The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6)

by Tamsen Parker

  I raise an eyebrow, and a lovely flush creeps slowly across his cheeks, the barest pink that turns his light brown skin the same color as the cameos my great-grandmother favored before she died. I remember sitting on her lap and being fascinated by the detailed carvings, the ivory raised from the oval in a perfect imitation of life. That’s the shade Matthew takes on when he’s self-conscious, but not embarrassed.

  “It’s possible I put Post-its on the ones I thought Mr. Hart might favor. Given what I know about him.”

  “Thank you, Matthew. That was considerate. Don’t play coy, though. I’m sure you have at least as good an idea of what Hart would like in a partner as Hart does himself. I thought I might review these in the den. Do you have time to join me?”

  The unspoken insinuation is on your hands and knees, under my feet, and his eyes brighten before they dart to his computer.

  “If you have too much to do, that’s fine. I won’t keep you. This is want, not need.”

  “Isn’t it my job to give you both?”

  “Of course, darling boy, and you’re very good at your job. Why don’t you tick one item off your to-do list and then join me? I’m sure I’ll still be reviewing these when you’re through.”

  Matthew ducks his chin in a quick nod and sits immediately, poised at his computer as if ready to do battle. And he is. With administrative tasks to get to his reward: being my living, breathing footstool.

  I tuck the folders under my arm and grab a glass of orange juice on my way to the den. I’d usually have coffee because coffee is one of life’s great socially acceptable pleasures, but I’m already feeling a bit tetchy and too much caffeine would probably nudge that feeling toward edgy or, worse yet, ornery. I’ve got back-to-back clients later today, though if I have my way they’ll soon be front-to-front because they’d make a handsome pair. I’ll have to enlist Matthew to force their meet-cute.

  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 he doesn’t want, 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.

  “Must I answer that, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he’s more like you.”

  That hits me square in the chest, an impact right to the heart that jolts me in a way hits do. It obviously doesn’t hurt, but I can feel pressure, force, and I do. I clear my throat to get rid
of the sensation.

  “Right. Well, I guess we’re done here, then. I should get ready for Collette.”

  “You’ve got Tariq first today, sir.”

  “Yes, of course…” It’s not often I feel adrift, but I do right now. I have work to focus on, not this yenta business. It’s done, then. Julian. Julian and Hart, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Well, more likely Allie being tied to the trunk while Julian stripes his shapely ass with a cane or birches his back and then fucks him until his abs and pecs and the fronts of his thick thighs are scratched by the bark. Details. Details that happen to be getting me hard, but details nonetheless.

  I swing my feet off Matthew’s back and take up Julian’s folder, leaving the rest on the floor because Matthew will take care of them as he does with everything else. I’m about to leave, but there’s something else I need to do.

  Striding back over to Matthew, I take a deep breath before I lay a hand on the back of his neck and stroke beneath his ear. “You did as you were asked, Matthew. I’m not unhappy with you. Go back to work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‡

  Julian is as preppily stylish and handsome as I remember him being. Navy blazer with a perfectly tucked pocket square, sleeves rolled up to show off a brightly striped shirt and shapely wrists. He sits across the table from me, sipping a Pimm’s cup with a decidedly enquiring look playing over his regular and somewhat delicate features.

  “What’s all this about, then?”

  He’s lived here for ten years, but he’s still got a bit of that upper-crust accent and I don’t blame him. It’s sexy as fuck but can turn deliciously malevolent on a dime.

  “You’re not trying to get in my pants again are you, old boy?”

  He winks at me, and I let him see my teeth, though it’s hardly a smile. My Moscow Mule is a more pleasant place to focus my attention than on Julian’s achingly perfect face, that ridiculous swoop of shiny black hair only the English seem to be able to pull off without looking like complete and utter ninnies.

  “No. Though if you ever decide to switch sides of the wicket…”

  “Are you trying to make a cricket joke? That’s adorable.”

  He takes another drink and regards me with the quiet, unnerving concentration Allie will flourish under. “Seriously. I haven’t heard from you for a while and you haven’t been around much. Is everything all right? Do you need a favor? Anyone giving you trouble?”

  “No, nothing of the sort. In fact, I’ve got a favor I’d like to do for you.”

  Julian’s perfectly arched brows inch up his forehead, and he leans forward, hands steepling over his glass. “Do tell.”

  Ah, yes. I’ve piqued his interest. “I’ve got someone for you. He’s new, but I’ve worked with him quite a bit.”

  Yes, worked him over. With a flogger, with a cane, with my hand, bound him in my ropes, come in his mouth, and fucked his virgin ass.

  “He’s a good-looking man, little rough around the edges, but submits quite beautifully if you can earn it. You’ll have to because he could bench press you. Intelligent but not particularly educated, ex- and perhaps future military. Loyal to a fault and proud as hell. And frankly, he’s a damn fine cocksucker. Interested?”

  Julian’s eyes light up, I’m sure imagining Allie on his knees fellating one of his favorite strap-ons. “Given that you’ve described every fantasy I’ve ever had, I’d say yes. Tell me more about this prize. Starting with his name.”

  “Hart. Allie Hart.”

  “Allie Hart.” The words roll off Julian’s tongue, between his perfect teeth and through his narrow lips. I hate the way he caresses them, as if he’s already got Allie under his control, but that’s the point of this whole thing, right? It’s time to wrap Hart back up, stick a big red bow on him, and hand him over to someone who’ll be able to play for keeps, who’ll cherish and nurture him, and yes, beat the ever-loving crap out of him.

