in a way that makes me want to pin them down and force him to be still for me. He’s got perfect rhythm, and he’s having so much damn fun he doesn’t even notice I’m here. So I watch him, loving the unconscious way he moves, how his muscles flex and slide. The perfect curve of his buttocks, the mouth-watering thickness of his thighs, and the strong planes of his back. The swell of his biceps as he curls the shampoo bottle closer to hit a high note. Impressive.
It’s then he executes a tight turn under the fall of water and strikes a pose that makes him look like a goddamn Adonis. That broad chest with the ink I’ve come to respect, if not love. The washboard abs the water clings to and I don’t blame it at all, though I’d rather lick it off. And that thick cock lying heavy against his thigh.
I’ve had enough of watching.
He opens his eyes then, catching me staring, and instead of getting that dark flush in his cheeks, he grins, and I can’t help but return the expression with a shake of my head. He is, quite simply, delightful.
With a pause of no more than a beat, he starts up his dancing again, extending an arm and beckoning to me through the glass. I could say no. Demand he get out so I can drag him downstairs to the dungeon and do all kinds of things to that body I’ve been admiring. Make him cry out in surrender and pleading, force him into letting me into the depths of himself. But he is already, in the sweetest of ways. He’s inviting me to share in his exuberant display of joy, and hell if I’d ever say no to that.
So I strip off my T-shirt, aiming for the laundry basket in the corner but not caring when I fall short, and push the loose sweats over my hips and to the floor. I strut toward him, picking up his rhythm, and it’s so ridiculous I have to laugh. Yeah, we’re dancing with the damn stars in my bathroom. Before I get there, I take his cell off the counter, press a few buttons, and suddenly Michael’s flooding the bathroom through the speakers. That’s more like it.
I push open the glass door and step through to join Allie under the flow of water. Unsurprisingly, he’s not figured out the whole system, and I take a minute to turn on the side jets so we’re completely soaked and spinning in surround spray. Never have I been so happy I insisted on such an indulgently enormous shower stall. It’s come in handy before, but there’s something about this that makes me feel like, yes, of course, this is its sole purpose: aquatic dance party.
Allie makes room for me and we dance. Not close like we had last night because, for the moment, this isn’t about sex. It’s about fun, the ecstasy of moving to music and being carefree. Why don’t I do this more often? I know why. My gaze wanders guiltily to the sweats in a heap on the floor, knowing I silenced my phone and there’s probably someone calling me right now, needing me.
Allie catches my hand and tugs, dragging my attention away from my electronic ball-and-chain and back to the present. Our present.
He spins me around and then draws me close. Clearly he’s had enough of having anything between us. He keeps dancing, though, laying one hand just above the rise of my ass and keeping ahold of my hand with the other. I raise an eyebrow in silent inquiry: you’re leading?
He shrugs and smiles, his white teeth so damn bright they practically glow, and I can’t find it in me to argue. Why the hell not? Besides, he’s a better, more enthusiastic dancer than I am. It’s not easy at first to give him control of my movements—yielding even in this sweet and silly way is somewhat unnerving—but when I can find it in myself to let go and give this to him, such a small thing, there’s this surge of warmth in my chest. This is fun, really fun. And sexy as hell.
Our wet bodies slick against each other as he shepherds me through the movements, rolling our hips and threading our thighs between one another until our dicks touch and it makes my breath hitch.
What the hell? Am I a teenager again? Even as a teen, maybe especially as a teen, I wasn’t this carefree. I didn’t have this much fun. The world wasn’t a particularly nice place. It still isn’t, but for a few minutes I can forget about all that and enjoy the electric contact of Allie’s body pressed against mine, miming the sex I’ll be having with him in the not-so-distant future.
I reach down to cup his ass and squeeze, and his responding grin is sly and lazy.
As if he’s saying, Not yet, Walter. The impatience flares again because dammit I want him now and who is he to tell me no? If he wants to play who can last longer, I will win that game every time.
Even though I’m growing hard against him, I don’t let up. Oh no. I lean in until we’re entwined from knee to chest. Our slight difference in height makes it easy for me to dip my head and kiss his neck. I let my tongue slide over the corded tendons there, taking up the beaded water with a lick.
The taste of him is dulled by the water and it’s frustrating. So I do what any exasperated man would do: Bite. Hard.
In that sweet spot where neck becomes shoulder, there’s a protuberance of muscle I can sink my teeth into and I do. Hard enough to make Allie yelp, but not hard enough to break the skin. I’m going to savor the marks when I’ve got him spread out underneath me, the way he allows me to claim him.
I lick where I’ve bitten to soothe away the sting, and when he’s relaxed against me, I bite again. The marks will overlap with the first ones, and I picture the indents in my head. Plan my next strike as he laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh, though, but an incredulous, surrendering one. How I can glean so much from one simple sound is astounding, but it’s Allie and I’ve studied him and his reactions so well I know them almost as well as I know my own. Better, perhaps, because he actually responds to the stimuli I lay on his body whereas I have to fake mine.
It’s times like now I chafe against the reins that hold me back. No breaking the skin? That’s bullshit. I’d like to taste his blood and make him scream. I wouldn’t want to damage him permanently, though, wound his fine flesh. I wonder how he’d feel about needles. Fine gauge to puncture but not core, a few to start, maybe a five-pointed star on his chest, or a starburst on his biceps…
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 18