Page 11 of The Comfort Trap

"Snail," I breathe, my knuckles white where I grip the cushion.

"Good. And I’ll check in with you. If you need me to slow down or stop, say 'yellow.' Understand?"

I instinctively relax my grip, my breath coming back to me in waves. Right. Consent. Colors. "Yes, sir."

His hand gently comes to rest on my bare ass. He rubs slow circles, his touch soothing, lulling me into a false sense of security before the first sharp smack lands suddenly on my right cheek. The sound echoes in the room, followed by a stinging heat that blooms across my skin. I gasp, my body jerking involuntarily.

"Color?" he asks.

"Green," I whisper, the single word carrying a world of meaning. It hurts, but it is a good hurt, a cleansing pain that’s already melting away the noise in my head.

Another smack lands on the left cheek, equally as hard as the first. I bite back a smile. There is a rhythm to it, a deliberate pace that allows me to process each sensation before the next one comes.

He continues, alternating cheeks, the sharp slaps punctuated by his low, rumbling praise.

"God, you feel so good against my hand," he growls, his hand rubbing the heated skin between smacks. I can feel myself slipping, the constant buzz of my overactive mind fading into a blissful quiet. There is only the sting of his hand, the sound of his voice, and the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly his.

Then it clicks. This feeling—this excitement running through my veins, the way my hands are shaking and my heart's racing—this is what Patrick's been chasing.

I'm not scared anymore. I'm just here with him, ready for whatever comes next.

After a dozen or so smacks, he stops. His hand rests on my ass, which is throbbing with a dull, pleasant heat. He leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, his lips brushing my ear.

"You are so fucking perfect, Ricky," he murmurs, emotional. "I love you so much."

Tears start to well up, a release of tension I didn't know I was holding. I turn my head, trying to find his lips, and he meets me halfway.

His mouth then grazes my neck, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver down my spine, the faint rasp of his evening stubble against my skin making me gasp softly. I feel his touch brush over the curve of my ass, tracing the heated, reddened skin he's created. His thumb gently slides between my cheeks, exploring with a deliberate slowness.

I can feel the warmth of his body behind me, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm against my back as he continues his slow, torturous exploration, each movement calculated to keep me balanced on that exquisite edge between anticipation and surrender.

I expect him to stop then, to get up and go for the nightstand, to grab the lube we keep there. That's the usual progression. That's the script we've followed for years.

Instead, there's a sudden, shocking warmth as his saliva drips onto my lower back. The sensation is intimate in a way that catches me off guard. His finger follows, tracing the wet path down, circling my entrance with a pressure that makes me gasp. He works me open slowly, methodically, and the sounds I'vebeen holding back finally escape my lips—a low, guttural groan that I can't contain.

"Louder," he directs, a low rumble against my ear.

The command sends a jolt through me. I try to obey, letting the sounds come more freely, breathing heavier. Then another sharp smack lands on my right ass cheek, reigniting the sting, making me cry out.

"Louder," he directs again, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. This time, his mouth replaces his finger, opening me with a stern persistence that has me complying even more quickly than before. The wet heat of his tongue, the deliberate way he claims me with his mouth—it's a different kind of intimacy, one that leaves me trembling.

"Like that," he praises, his breath warm against my sensitive skin. "Good."

I am lost in the sensation, my body arching back to meet his mouth when he finally pulls away, leaving me aching and empty.

"Stand up," he orders.

I rise on shaky limbs, turning to face him. His expression is lustful, but there is an overwhelming tenderness there too. He pulls me into his arms, holding me tightly, my naked body pressing against his.

"Still green?" he asks.

"Green," I murmur into his shoulder.

He pulls me down by the sides of my face and kisses the top of my head, then pulls back enough to look at me properly.

"On your knees," he says.

I sink down without hesitation, my gaze fixed on him. His jeans are unbuttoned, the dark denim parted to give himself room. He's already hard, the fabric of his boxer briefs strained.