Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  “No, I don’t. The thought of it makes me crazy. But what would make me even crazier is if something happened to you because I was too selfish to let you have what you need. I don’t like it, but if you can’t wait for me, I’ll deal.”

  “I’ll wait for you.” Getting some random person, no matter how carefully curated and screened, to beat and fuck me is no longer enough. I’d sit on my hands for months before I’d consider a stranger over Crispin.

  “Okay, pet.” He pulls me in to kiss my forehead. “Let’s finish getting you undressed and into this tub.”

  I nod my assent, and he takes off the rest of my clothes before handing me into the bath. The hot water and salt feel good as I sink up to my chin and close my eyes.

  “Car’s in the garage?”

  “Yeah, space 417. There’s a card on the visor to get in and out.”

  With a kiss to the top of my head, he’s gone. I must fall asleep because I startle awake in water cool enough to be uncomfortable. Barely conscious, I stumble into my room and drag a shirt from the drawer over my head before I collapse into bed, so tired I fall asleep with the light on.

  *

  I wake up, warm under covers I don’t remember pulling over myself, and it’s dark. The clock says 12:04, and I’m disoriented. Where’s Crispin? Wasn’t he here? Or is this some horrible joke my mind is playing on me? But when I flick on the lamp, there’s a Bangkok Basil menu lying on my bedside table. It wasn’t a trick. He must’ve tucked me in and turned out the light. I roll out of bed and see I’m wearing the T-shirt of his that I’d nicked. That’s embarrassing. Now he knows I took it. I hope he thought it was sweet. He would—the world’s most sentimental man.

  I open my door and pad down the hall to find Crispin sitting on my couch, reading. He looks up and smiles before patting the couch beside him and returning his attention to his book: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, another one I’d suggested. I curl up in the spot under his arm and settle into him, following along but giving up when I remember how much slower he reads than I do. This is easier and more comfortable than I thought it could be. At the end of his chapter, he marks his place with the dust jacket and sets the book on the side table.

  “What are you doing up?”

  “I woke up and you weren’t there.”

  “You weren’t worried, were you? I said I wouldn’t leave.”

  A brief twinge of fear squeezes my insides tight, but I pass it off with a casual, “Not worried. Are you coming to bed soon? It’s late.”

  “Not in Kona.” Right, it’s nine for him. “And I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to sleep in your—”

  “Yes.” There’s a snort-laugh at my eager reply and the way I clutch him tighter. Yes, I want Crispin in my bed. I won’t deprive myself or him of that any longer. Suddenly, it occurs to me to ask him something I should have in the first place, and I sit up.

  “Why are you here?”

  He stiffens beside me. “I thought we talked about this. I want to be with you. Do I need another reason?”

  “No, I… What made you come now? It’s been three months. I mean, I’m glad you did—please don’t take this the wrong way—but why now?”

  “I’d been wanting to, but I couldn’t. I was so stupid, and I couldn’t stand the idea you might tell me to go to hell. But this morning, I saw you on the news and I had to come.”

  “What?”

  “I saw you on the news. You looked tired. You looked like you needed me.”

  “On the news?”

  “Yeah. Your press conference this morning, it made the morning news.”

  “Here it did. I mean, in LA, but…”

  Holy shit. I push away from him, panic slashing through me.

  “Are you saying my press conference was on the national news?”

  “Yes.” His brows wrinkle in confusion, wondering why the fuck I don’t know this. Excellent question. Fuck.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god…”

  “India, what’s wrong?”

  But it’s too late. I’m off the couch and rummaging through my bag for my Blackberry. Jack picks up after two of the longest rings of my life.

  “What’s up, India?”

  “Did you know the LAHA press conference this morning made the national news?”

  “Sure. That wasn’t how I envisioned JVA making the national press, but you did great.”

  “You knew about this, and you didn’t tell me?”

  “You don’t like being in the press. I didn’t want to freak you out.”

  “Well, too fucking late, Jack. I’m freaking.”

  “Why?”

  How am I supposed to explain this? That my parents disowned me years ago and I promised to stay on this side of the country? I haven’t gone back to New York, but I did talk about being in Chicago. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten an outraged phone call already. But I don’t feel like getting into this with Jack.

  “If I’d known I was going to be on TV, I would’ve worn black. It’s slimming.”

  Jack barks a laugh. “Jesus, India, you looked fantastic. We’ll probably be fielding more marriage proposals for you than inquiries about work. We’ve already gotten both.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. And Crispin said I looked tired. That’ll show him. But while I’ve got Jack on the phone…

  “Would it be okay to move that call with Springfield to two?”

  “Not a problem for me. Have Lucy take care of it. She seems to be working out better.”

  “Yes, we’ve come to an understanding, so don’t bang her. I want to keep this one.”

  “You sound like my ex-wife.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of them, come to think of it.”

  “Well, there’s your problem. You need to either: A) stop fucking around; B) be a hell of a lot better at hiding it; or C) find someone who doesn’t care as long as you leave the checkbook on the dresser on your way out.”

  “Do you know any Cs?”

  “Goodnight, Jack.”

  When I hang up, Crispin is staring at me.

