Free Personal Geography by Tamsen Parker Page A

coverage, too, though there’s a spot he returns to over and over, hitting forcefully and frequently enough I’m guessing he’ll leave a mark. Means to leave a mark. It’s not a paddling, which I’ve got my fingers crossed he’s saving for later, but it’s satisfying.
    He starts to pause between strokes, rubbing me, and I know we’re nearing the end. I give Cris a B+ on spanking.
    “Nicely handled. I like my pets to be able to take a solid spanking. I’m pleased with you. Now spread your legs.”
    A thrill runs through me, splitting the warm glow of his praise. I know what he’s going to find. He’s going to be even more pleased with me. I’m rewarded with a noise low in his throat as he slips two fingers inside me.
    “You’re a dream come true.” I push my hips back to meet him. “That’s right, you’ve been a good girl. You deserve a reward. Go on, I want to see you come.”
    I thrust back, his hand a solid backstop, his thigh providing a counterpoint of pressure as I rock. It only takes a couple minutes before I’m panting.
    “That’s right, give it up. Show me what a good girl you are and come for me.”
    His words are my undoing, and I come hard around his fingers. I moan wordlessly and continue my motions—erratic, in time with the aftershocks running through me—until I’ve wrung every last bit out of my orgasm. I’m left breathing heavily, collapsed over his lap with his fingers still inside me. Oh, that was good. For a first time especially? So good.

Chapter Seven
    ‡
    I ’m draped across Cris’s lap in a state of pleasant oblivion. His thighs are thick, warm, and muscular under my torso. I’m so very comfortable. Especially when he withdraws his fingers and starts to stroke my stinging ass, occasionally tweaking his favorite spot. I’m going to be bruised. Not your typical souvenir from a Hawaiian getaway, but one I’ll enjoy.
    “And you like the paddle better?” His tone is light with amusement.
    “Yes, sir,” I confirm with a modest nod.
    “I’m a lucky man.” He runs his hand over my cheeks, which are likely a ripe shade of watermelon, and admires the canvas of my body he’s colored. He strokes me in silence for a few more minutes as my eyes close and my breath evens out. I might take a catnap.
    “I think you’d better let Mr. St. James know you’re okay before you fall asleep.”
    “Yes, sir.” He’s right. It’s been several hours since Matty’s left, and I owe him a text. I start to push up, but I’m met with resistance between my shoulder blades.
    “You don’t need to get up. I’ll get your phone if you don’t mind me in your room. You can rest. I’m not finished with you, not by a long shot.”
    That rouses me a bit, but not enough to refuse his offer. “Please, sir. It’s on the desk. Thank you.”
    He lifts my hips to slide out from under my legs, and takes his shirt off, draping it over the arm of the couch. I’d like to take the worn fabric between my fingers and hold onto it until he gets back, but I won’t. Instead, I watch him walk away. His back is beautiful, smooth muscles rolling under tanned skin as he heads toward the door. I’ll have to remember to have that under my fingertips the next time we kiss instead of putting my hands in his hair. I drowse on the couch while he’s gone, daydreaming of all the places I’d like to touch him.
    He can’t just be getting my phone. He’s gone for almost twenty minutes before the door opens. Cris sets a wooden bowl on the ottoman in front of me before going into the bathroom and returning with two glasses of water.
    “Sit up.”
    I tuck my legs up and sit to one side of the couch. He hands me my phone, warm from his pocket, and nudges the ottoman closer. I text Matty:
    Sea bass.
    And just as quickly as it sends, I delete the record, laying the phone next to the bowl. Cris sits close to me and hands me a glass I sip.
    “More?”
    “No, thank you, sir.”
    He takes my glass, sets it down with his,