Page 7 of The Comfort Trap

"I get it if you're not—"

"I am," he cuts me off, his gaze locking onto mine, intense and unwavering. "I'm into it. Or... I'm willing to be. I'm willingto try." He leans forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between us until I can smell the faint scent of beer and his own clean, masculine scent. "But I need to know what you want, Patrick. Because 'kinky' can mean a lot of things. I don't want to... fuck this up."

The relief hits me so hard I feel dizzy. He's not running. He's actually listening. He's trying to understand this mess inside my head. I take a shaky breath.

"I don't want a sex dungeon or anything," I say, the words tumbling out too fast. My brain immediately conjures some grim, black-lit room with whips hanging from the walls. "That's not what I'm talking about. It's more about… the dynamic. The power play."

"Power," he repeats, testing the word. “What are you thinking? Like, tying me up?”

"Yeah," I whisper, feeling a flush creep up my neck. Admitting it out loud is both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you're about to jump. "I spend all day managing people, solving problems, being the one who has to have all the answers. I love my job, but it's exhausting. Sometimes I want to... let go. To not have to think. To feel and know I'm in complete control no matter what. I'm curious what it would be like. And, maybe, I was hoping you’d like that too. For me to be your dom."

He's watching me intently, searching my face. I see the wheels turning, the man who loves to break numbers apart and figure out how they work applying that same logic to this new, strange concept.

"So, you want to tell me what to do," he says, methodical. "And I obey."

"Yes." I swallow hard. "And I want you to be… more submissive about it than you normally would."

The grin fades into something more serious, more focused. "Okay. I can do that. But you said something about communicating first. Setting rules?"

"Of course." This is what I love about him. He's methodical. He doesn't jump into things headfirst; he builds a foundation. "There are colors for checking in. And a safeword."

"Right." He nods, his thumb stroking the side of his jaw. "Something simple. Something we won't forget."

"Snail," I say immediately.

We both crack up laughing.

"No. Are you fucking joking?" He reaches out and grabs my hand, that familiar warmth spreading through my fingers. My Ricardo. "Patrick… Is this really a humiliation kink you're attempting to tell me about?"

"No!" I wipe at the corner of my eye, still laughing, squeezing his hand tighter. "I love you, baby. It keeps the mood light, you know? Let’s do snail."

He laughs again, that deep warm sound that fills my heart. "Snail it is," he says, still chuckling. "What else?"

"No visible marks," I list off, my brain suddenly cataloging every forum post and article I've guiltily scrolled through at 3 AM. "Nothing that's going to show up at work, I'm not dealing withAubrey’sdramatics. No humiliation—I get enough of that from the general public. And… we have to talk after. Every single time. Check in. Make sure we're both not going to have a complete fucking meltdown."

"Always," he agrees, no hesitation, which both terrifies and turns me on. His hand reaches across the rickety table, covering mine. His thumb strokes my knuckles, a simple, grounding touch that feels more intimate than anything we've done in months. "This is about trust. I get it. I don't take that lightly."

I stare at our joined hands, his strong fingers intertwined with my own. The trust is already there, a deep, unshakeable bedrockwe've built over years of shared secrets and stupid fights. This isn't about creating it from scratch; it's about channeling it, exploring a new, terrifying facet of it.

"So what exactly are we researching?" I ask.

"Consent and communication," he says.

"Okay," I say, forcing enthusiasm. "Super important stuff. Can't have consent without communication, or communication without consent."

He gives me a look that says"please shut up"but with more patience than I’d ever be capable of. "Power exchange," he continues.

"Okay," I nod. "Kinda like that one time I let you decide what movie we watched for once, and you picked a documentary about a man attempting to break the world record for the 1981 arcade gameDonkey Kong."

"Sub and dom rules," he says, ignoring my comment.

That’s when it happens.

Ricardo freezes. It’s ajust-saw-a-ghost-of-his-extype of freeze.

"What?" I ask, poking him.

"I’m fine with you being dom, but I don't like being called sub," he admits.