Page 30 of The Comfort Trap

We had a rule, didn't we? No marks. But this is different. These are the kind of marks thatnearlyfade before morning, the ones that are just for us. He sucks and bites, a trail of fire down my shoulder, each hickey a brand. One hand clamps down on my hip, holding me in place while the other snakes around to grab a handful of my ass, his grip digging in hard.

"You belong to me," he whispers against my ear, the word a vibration that rattles my teeth. His hips grind against me, a slow roll that promises more than a quick fuck in the back office of a coffee shop.

"Yessir," I manage.

He drops to his knees. His hand disappears into his pocket again, emerging with a travel-sized bottle of lube and something else that glints in the dim light of the office.

"Prove it," he commands. He flips the cap with his thumb, squeezing a generous amount into his palm—way more than I'dever use, but this isn't about efficiency. It's about excess. About overwhelm. I eagerly follow directions. His touch is slick, sliding over my ass, between my cheeks, teasing, exploring. I groan, bucking my hips, desperate for more contact, but he holds back, drawing this out, making me wait. He finds every sensitive spot, pressing, circling, until I'm a trembling mess.

Then, without warning, his teeth sink into the flesh of my left thigh, sharp and possessive. At the same time, a slick finger pushes inside me. I cry out, the dual sensations of pain and pleasure threatening to send me over the edge. He pauses, letting me adjust.

"Color?" he asks, his voice suddenly gentle.

I let my head fall back against the metal shelf, a laugh escaping me that's half-hysterical, half-ecstatic. "Green. So fucking green, Ricky—"

The correction is immediate and brutal. He yanks his finger out, the empty sensation making me gasp, and brings his hand down hard on the side of my ass cheek. The crack echoes in the small office, and I see stars behind my eyelids. The pain blossoms, hot and sharp, mingling with the pleasure until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

"Sir!"I gasp, the correction automatic. "I meant to say sir."

"Mmm," he rumbles, his face pressed against my groin. "Good boy."

His hands return to their work, one slicking me up again while the other steadies my hip. One finger, then two, stretching me, preparing me. And then something else enters me, something firmer, thicker, that settles deep inside me. The other object from his pocket—it’s a plug. I've never done this before, never even considered it.

”Still green?”

My wrists strain against the handcuffs, the metal biting into my skin. The fullness, the helplessness, the overwhelming sensations are almost too much. “Green.”

"Beg for me," he directs.

And I do. The words pour out of me, raw and desperate. I'm not begging, not really—I'm confessing. I'm begging for his mouth on my dick, for his touch on my body, for anything and everything to push me over this razor's edge he's created. I'm begging because he's made me want to beg, made me need it like air, made me crave the humiliation of needing him as much as I do.

When his mouth finally closes around me, taking every damn inch with a heat that makes my vision white out, I can't stop the guttural moan that tears from my throat. His slick hand follows, wrapping around my balls, tugging hard enough to send sparks shooting up my spine. My head falls back against the metal shelf with a thud that barely registers. The handcuffs bite into my wrists.

And then it hits me. Thisrole I'm playing tonightisn't aboutgiving upcontrol. This is it. This is the missing piece I've been chasing. And Ricardo—my sweet, steady Ricardo—is the one who's finally found it. It’s about the way he looks at me, like I'm the only thing in the universe that matters. Like he means it, when he says he’s not going anywhere. It’s how he lets all his walls down when he fights for me.

In this cramped, dusty office with the smell of burnt coffee and stale paper, I feel more powerful than I've ever felt in my life. Here, with my wrists locked in cold metal and his mouth claiming every inch of me, I'mRicky's.

Chapter 16

Surrender

Patrick [NOW]

Hecontinuesgivingmehead, his mouth a hot, slickvacuum around my girth, his tongue swirling with a maddening precision that makes my toes curl inside my work shoes—those stupid, sensible black shoes I wear for eight-hour shifts. The plug works its magic on my inexperienced muscle, each subtle movement of my body sending shockwaves through my system.

His free hand, the one not occupied with the exquisite torture of my dick, snakes around my hip, digging into the flesh of my ass. He begins to manipulate the plug, twisting it slightly, pulling it out enough to make me clench around it before pushing it back in deeper. The motion is calculated, designed to push me right to the edge of what I can handle without letting me fall.

My body arches involuntarily. My wrists strain against the handcuffs, the metal biting into my skin with a pain that's both grounding and exhilarating. The wire shelf presses into my back, a constant reminder of how utterly trapped I am.

"Fuck," I gasp, the words barely coherent as he swallows me down again, his throat constricting around the head of my dick. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of anything he's willing to give me.

He responds by pulling back slightly, his lips wrapped around the tip, his tongue flicking against the sensitive underside with maddening lightness. His other hand continues to work the plug, now thrusting it in time with the shallow movements of his mouth. The dual stimulation is almost too much, a symphony of sensation that threatens to shatter me into a million pieces.

"Please," I beg, the word torn from my throat as my head falls back against the metal shelf with a thud that barely registers. "Sir, please..."

A low chuckle vibrates against my dick, straight up my spine, making me shake. He's enjoying this.I can feel it in the way his tongue suddenly becomes more intentional, more cruel. He's savoring my desperation. I'm enjoying it too. Every second of it.

His pace quickens suddenly, his mouth taking me deeper with each downward motion, his hand working the plug with increasing intensity. The pressure builds inside me, a coiling spring of pleasure that winds tighter and tighter with every thrust, every suck, every twist of his wrist. My vision starts to tunnel, the edges blurring as all my focus narrows to the points of contact between our bodies—the hot wetness of his mouth, the cold metal of the handcuffs, the unyielding pressure of the plug.