  Matthew was right to put Julian at the top of the pile. I believe he’s precisely the man for the job, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to play kinky Santa Claus yet. I’m going to make Julian work for this, just to prove I can. And because Allie deserves that. Someone who’ll fight for him, not someone who wants to play a bizarre Pygmalion and then send him on his way.

  *

  A few weeks later finds us at another one of Elouisa’s soirees. She’s put on a speakeasy theme this time, and the people who work for her look darling in flapper dresses and twenties-style suits. Prohibition, you were adorable.

  I’ve been taking Allie out more than usual. More parties, more clubs, “accidentally” running into Julian at more than one event and analyzing Allie’s response to him. The way Allie’s eyes linger on the places where Julian’s clean cut and bespoke suits hug his body… Matthew was right, and I’ll have to tell him so. Yes, Allie likes the look of Julian, and the feeling is mutual. If the devil himself looked more like an angel, he couldn’t be devising more wicked plans for a man than Julian is for Allie.

  When we’ve not been in Julian’s presence, I’ve also made mention of the fact that Julian is trans. I wasn’t sure how Allie would react, given we’ve never discussed it, but after a momentary expression of surprise, he’d shrugged. “He’s hot.”

  Yes, he is. And though I haven’t detailed what’s under Julian’s clothes—because I wouldn’t do that for any other potential partner, and Allie didn’t ask—I don’t think it will be an issue. If anything, I think Allie might delight in the idea of being able to have children with his partner without having to adopt. They’d be doting parents too, and the image has tugged more than once at my heartstrings.

  Allie responds too to Julian’s teasing, his easy conversation. A bit nervous perhaps, looking to me for approval when they’re sitting next to each other, leaning in close to speak in each other’s ears because it had been too loud in the club to be heard otherwise. I like creating forced intimacy. And it’s working.

  If that weren’t precisely my intention, I might be jealous. Or perhaps that’s what that creeping sour feeling at the back of my throat is. I take another sip of my cocktail to douse it because things are going precisely according to plan, and isn’t that what I like best of all? Getting my way? So I’ve claimed.

  While I might have moments of wanting to keep Allie to myself, that’s not the natural order of things. I’d tire of him sooner or later, and it’s better this way. To make him feel cherished and precious the entire way through. To never have him doubt his worth or how fabulously alluring he is.

  It’s better this way. It is.

  Allie knows, when we’re at Elouisa’s, drinking’s allowed because there’ll be light if any play tonight, so when a waitress comes over with a dozen drinks in one of those trays an old-fashioned cigarette girl would carry, I caution him. “Only one.”

  His eyes light up, and the corner of his mouth curls. It feels somehow as though his impish expression is connected to my stomach because it lurches. He thinks I’m promising something I have no intention of delivering. I try to assuage my guilt by telling myself Julian will give it to him. Julian is willing and able and, I daresay, downright keen.

  “Then which one should I have?”

  I like that he’s asked my opinion. Allie’s not much for cocktails, but his appreciation for them is growing. Given this is a twenties-themed fete, I make my best guesses about what the various concoctions are and get confirmations from the waitress.

  “I’ll be having a sidecar, but for you? I’d say a Tuxedo #2 would be more to your liking.”

  He nods because he trusts me to pick something he’ll like, to know his tastes, to want him to enjoy himself even if the thing looks a bit foufy. When I hand him the drink and he takes a sip, he smiles.

  “It’s good.”

  I hope he feels the same about Julian. As he takes another sip and grins at me, I start to feel more confident about my plan.

  “No, seriously, this is really good. Thin
k Matty could learn to make one?”

  “For you, anything.”

  A tentative bud of warmth starts to blossom in my belly alongside the cold cinders of disappointment. This is going to be okay. I only want the best for him, and he’s going to be able to see that. Hart’s a reasonable, if passionate, sort.

  We’ve nearly circled the entire house, looking in on the various delights Elouisa’s provided for her guests, when I see Julian, doing a more than respectable Charleston with a female companion.

  Why does my heart sink further into my stomach? Julian can dance too. That’s wonderful news. If I’d known, that would’ve been the clincher. When the song ends and he excuses himself from his partner with a dashing bow and kiss to her knuckles, he walks over, wiping a glimmer of sweat from his hairline with a big smile on his face.

  “Rey. Hart. Fancy seeing you here.”

  I hope Allie doesn’t see the wink Julian less-than-surreptitiously throws me. As it is, it makes me grind the teeth in the back of my mouth. Must have Matthew make me a dentist appointment, if he hasn’t already. I have to consciously slacken my jaw so I don’t grate out the words. “Yes, it’s a real shock, Davies. I see you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Very much so, yes. Elouisa’s a love, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is.”

  We talk for a while, and I watch Julian flirt with Allie, try and succeed to make him smile and laugh. When he manages to make Allie blush in that full-body way of his, that’s my cue. I should go and let this run its course. A course that will no doubt involve sweat and sex and pleading, finely controlled violence and loving, open-mouthed kisses. The start of a journey for them both, into a relationship that will get carried along like a leaf in a stream of inevitability because I’m really fucking good at this.

  That’s what I should take comfort in as I extricate myself from this conversation, remove myself from this equation. What’s that called again? Simplifying? Math was never my particular strong suit. I’ll leave the numbers to Matthew. But yes, simplify. Neither Julian nor Allie are built for a long-term ménage, and while I don’t mind playing the third wheel—do it all the time, actually—it’s not a permanent solution.