Page 15 of The Comfort Trap

Finally, he sighs, a sound of pure exasperation. "My apartment," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "427 West Fifth Street. It's five blocks from here. I get off work at six."

My heart skips a beat. "Okay."

"Don't be late," he warns, his finger jabbing toward my chest. "And don't expect any bullshit. We're not going to talk about our feelings or our favorite movies. You show up. We have sex. You leave. You move on with your life, and so do I. That's it. That's the deal."

It's the most unromantic proposition I have ever heard in my life. It should be insulting. Instead, it is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. "I understand."

He gives me one last, hard look, as if daring me to change my mind. When I don't, he turns on his heel and walks back toward the counter without another word.

I stand there for a moment, my head spinning. I look at the half-finished coffee on the table. I don't need it anymore. I’m buzzing with a nervous, exhilarating energy that’s a thousand times more potent than caffeine.

It isn't a win, not yet. But it's not a loss. It's a maybe that’s turned into an open door.

Chapter 7

Testing the Edge

Patrick [NOW]

Ourfirstsessionwasgood. Real fucking good. But itdidn't quite hit the spot.

Ricardo is on his back on our bed, his arms stretched above his head, anchored to the headboard by a pair of leather cuffs. The room is dim, lit only by a single candle on the dresser, casting dancing shadows across my focused face as I kneel between his legs.

This was supposed to be the next step, the logical progression from our last attempt. The cuffs were my idea—something I'd been thinking about for days. My hands tremble slightly as I fumble with my belt buckle, the metal cool against my sweaty palms.

I look down at Ricardo, his eyes closed, lips parted slightly, breathing steady. He looks so fucking trusting, so willing, and it makes something twist in my gut. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I'm pushing too hard, trying to force something that was never meant to be.

But then his eyes flutter open, and they're focused on mine, clear and steady, and for a second, everything clicks into place. This is what we both wanted, right? What we agreed on? Trying something new together?

My fingers brush against his wrist, testing the fit of the leather. He watches me, waiting. Waiting for me to take control, to be the person he thinks I am. And god help me, I want to be that person. I really fucking do.

"You can still say no," the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, automatic as breathing.

I mean them. But the second they're out, it hits me—I need him to. Not because I want him to tell me no, but because if he can't, if he's just going along with this to make me happy, then none of this means anything. We're playing dress-up in a house of cards that's about to fucking collapse.

Ricardo studies me for what feels like an eternity. Then he nods.

"I know."

The words should reassure me. Instead, they terrify the shit out of me, because I'm not sure he really does know. I'm not sure either of us knows what the hell we're doing anymore.

"Ricky," I murmur. "You're such a good boy."

He arches into my touch and I lean down, my mouth hovering above his nipple, my breath warm against his sensitive skin. He waits, his own breath held in anticipation, but I don't close the distance. I stay there, letting the tension build, letting him want it.

"Please," he whispers, the word torn from his throat.

"Please what?" I ask, teasing.

"Please, sir," he corrects himself, the title feeling more natural each time he says it. "Please touch me."

I smirk before finally lowering my head. My tongue darts out, circling the tight bud before my teeth scrape gently against it. A jolt goes through him, and the moan that escapes him is music to my ears.

I take my time, lavishing attention on one nipple before moving to the other, still gripping his thighs. My mouth leaves a trail of wet heat down his stomach, my tongue dipping into his navel, making him squirm. He's already hard, achingly so, and when I finally reach his dick, I can practically feel his relief. I don't take him in my mouth, not yet. Instead, I press a soft, teasing kiss against his head. Then my tongue peeks out, lapping at the bead of moisture gathering there.

"Patrick," he gasps, his hips bucking upward.