Free Personal Geography by Tamsen Parker

hold me tight against him and not let go.
    This is disturbing.
    I’m not unaccustomed to urges, oh no, but the urge to kiss… This is new. India Kittredge Burke doesn’t want to kiss . Children kiss, vanilla lovers kiss, people who don’t know any better kiss . I like to fuck. I like to be hit. I like to have unspeakable things done to me. What the hell?
    Cris tips his head, and his brows pinch in curiosity. “Go ahead. You can touch me.”
    I don’t hesitate. I grip his biceps before sliding my hands over his shoulders, his neck, and into his curly, dark hair, knotting my fingers into fists and pulling his face to mine. And when I kiss him… Yes, this is what I was after. He pulls me into him by my hair, and it’s as delicious as I imagined it to be. It’s possible I’ve underestimated kissing, but I don’t think that’s it. It’s that I’ve never been kissed like this.
    We kiss for a while, and I don’t get bored. Every taste of him is delicious, every touch inflaming, setting off sparks in my core. I could do this forever. I’m so consumed by him that when he pulls away, I realize I’ve barely been breathing. That’s what this lightheadedness is from, right? Right?
    “You like to be kissed?” Suspicion colors his voice.
    “Only by you, sir.”
    I expect a pinch or a slap or a tug at my hair for being pat, even though I’m not—not this time—but he seems to understand. He slides me off the table and leads me over to the couch, sitting in the center and pulling me next to him.
    “Over my lap.”
    I turn and drape myself over his legs, one below my breasts, the other at the juncture of my hips and thighs. I fold my arms to rest my head on and settle. He’s stroking my back and my ass, and I start to purr. This is familiar, and the pleasure I take in it isn’t uncomfortable. Not like the kissing. Jesus.
    “Tell me why you’re going to get a spanking.”
    “For not being quiet like I was told, sir.”
    “Is that good behavior?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do you deserve to be punished?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Every time you make noise without permission, this is what’s going to happen. Remember that.”
    “Yes, sir,” I confirm, and I’m barely able to keep still. He’s going to make an example of me, and I can’t wait.
    “You don’t need to be quiet, but can you keep still for this?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    I’m disappointed, not surprised, when the first blow lands. That’s it? But when he gets no response, the next one is harder. And again. He works up steadily, but then he stops, a warm hand resting on my low back and his voice quiet in my ear.
    “Are you okay, Kit?”
    I’m startled he’s used my name, but other than that, I’m fine. I nod.
    “Are you sure?”
    Oh, no. This happened once before. Rey took a chance, and the guy I ended up with was reluctant to hit me. I wanted to take him over my knee and show him how it’s done, and I so rarely get the urge to top. Ugh. And everything had been going so well. While I wouldn’t normally offer anything other than a “yes, sir,” I hate the idea that things are about to go downhill. Cris doesn’t seem prissy, just cautious.
    “It would be…difficult for you to hit me too hard. Sir.”
    There’s a pause, and I wonder if he’s disturbed by this. Lots of guys are, but not most Doms. As long as everyone’s signed on the dotted line, we’re usually good to go. Hardcore sadists aren’t really my bag, but a little further along the spectrum you find my sweet spot: Dominants who like to tell me what to do and have enough of a sadistic streak to enjoy administering a good beating. I’m hoping Cris is located somewhere in the latter category.
    When he strikes again, he forces a sound out of me: a small grunt. Now we’re talking. It’s followed by one that’s still harder and another. He’s thorough, not skimping on time, effort, or force until he reaches a plateau I’m okay with—measured, consistent, nearly hard enough. Good