Page 16 of The Comfort Trap

"Ah ah," I chide, moving to pin his hips to the mattress. "You don't move unless I say so. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," he breathes, his body trembling with the effort to stay still.

I take my time, exploring him with my mouth and hands, pushing him to the edge over and over again, only to pull backat the last second. He's a mess of need and want, his mind a blissful blank, filled only with the sensations I'm creating. My fingers trace patterns across his skin, raising goosebumps while my tongue follows paths he never knew existed on his own body.

I alternate between soft, teasing touches and firm, possessive grips that remind him who's in control. Each time I think he can't take anymore, I change tactics, keeping him off-balance, guessing, craving. The candlelight flickers across the ceiling.

I grip the backs of his thighs, holding him in place, exposing him completely to my gaze and my mouth. The position is vulnerable, almost obscene, but to me, it feels sacred. My breath comes hot against his most intimate places before my tongue begins its relentless exploration. I trace the seam behind his balls with agonizing slowness, making him shudder with every pass. Then my mouth moves lower, circling his entrance with firm, wet strokes that make his toes curl. He's gasping now, his body arching despite my earlier direction to stay still.

I press my teeth against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, a sharp counterpoint to the slick heat of my tongue. The leather of the cuffs I picked out—fucking expensive, too—digs into his wrists as he strains against them. I can practically feel the pain merging with the pleasure until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins. He's floating, the way I wanted him to, completely lost to anything but my touch, my command, my will.

Finally, when I think he can't take anymore, I let his legs fall back to the bed and reach for the lube. The sound of the cap popping open is loud in the quiet room, a sound that makes my own dick twitch. My fingers, slick and cool, press against his entrance, and he moans, pushing back against them, desperate for more. I work him open slowly, methodically, stretching him until he's writhing beneath me.

"Please, sir, I need you," he begs, and the words send a jolt straight through me.

"Patience," I remind him, playing the part I've rehearsed in my head a hundred times. "Good things come to those who wait."

I add a third finger, curling them just right, hitting that spot that makes him see stars. His back arches off the bed, a perfect, desperate curve.

"God, yes," he cries out, clenching his fists above his head, the leather of the cuffs digging into his skin.

That's when it happens.

His whole body goes rigid beneath me. The pleasure, which was written all over his face moments ago, vanishes. The cuffs suddenly look like actual restraints. The vulnerability I was so carefully crafting for him starts to look like genuine fear.

The want in his eyes is replaced by a rising tide of panic I didn't put there.

My blood runs cold. My heart starts to hammer against my ribs, but not with arousal. My breath catches in my throat, and the room starts to feel too small, too close. I'm still touching him, my fingers still inside him, but the sensations that were bringing him pleasure now feel invasive and overwhelming under my hands.

Chapter 8

The Safeword

Ricardo [NOW]

”Snail.”

Chapter 9

Out of Reach

Patrick [NOW]

Thewordcutsthroughthe air. I freeze, my fingers stillburied inside him. "Ricky? What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" The panic in my voice shatters the intensity of the moment, leaving me feeling shaky and exposed.

The panic on his expression is a mirror to my own. He's not hurt. He's not scared of me. But he's not okay either, and that's somehow worse.

"I'm fine," he says, trembling. "Just... the cuffs. I need them off right now. Please."

I move instantly, my fingers fumbling with the buckle. The moment the leather is loose, he yanks his hands down, his chest heaving as he rubs his wrists, trying to erase the feeling of being restrained. I gather him into my arms immediately, holding him tightly, my heart still racing.

"Talk to me," I whisper against his hair. "What happened? Did I push too hard? Was it the cuffs? Tell me, baby, please."

He shakes his head, his face buried in my shoulder like he's trying to disappear into my goddamn skin. A wave of shame hits me hard, making me wonder if this whole thing was a mistake from the start.

"I don't know," he mumbles against my chest. He pulls back enough to look at me. "It wasn't you. I got really nervous all of a sudden."

"You were nervous about me," I correct, because let's be real, that's what this is about. Me. My idea. My fault.