  “What?”

  “I still can’t believe you talk to your boss like that.”

  “What? I only said fuck…twice.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Does anyone else besides Matty, Rey, and me know the two sides of India?”

  “Constance and Glory. But aside from that, people either know India or they know Kit. It’s been an either/or proposition for a long time. I don’t entirely understand how you can like both.”

  “Isn’t it enough that I do?”

  “Not really.” I hate saying the words. It’s not that I doubt him. Since he told me way back when that he didn’t play games, he’s never given me any reason to believe otherwise. And even though I’m embarrassed by the insecurity that reveals, I feel like it’s a gift in some way. I want him to take it as it’s meant: that I trust him enough to share this massive uncertainty.

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  Please let this be rhetorical. Don’t make me say it again.

  “It’s never been difficult for me to find partners.” Cocky bastard. “I’m not that demanding, I take good care of my subs, and I’m sadistic enough to get off on hurting women who like to be hurt, but not so much it scares them. If I wanted to play, if I wanted sex, I could get it, no problem. That was great for a long time. But after a while, that gets…boring. And from the first time I saw you—no, even before that. From the first time Rey called me, you’ve presented a challenge. It’s like you kept yourself locked in this safe, and I wanted the combination. I needed to get inside your head, figure out what makes you tick. I wanted every piece of you, and you were so intent on not letting me have a crumb. It drove me up a fucking wall how goddamn cagey you were, but I never wanted anything so badly. And anytime I got you to give me an inch, it felt like a mile from anyone else.”

  I want to protest. It’s not like I was playing hard to get. But maybe that’s why he found my re
ticence compelling instead of merely annoying. It wasn’t some tactical decision to get him to pay attention to me. I doubt he’d tolerate that. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to hear any more, but he silences me with a look that while sharp, isn’t harsh.

  “You’re an impressive woman, India. If I could get you to trust me, if I could gather up all the scraps I had to fight you for and solve this puzzle, it’d be worth it. You’ve been with a lot of guys, and out of all of them, you picked me. I’m the one who could have you, keep you, when no one else could. And in the process, I wanted to let you breathe easier. Maybe not be so afraid.”

  I feel sick and fold my arms tight across my chest, like that might hold in all the living guts he just ripped out of me. He knew? From the start? “You could—”

  “It doesn’t take a Nobel Prize winner to figure out something must’ve gone very wrong at some point for someone like you to think getting on a plane to fuck strangers was her best option.”

  He says this quietly from his place on the couch, and I can’t face him anymore. I want to flip him off, stalk down the hall, slam my bedroom door, and lock him out.

  “Look at me.” Though the movement is fraught, I do. He’s sitting there, calm and solid as can be. A living, breathing promise. “Come here.”

  The urge to flee is strong, and he must know I’m walking on the edge. But he doesn’t pressure me, doesn’t repeat himself. He’s given me everything, and he’s trusting me to give him something in return. I don’t want to disappoint him, but I want to run so badly. The only thing I want more is physical confirmation of what he’s put so baldly in words. That despite my flaws, perhaps even because of them, he loves me. So I fight every natural urge I have and inch toward him until I’m close enough to sit gingerly, stiff as a board, in his lap. He puts his arms around me to pull me in tight, and I melt when he murmurs in my ear, “I love you just the way you are. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‡

  When I wake, it’s to Crispin’s heavy, warm body wrapped tight around mine. His arm is draped over my ribcage, his forearm is nestled between my breasts, and his hand rests at the base of my throat. The air flushes out of my lungs in ecstasy. This couldn’t feel better. Except, when I wriggle back against him, his grip on my throat tightens and I get the feeling I’m not the only one who’s happy to wake this way.

  Nope, not the only one. I’d like to stay in bed with him for the rest of the morning. Okay, the rest of the week, even. But I have a call with Jack and Constance at 10:00 a.m. EST which means I have to haul my sorry, bruised ass out of bed and away from this deliciously warm man who’s making suggestive movements with his hips.

  But when he leans up enough to bite my neck and then my ear? I can spare a few minutes for this.

  A condom and an embarrassingly short time later, we’re lying side by side, panting.

  “Well, that was…”

  “Yeah.”

  We smirk at each other. Enough to take the edge off, but not more than that. This is the cruelest kind of orgasm denial. I could have him half a dozen times again and still not be satisfied. But I can’t because work calls and I always answer.

  He joins me in the shower, but we’re on our best behavior, allowing the minutest of teasings while doing our due diligence to get cleaned up and presentable. It’s strange to be clad in work clothes in front of Crispin, but any self-consciousness disappears when his jaw drops as I come out of the bathroom from doing my hair.

  “How does anyone get any work done in your office?”

  “What? Why?” I check the buttons on my top to make sure I didn’t miss one or some other faux pas, but I think I look okay.

  “Are they not staring at you all day?”

  I narrow my eyes at him, but sweet pleasure tugs the corners of my mouth up. “No, Mr. Ardmore. Some of us are professionals and are used to working day in and day out in the presence of other human beings.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to this.”

  “You’ve got the foreseeable future.”

