Page 29 of The Comfort Trap

The deadbolt slides home behind me, and I spin around so fast I almost lose my balance. There he is, his back pressed against the door, staring at me with an intensity that gives me goosebumps.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He takes a step forward, and I’m watching a switch flip. This isn't my Ricardo, the one who hums while doing taxes and gets all flustered when I talk aboutwhich milk foams best.

This is the man who showed up at my window with a boombox and a bouquet of flowers like he was storming the Bastille.

He doesn't answer. He keeps advancing, forcing me backward into my own territory. I'm stumbling, tripping over a stack of unopened supply boxes, my back hitting the wall with a thud that knocks the wind out of me. I put a hand up against his chest, a flimsy barrier against this sudden, overwhelming force.

"Ricky," I start, but it's useless.

He grabs my wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and keeps moving. I'm walking backward now, my mind racing to map out the familiar space I suddenly can't navigate. Before I know it, I'm in the back office, the sudden darkness making me blink. My hip smacks against the edge of the desk, sending a jolt of pain up my side. The ancient computer monitor glows with a sickly green light, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Ipush off the desk, grabbing his shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of control.

"Baby," I start again, lost between confusion andarousal.

He pushes me back, harder this time, and I'm pinned against the desk, the wood digging into my lower back. The scent of old paper fills my nostrils, mingling with his own clean, masculine scent that's suddenly overwhelming.

I try to get a grip on his shoulders, to anchor myself. "Ricky, what in the hell—"

He catches both my wrists, his grip solid, and guides me around so fast the room tilts on its axis. My back slams against the metal wire shelf unit, the one crammed with binders full of employee records and expired health codes I've been meaning to shred for two years. The wire bites into my spine, each individual strand a line of fire through my thin work shirt, as his body presses flush against mine.

His mouth crashes down on mine and it steals the air from my lungs.

His teeth scrape my lower lip, drawing a faint coppery taste that mingled with the coffee and mint on his breath. His tongue invades my mouth, dominant and searching, mapping my teeth, the roof of my mouth, curling around my own tongue in a possessive dance that leaves me breathless. One of his hands releases my wrist only to fist in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, to take what he wants without asking. The other hand remains locked around my wrist, pressing it into the metal shelf above my head.

My body arches involuntarily. His free hand slides down my back, fingers digging into the flesh above my ass, pulling me even closer until there's no space left between us, only the hard planes of his body and the unyielding metal at my back. The kiss deepens further, becoming sloppy, wet, and utterly consuming—a desperate, hungry thing that leaves me gasping when he finally pulls back enough to speak against my swollen lips.

Okay.

He'sdefinitelynot angry. He's... playing.Mygrin breaks through the kiss, and I start to reach for him, to pull him closer, but he's faster.

He pinsbothmy wrists above my head with one hand, his other hand disappearing into the cargo pocket of his pants. He pulls out the handcuffs.

Before I can even process this, he's clicking them shut around my wrists, then looping the chain through one of the metal poles of the shelf above my head. The sound echoes in the tiny office. I tug experimentally. No give.

He slams my hands back against the binders behind me.

"Stay." The word is a command, low and guttural.

"Okay," I manage.

He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "Yes, sir," he corrects.

A shiver runs down my spine, electric and sudden. "Y-yessir," I stammer, the word feeling foreign and thrilling on my tongue.

"Color?" he whispers, his breath warm against my neck.

I can't help but smile. "Green."

I feel his laugh against my skin. His free hand finds the collar of my shirt, and he rips it open. Buttons fly everywhere—pinging against the glass desk lamp, skittering across the tile floor like tiny, frantic insects. I gasp, the sudden cool air hitting my chest. Mydress pantsare next. He works the button free with a flick of his thumb, then yanksall of the fabricdown my hips with a rough, efficient movement that leaves meentirelyexposed and vulnerable.

He slides the belt from the loops with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath catch, the leather whispering againstthebelt loops. He doubles it in his hands, snapping it together with a sharp crack that echoes in the small office.

I look up at him, and my breath catches in my throat. This man—this creature standing in front of me, with his jaw set and his eyes burning with an intensity I've never seen before—is almost a stranger. A dangerous, thrilling stranger who's somehow wearing my boyfriend's face.

The belt loops around my waist, the cold leather a shock against my bare skin. He cinches it tight, the buckle digging into my hip bone, leaving enough room for his fingers to hook under the strap. Then he yanks hard.

I stumble forward, my crotch smashing against the rough fabric of his pants, and the hard length of him presses back. My own dick, already at attention from this whole fucked-up scenario, throbs in response againsthiszipper. His face buries itself in the crook of my neck, and his mouth is a hot, wet assault on my skin.