“Before you lose it, I want to ask you a few questions.”
I narrow my eyes. He’s pleading his case before all the evidence has been given. This is going to be bad. Did he hire a PI?
“Are you glad I’m here?”
“Of course I am.”
I couldn’t be happier. I love having him in my kitchen, on my couch, in my bed. My heart stutters with glee when he pulls up to my office in my car, and my stomach clenches with delight when he cooks for me and feeds me from his plate. Of course I’m glad he’s here.
“Would you have been happier if I’d stayed away and you’d never have seen me again?”
My eyes bug, and my stomach roils. No, I’d miss him every day. The ache might’ve dulled, but it never would’ve been gone. But I’m too chickenshit to say so. I cobble together an answer that’s true—but not too true—and offer it to him.
“I have difficulty believing I’d be happier, but given that particular scenario’s no longer a possibility, I don’t feel confident making a blanket statement.”
He doesn’t tease me about my answer, though I know lawyer jokes must be swimming though his head like…like sharks. Dammit.
“Okay. I want you to remember those things when you’re reaching for the nearest deadly weapon please.”
He braces himself against the stove, fingers going pale, the beds of his nails fading to white when his grip on the edge tightens.
“Rey told me.”
If he’d told me he has a buddy in the CIA who owed him a favor or that he’s been knocking on every apartment door in San Diego and that’s why it took him so long to turn up, I couldn’t have been more surprised.
“Rey?”
“Yes.”
“My Rey?”
“Do you know any other Reys?”
I run through my mental Rolodex, but I don’t. Not even Rays as in Raymond. Stumped, I shake my head, dread growing inside me.
“He wouldn’t.”
Rey plays by my rules, always has. He’s pushed me from time to time, skated on the edge of okay, but never has he violated my terms and conditions. There’s no way he’d throw all that out the window and give a man my address. A man who broke my battered heart in two. I know he likes Crispin, has from the start, but no.
“He did.”
I stand shell-shocked. I’m not a stupid person, but this does not compute. I’m suddenly living in an alternate universe where Rey betrays my trust. If that could happen, anything could happen. Nothing is sacred; nothing is safe. Crispin was worried I was going to attack him with a kitchen implement, but it’s difficult to find the willpower to stand, never mind lift a mallet or a cleaver. A whisk. I might be able to manage a whisk. Bet I could get that well and tangled in his hair, but that’s not exactly devastating damage.
Crispin pushes away from the oven and reaches out to me. “India?”
Echoes of him calling me at my office rip through my body like wildfire. I slap his hand away as I turn and stalk out of the kitchen. He calls my name once more, but I silence him with a hand in the air and the wind goes out of his protest.
Rey would’ve told him not to fight me on this. He must be counting the minutes until this phone call. Now he’s going to get it.
*
“He told you.”
“Yes, he did.”
I imagine the set of Rey’s jaw and the tenseness of the muscles in his long, lean body. I try to remember the questions Crispin’s asked me and pray they’ll make a difference, but they’re overshadowed by rage.
“How could you?”
There’s a beat of silence and a soft exhale.
“That promise I made you, India? You need me, you call, I come?”
“I didn’t call.”
“I know. But you still needed me. Worse than you ever have. You were being so reckless. I was worried you were going to self-destruct. So when Cris called, I gave him your address.”
“What are you, outsourcing your responsibilities? If you were that worried about me, you should’ve come. You should’ve talked to me yourself. You’re pulling a bait-and-switch, and I fucking hate you for it. You betrayed me.”
“I know.”
I want him to fight back so I can rail against him. It might sound trivial and illogical for me to be so ripshit about this. Rey gave Crispin my address so he could come be with me, because I want him, maybe need him, and I’m thrilled he’s twenty feet away instead of twenty-six hundred miles. But Rey understands my peculiar brand of psychology. This is the worst possible thing he could’ve done. He’s shattered my reality and left me reeling. He’s taken away the one thing I count on, the one fact I’ve anchored myself to for the past twelve years.