  *

  Crispin drops me off at work and tells me he’ll be back at seven to pick me up.

  “What are you going to do all day?”

  “I need to get some supplies for work. I didn’t bring anything with me, in case you booted me right back to the airport. And there’re a couple beaches I thought I’d check out, maybe find somewhere I can rent a decent board.”

  I’m not thrilled by the idea of Crispin going back out on his board, but at least he’ll be doing it here. I’m thankful his life is so…portable, and that he’s willing to set up shop here, with me. The idea that I’m special enough to warrant him being away from his home for any length of time kindles something inside me, something I have to snuff out so I don’t climb into his lap while we’re parked outside my office.

  “That sounds good. And why don’t I call you? Seven’s pretty early. I don’t know—”

  “India. That’s a twelve-hour work day. You were so tired you couldn’t stay awake to eat dinner last night. I’m picking you up at seven, and goddammit, I will feed you before you fall asleep tonight.”

  I heave a sigh and roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll see you at seven.”

  “Good girl. Go get on the phone. I’ve heard Constance does not tolerate tardiness.”

  Shit, he’s right. I wave over my shoulder as I haul ass into the building.

  The office is silent, and I’m grateful not to have to look at or talk to anyone. Not yet, anyway. They’d notice the happy flush on my face—such a marked contrast from the dull, chalky pale of the last several months—and I don’t want to explain myself.

  Laying my feet on the desk, I get on the conference call with Constance in DC and Jack, who’s in Dallas. I think. Sometimes I have to play Where in the World Is Jack Valentine because his travel schedule’s been even crazier than mine since his divorce was finalized. He’s harder to keep track of than Waldo or Carmen Sandiego.

  The call goes well. Jason Garrett’s being arrested on charges of fraud. He was caught at the bus station, where he was waiting with packed bags and a ticket to Tijuana. By the end of the call, I’m yawning, not having had any coffee yet. The first thing I do when we hang up is poke my head out the door to see if Lucy’s in.

  When I open it, though, I’m not greeted by Lucy. Not just Lucy at any rate. Jack, Evans, and the rest of the staff who aren’t travelling are standing outside my office, huddled around Lucy’s cubicle. They start clapping.

  Jack steps forward and offers a hand for me to shake. Apparently he’s not in Dallas. Under the applause, he mutters, “I don’t mean for this to sound condescending, and I apologize if it does, but I wanted to say I’m proud of you.”

  My face flames, and I get choked up, but not in anger. “Thanks, Jack. That means a lot.”

  He claps me on the back in an awkward man-hug before he releases me. “Our very own ice princess is having a banner year. Her unflappable cool and quick thinking yesterday kept a criminal from going free and has potential clients banging down our door. So, well done, Ms. Burke.”

  My embarrassment about being singled out for recognition has reached a fever pitch. Perhaps it’s overdue for the ice princess to thaw a bit. “Thank you. But I’m not the only one who works hard here. I’ve had a lot of help from a lot of you, and I haven’t been the greatest at acknowledging that. I want to take this opportunity to say thank you. Especially to Lucy and Evans. And to Jack—I couldn’t ask for a better teacher. And now that you’ve thoroughly mortified me, it’s time everyone got back to work.”

  There are some good-natured boos and groans but more smiling faces, and people offer personal congratulations on their way back to their offices and cubicles. By the time I’m sitting down behind my desk again, I’m overwhelmed and have to look at my inbox to anchor me to something solid. My to-do list will do the trick.

  Just
as I’m about to buzz Lucy to request the fortification of some caffeine, she places a steaming mug of coffee on the corner of my desk. Time to get back to it and continue to earn my keep.

  *

  The next night, I’m changing out of my work clothes and into Crispin’s T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants when something occurs to me. I stalk down the hall to where Crispin is slaving over the stove yet again.

  “How did you know where I lived?”

  His back is toward me, and the muscles in his shoulders and neck bunch. The hand he’s been stirring with goes still. He’d better not be formulating some ridiculous story to tell me.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  His curly head dips toward the stove, and he lifts the wooden spoon out of the sauce and brings it to his lips.

  “Needs salt. What do you think?”

  He turns and offers me a taste, cupping under the bowl of the spoon lest any of the sauce drip onto the floor. I obediently open my mouth and take some of the concoction onto my tongue. No salt necessary. It’s perfect, like I knew it would be.

  “It’s delicious, and you know it. You’re too cocky to go fishing for compliments, so don’t think you’re fooling me. You will tell me how you got my address.”

  He lifts his thick brows but doesn’t argue. Instead, he turns back to the stove and picks up another spoon. “I know. I’m delaying the inevitable.”

  “Delay all you’d like, but if you don’t tell me before dinner’s ready, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

  I’ve heard other people make this threat countless times and delight in getting to say it myself. It’s fun. And far more believable than the other threat I’ve heard women make: to withhold sex. That he’d never buy.

  He replaces the spoon and turns, resting the heels of his hands on the edge of the stove. I want to tell him not to do that, he’s going to burn himself, but it seems the height of hypocrisy to tell Crispin what to do in my kitchen. He’s spent far more time here in the past two days than I have over the past year.