Free Personal Geography by Tamsen Parker Page B

and beckons. “In my lap.”
    I climb onto him and nestle in, laying my head on his shoulder and a hand on his bare, flat stomach. I wait for him to scold me for touching, but he doesn’t, so I rest my hand more heavily.
    “I brought you a treat.”
    “Another one?” My sass is rewarded with a light slap to my behind. I smile, pleased. He doesn’t mind a little banter.
    “Open your mouth.”
    I’m greeted by a familiar but somehow strange taste. It’s like pineapple but not. It’s smoothly sweet, not acidic. Almost like pineapple candy, but the texture is exactly like the fruit. It’s delicious.
    “Do you like it?”
    “Yes, sir. Very much.”
    “It’s white pineapple. You can’t get it outside the islands.” He offers me another morsel, and I take it, letting my mouth surround his fingers more than necessary. I could eat it all day, unlike the few bites I can tolerate of whatever it is you can get on the mainland. He continues to feed me and I get less subtle with my attentions to his fingers. My efforts aren’t going unnoticed or unappreciated, judging by the growing pressure at my hip. I hope he’s not uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say anything, just scoops the occasional bit into his own mouth until he offers me a piece I don’t accept.
    “Finished?”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
    He pops it into his mouth and holds out his fingers. I suck off the sweet juice, continuing even after there’s no taste of pineapple left.
    “I see you’re ready for round two.”
    I suck harder in response, and a low noise issues from his throat. He pushes the ottoman away, puts his feet flat on the floor, and presses my hip. Adjusting to straddle him, I take his hand in mine.
    “Don’t stop sucking.”
    Two can multitask, Cris, and I’m a professional. Well, not a professional professional, but I could be. I sink into a straddle, my knees tucked up astride his thighs, still laving his fingers.
    “You’ll get me off, pet. You know how.”
    Yes, I do. I finish up on his fingers, aiming to leave him wanting, and lick, kiss, and nip my way up his arm. His skin is such a nice color, interrupted by the occasional pale scar. Did he get these the same way he broke his nose? I don’t have long to linger. I’ve reached his neck and make my way to his ear, running my tongue along the edge before sinking my teeth lightly into his lobe.
    I get a grunt I can’t read, and I’m paralyzed until he says, “You and your kitten tongue. You’re so sweet.”
    His clarification lets me go about my business with confidence. I work my way down his chest and make out that the disc on the leather thong around his neck is a silver St. Michael’s medal. St. Michael, patron saint of so many—soldiers, the sick and the dying, grocers of all things. Why does Cris wear it? It was possibly just a gift, his middle name is Michael.
    I scold myself for letting my mind wander. I should be concentrating on what I’m doing. I’ve been the recipient of his full attentions, and he deserves the same. So I savor the taste of his skin on my tongue, the feel of him under my hands, his skin and the generous trail of dark hair that leads down his chest and into his jeans.
    I climb down between his knees, making sure to rub my breasts against him as I go. My hands and mouth go to the waistband of his worn jeans, and I undo the button and slide down the zipper. My mouth waters when I realize he doesn’t have anything on under them. I tug at his waistband, and he raises his hips. When I’ve freed him and slipped his jeans completely off, I take a second to survey him. Yes, Cris is a beautiful man.
    Every bit of him is well-formed, and I mean every bit. He’s large, both long and thick, big enough to make me feel full, genuinely penetrated. The nest of curls that surrounds him echoes the ones on his head, but coarse instead of soft. His legs are well-muscled, with still more scars that show pale against his browned skin and dark hair. He’s nice to