I hate him. I hate him at the same time I ache with the loss of him.
“I have to go. I can’t talk to you anymore.”
“I know.” Rey’s voice is sad, resigned. Will he feel the loss of me as keenly as I’ll feel the loss of him? I can’t imagine that could ever be true.
“Don’t call me.”
“I won’t.”
His easy acquiescence is incensing me. Does he not care?
“No excuses?”
“Nothing you’ll accept.”
“So that’s it?”
“I’ve got one thing to say, if you’ll let me.”
“What?” What could he possibly have to say that could make up for this?
“I love you, India.”
Air rushes out of my body at an incredible velocity, and my eyes squeeze shut. I’m on the moon, weightless. It’s a new world out here, one where none of my rules apply. No gravity, no oxygen, no day and night. I cut the tether and hang up the phone, “I love you, too,” dropping from my lips as I sink to the floor and let the torrent of grief wash over me.
After I’ve had a good long cry, I clean myself up and head back to the kitchen, puffy-eyed and stomach aching, where Crispin’s finishing his clean-up. He hears my shuffling gait and turns toward me, still holding a sponge, and for the second time tonight, he looks at me like I might commit homicide.
I thought I’d exhausted my tears into the entire box of Kleenex gracing my bathroom’s trash, but the sobs that are wrenched from my raw throat prove me otherwise. I throw myself against Crispin’s solid body and weep. His arms come tight around me, and he lays a cheek on my hair. He doesn’t bother to say anything. There’s nothing right to say. He holds me until I’ve cried myself numb and then asks if I’d like some dinner.
I nod, and we eat reheated coq au vin in silence.
Chapter Fifteen
‡
Crispin’s been here for two weeks. We’ve settled into a strange version of domestic bliss, his belongings filling the drawers left vacant after I’d packed Rey’s into a box and shipped them to San Francisco. He drops me off at my office with a lunch he’s made for me. I work all day, and he texts me in the afternoon to tell me what’s for dinner. He picks me up at seven and brings me home to where a crazy-delicious meal is waiting for me. Most days I have work to do after we eat, so we sit on the couch together, me with my laptop and Crispin with a book. I put my feet in his lap, and he rubs them absentmindedly while he reads.
Since my falling out with Rey, Crispin’s been strict with me, perhaps picking up on how adrift I feel without Rey as my anchor. Or perhaps because Rey told him this is what I would need. Knowing someone is here for me, watching out for me, caring for me when I need it most has kept me from careening out of control.
Tonight I’ve been promised a special treat, one I’ve been looking forward to all day. When the door latches on my apartment and Crispin slides the deadbolt home, my libido kicks in as well.
“I want you naked and kneeling by the coffee table in two minutes.”
This is better than I’d hoped for. My purse clatters to the floor, and I strip off my coat as he wanders into the kitchen, presumably to check on dinner. Although, who gives a crap about food? I strip down to my skin and drop to my knees, head down, to await my ne
xt instructions. I didn’t need the two minutes.
When Crispin comes back, it’s not with dinner.
“Hands on the table.”
I kneel up, placing my palms at the edge.
“Spread your legs.”
One of my favorite commands. I inch my knees apart and my back bows.
“Very nice.”
He squats beside me, placing a hand on the back of my neck. “You’ll tell me if any of this is uncomfortable. We won’t stop, I promise. I’ll find some other way to make it work. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
The bruises from Slade’s inexperienced, rough handling are all but gone, but tenderness lingers on a few ribs. Crispin knows me too well, knows I would shirk my responsibility to him because I want this so badly, but his promise dispels the fear. He’ll figure it out. He rises and collects something from the couch. When I catch a glimpse of a hank of rope, all the breath leaves my lungs.
He proceeds to wrap the rope around me, tying precise knots as he goes. He binds my breasts, my arms, my torso in an intricate pattern he’s not used on me before. The rope is just coarse enough that it doesn’t slick over my skin, but grips in a way I can’t ignore. The tiny fibers dig into me, creating a halo of sensitivity around every contact point. As he arranges my body according to his whim, I revel in his touch. The way he’s handling me is both tender and impersonal, and the combination is dizzying.
