A lot of it is redacted. Despite requiring the information, I don’t want to see it. I do like proof that it’s been collected, and I want Rey to have it as an insurance policy in case anything goes awry—or, really, to ensure nothing goes aslant in the first place. I rarely get refused, despite the invasive nature of the prerequisites I insist on, but maybe it’s too strange an opportunity to pass up.
Imagine: You get a call out of the blue from a well-respected trainer you’ve almost certainly heard of, and if you haven’t, someone you know has. He offers you a weekend of no-strings-attached play with a trained submissive provided you pass the screening process. She’ll come to you, and should you choose to spend the weekend with her somewhere other than your home, all expenses will be taken care of. If it sounds pretty alluring, it’s meant to.
I’ve never bothered to ask the men who say yes why they agree, and by definition, I don’t have the opportunity to ask the ones who say no. There’s no contact with refusals, and they don’t get a second chance.
Everything here is in order, as I expected. Rey doesn’t waste my time. And there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the lack of
h
in Cris.
Crispin
. I like it. A lot. Not Christopher, not Christian—Crispin. I wonder giddily if he can recite the St. Crispin’s Day speech from
Henry V
. I’d best get this out of my system before embarrassing myself by asking when we meet.
I’m also pleased by the undergraduate and graduate degrees. Not that I haven’t played with some very fine men with a high school diploma or less—and a PhD by no means guarantees a guy knows his way around a woman’s body—but Rey knows I’m slutty for postgraduate degrees. He must’ve been clapping his hands like a little girl at recess when he put this together. Or really, when he read it over after Matty put it together. I tease myself by flipping through a few more mostly-blacked-out pages consisting of some references Mr. Ardmore provided, along with a couple Rey sought out before he even talked to the guy.
I hold my breath before flipping to the last page where his picture awaits. When I get photos—and I don’t always since I don’t require it—they’re usually full-body shots—although, mercifully, clothed. Believe it or not, Rey has to specify this.
Dude, we’ll get there
. If it’s not a head-to-toe, it’s what looks like a professional headshot. But this… It’s a candid of a man. Laughing.
What?
Usually they do their best to look intimidating, intense. You know,
dominating
. But not this guy. You can’t even see his whole face because he’s turned to the side, and he’s
laughing
. The corner of my mouth tugs up involuntarily.
What’s your game, Cris Ardmore
?
He’s got a mop of curly dark hair, what some might call bushy eyebrows but I don’t mind, and a layer of what I’m hoping is perma-stubble. His teeth are white, straight and sharp against his tanned skin, and he’s got what I think are light blue eyes. Or maybe grey. The picture isn’t taken from close enough to say for sure.
I don’t know if he’d be considered conventionally attractive—there’s something off there—but I won’t kick him out of bed. If I have the chance. Sleeping arrangements can be sticky with what I do. I won’t fret about that now.
I grab my phone from where it’s resting next to my empty wine glass and text Rey, despite it being almost one in the morning:
Me likey.
My phone pings a minute later:
Thought you would. Now go the fuck to sleep.
I laugh, text back a kiss, and do as I’m told. I have an early morning tomorrow and don’t even have Adam’s puppy-dog face to look forward to.
Despite being wrecked and having had one—okay, three—glasses of wine, I have trouble falling asleep. I find myself wondering if I’ll get to see Cris Ardmore laugh. I think I’d like to.
Click
here
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Personal Geography
and continue reading Cris and India’s story.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Craving Flight: © 2015 by Tamsen Parker
Cover Design by Amber Shah of Book Beautiful (
www.bookbeautiful.com
)
ISBN 13: 978-1-942427-03-2
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