Page 32 of The Comfort Trap

Another smack cuts me off, harder this time, followed by another, and another. The rhythm is relentless, each impact sending jolt after jolt of electricity straight to my dick. My skin is on fire. Then his grip is in my hair, yanking my head back, the angle forcing my spine into an arch. His voice is back in my ear, a dangerous growl that vibrates through my entire body.

"Are you being bad, baby?"

"No, sir," I gasp, the denial automatic.

"Hmm," he rumbles, the sound a low hum of disagreement. "I think you were being very bad."

He leans back slightly, the shift in weight giving him a new angle. His hand snakes between my legs, gripping my dick, pulling it back until it's trapped between my thighs. His other hand joins in, cupping my balls, tugging them down in a way that makes my entire body tense with pleasure. His thumb finds the tip, circling the sensitive slit, smearing the pre-cum that's gathered there. The stimulation is almost too much, a direct line to the orgasm that's coiling in my gut.

"Sir," I gasp in desperate warning. "You're going to make me cum."

"You're not allowed to yet."

The denial hits me, and the strangled sound that escapes my throat is pure desperation. I hear the cap of the lube pop open again, followed by the shock of cold liquid pooling against my entrance, dripping down to coat my balls and shaft. His hand is everywhere at once, spreading the slickness from hole to tip, yanking and twisting until I'm rising onto the balls of my feet, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation while simultaneously craving more.

Shit. I'm going to come. He's not going to stop.

Before I can form the words to warn him again, he's pressing into me. He enters me in one swift, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The belt around my waist becomes a rein as he yanks me back against him, forcing me to balance with my palms flat against the desk, papers scattering beneath my hands.

He fucks me relentlessly, each stroke harder and deeper than the last. The slap of his hand against my ass echoes in the small office, mingling with the sound of his hips meeting mine. His grip on the belt tightens, using it to control my movements, to pull me into each thrust with bruising force. Then he props one foot on the office chair, changing the angle enough to make me see stars with every movement. The new position allows him to hit that spot inside me that makes my entire body tremble.

He yanks my head back until his mouth is pressed against my ear.

"Come," he grunts. "Now."

The permission is all I need. With a broken cry, my body shatters, the orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that leaves me gasping for air. My release spurts onto the desk and onto my own thighs, each pulse of pleasure drawing out a grunt from deep in my chest. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down,riding me through the aftershocks until his own release takes him. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside me, his dick pulsing as he fills me with heat. His groan is deep, nearly primal.

For a moment, we stay like that, our bodies pressed together, both trembling. His weight on my back is grounding.

Then he's lifting me, gently this time, turning me in his arms until I'm facing him. He cups my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I didn't even realize had fallen. The kiss he gives me is soft and tender.

"You were perfect," he whispers against my lips.

I laugh, the sound rough in my throat. "You were..." I pause, trying to find the right word, but my brain's all fuzzy. "Assertive," I finally whisper back, leaning in close.

He turns his head to catch my eye, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his irises. "A good thing?" he asks. He already knows the answer.

I can't help it—I'm grinning like a goddamn idiot, my face stretched so wide it almost hurts. "Yeah," I say, and it comes out more breathless than I intended. "A very good thing."

We stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the silence of the office broken only by our slowing breaths. The scent of sex and coffee and sweat fills the air, mingling with the faint smell of old paper. It's perfect in a way I never could have imagined, a perfect blend of the familiar and the forbidden.

I snag my lip ring with my teeth, letting out a jagged breath when I spot the ceiling. No cameras in the office. The relief is so instant it almost makes me dizzy.

Finally, he pulls back, his hands sliding down my arms to my wrists, examining the red marks left by the cuffs. "I didn’t mean to leave these… I'm sorry about the bruises," he says softly, his thumb tracing one of the angry welts on my ass.

"Don't be," I reply. "They'll remind me of this every time I see them. And trust me, that's not a bad thing."

He laughs, and the sound is so fucking real it almost hurts, pulling me back into his orbit until his mouth crashes against mine.

We're a team, a codependent mess. But as Ricardo's mouth explores mine, I realize something. I'd spent months convincing myself comfort was the enemy of passion, that love had an expiration date we were counting down to. But being here with him, I realize I got it backwards.

Comfort wasn't the problem, we were. Not because we'd stopped loving each other, I love him so much it hurts, but because we'd stopped talking. The real things, not surface-level bullshit. We've been so busy playing house, wrapped in our domestic bubble, that we forgot to keep pushing each other, to keep being the spark that drew us together. We became comfortable, and in that comfort, we grew complacent. We stopped fighting for each other, because we thought we'd already won.

But this—this messy, complicated, terrifying thing—feels like we're finally waking up. Like we're remembering that love isn't passive. It's an action. A choice you make every day, even when it's hard. Especially then.

Chapter 17

Choosing Us