Thankfully for not-passing-out purposes, the bonds are snug but not harsh. Being cradled by the knots and strands of rope is relaxing, and I settle into the web of my restraints. Though I go loose and spacy, I force myself to focus when he checks in with me.
I’m expecting him to stop when he’s woven to my waist, but instead he pulls the rope between my thighs and fashions a knot that rests on my clit. That gets my attention and I straighten, causing the knot to apply pressure. Oh, my. He’s not done yet, either. Soon there’s another knot resting between my cheeks, making me squirm. I whimper and am met with his voice low in my ear as he ties off.
“Hush, kitten. You’re lucky I didn’t plug you first.”
When he’s through, he takes a step back and inspects his craftsmanship. “Does everything feel okay? Not too tight? Nothing rubbing the wrong way?” I pout, and a devilish half-smile lights up his face. “Just those last two? Perfect.”
He helps me stand and leads me over to the dining table where he has me kneel by his chair while he goes to the kitchen. I test my bonds, shifting and pulling, succeeding only at driving myself insane in his absence. He comes back with a tray full of food and settles himself.
“Are you hungry, pet?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be a good girl, then. Open up.”
Crispin’s prepared an array of tapas he feeds me. Between salt-spicy bites of chorizo, nibbles of the brined earthiness of olive tapenade on bread, and spoonfuls of sinus-clearing gazpacho, he tortures me with rubs of his thumb over my lips, letting me lick and suck at his fingers. When he withdraws, he leaves me leaning forward and calling attention to the devious knots rubbing against the most sensitive places. If he’s not feeding me, he’s fondling me, tweaking a nipple or running his blunt fingernails over my breasts, which are taut and heavy from their bondage.
By the time we’ve finished our meal, I’m desperate, but he’s got other ideas. He leads me over to the couch, places a cushion on the floor, and urges me to kneel on it. He leans me over so my head and shoulders rest on the seat, leaving my sensitized breasts suspended over the edge. Oh, he wouldn’t. But he would. He pinches, twists, and tugs at my nipples until I’m panting and then applies clothespins, claiming first one and then the other between the relentless pressure. Not as tight as some of the clamps I’ve had on, but just as maddening given my overwrought state.
“Crispin—” The plea is out of my mouth before I can stop myself, and a chastising touch is laid on my head.
“I know you’re out of practice, but you know better.”
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry. I…”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, sir.” Not in the way he’s asking about, not in a way I haven’t agreed to.
“Then you’ll take it until I say otherwise.”
“Yes, sir.” My acceptance is rewarded by a brush of a kiss on my cheek and a hand through my hair.
“I’ll be back. You’ll call for me if you get uncomfortable.”
“Yes, sir.”
I will myself to forget about the less pleasant aspects of my entanglement and focus on the pattern he’s tied. I fantasize about him touching everywhere the rope does and melt further into the hold of my bindings. It’s safe in here, secure, and though I’m aroused by the clamps and his strategically placed knots, there’s also a deep and abiding sense of calm.
Crispin’s never put a collar on me, has said he couldn’t, because what he feels for me is so much more than the other women he’s been with. I miss it and find it strange, but haven’t pushed him. It’s his call to make. I like the inch or so of leather around my throat, providing a reminder he’ll never leave me, he’ll always be thinking of me because I belong to him, I’m his responsibility. But this is like being collared all over and I love him for it.
By the time the familiar sounds of kitchen clean-up are over—the running of water, the scrub of pots and pans, the opening and shutting of cabinets and drawers—I’m in the most pleasant subspace. A warm touch at the small of my back and the gentle scrape of stubble behind my ear make me purr.
“I thought you might’ve fallen asleep.” I hear the smile in his voice, the satisfaction. This is how he wants me: supple, tamed, at peace.
“No, sir.”
“Are you tired?”
“No, sir.” My emphatic response makes him chuckle, and he soothes me with a stroke of my hair.
“Then I guess I won’t put you to bed just yet.”
I lean into his touch, and he pets me, letting me savor the contentment of the moment. I don’t need anything more than this. He removes the clothespins, and I suck air through my teeth as the blood comes rushing back into my nipples. Cupping a breast, he squeezes, eliciting a gasp while he licks around where the pins have been, teasing, before he fast-forwards the agony by suckling at me.
When he’s put me out of my misery, he starts to unwind the intricate design he’s plaited around my body, tugging apart the knots that have tightened under my testing, careful not to pull the rope too fast lest the friction burn my skin. I whimper in protest. I don’t want to be loose and at a loss.
“Hush, pet. You trust me to take care of you, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” If the past few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that I do trust Crispin, more than I’ve trusted anyone except Rey. The nausea-inducing weightlessness strikes again at the thought of him, but it’s eased by the comfortable cloud Crispin’s fashioned for me. I trust him to keep me safe and to give me what I want, what I need. He won’t leave me out in the cold.
After much single-minded focus on Crispin’s part, the last length of rope falls away, leaving my limbs free and expansive. It’s terrifying, but it doesn’t last long. Crispin takes me into his arms, holding me close, making a promise I don’t doubt he’ll keep.
He leads me down the hall by my elbow, the coil of rope in his other hand. When we get into my bedroom, I see he’s prepared. Someone had fun at the hardware store today. My love for him grows as I realize he’s done this on purpose. Crispin isn’t the type of man to shy away from a sex shop, but I am the kind of woman to freak if someone were to discover my sexual preferences. Should anyone ransack my apartment, they’re not going to find a box full of kinky sex toys. They’re going to find a whole bunch of innocuous objects that, to the studied eye, are a pervy toolkit.
He’s rigged a few attachment points around my closet door, and he leads me there, directing me to raise my arms. He fastens rope cuffs around my wrists so my hands are pinned over my head and circles more rope around my ankles to sprea
d them the width of the door. It’s then I have the opportunity to study the full array of things on my bed: bubble wrap, rubberbands, a snake bite kit, condoms, lube, scissors, tennis balls, more clothespins, and a few bandanas.
How did I not know Crispin is a MacGyver of kinky sex? I guess we’ve always been in his well-stocked studio, but there’s something crazy-hot about this. I will never again be able to walk into a hardware or sporting goods store without getting wet.
He strolls over to the bed and looks through the items, picking them up one at a time, examining them as if he hadn’t purchased them today and discarding them one by one. When he gets to the can of tennis balls, he pops the top and the scent of the fresh felt floods my nose. Now tennis isn’t safe either.
Dumping a ball into his palm, he shifts his weight to one hip and considers it. Such a tease. He replaces the lid on the canister and tosses it back on the bed, closing the gap between us in a few steps. I tug at my bonds while I wait for my instructions. He holds the ball between thumb and forefinger in front of my face.
“Look at me, pet.”
When I meet his eyes, my lips part. Crispin is dead sexy. I’ve always thought so. But the way he’s looking at me…nothing could compare. And knowing he feels this way about all of me fills me with this warm tingling. Is this love? Not infatuation, not affection, and not a crush. I’ve said it before, but I didn’t understand the depth of my words. I love him with every bit of me.
He presses the ball into my palm. “It’s your safeword. You drop it, I stop. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” I fold my fingers around it, the neon fuzz familiar under my fingertips. He’s called up my senses. Everything is on high alert, focused in a way it’s not, can’t be, when I’m walking around in my everyday life. My brain would explode from sensory overload. When I’ve taken the ball, he goes back to the bed and takes up a couple of the bandanas and heads to the bathroom. The water turns on for a moment, and when he comes back, one of the handkerchiefs is wet. He scrunches it up, making sure the ends are tucked in.
“Open your mouth.”
Intimate Geography Page 15