Page 31 of The Comfort Trap

Just as I feel myself approaching the inevitable, he stops.

His mouth pulls away, leaving my dick throbbing in the cool air of the office. His hand stills on the plug.

"Color?" he asks.

"Green," I gasp, my voice ragged. "Still sofucking green, sir."

He rises slowly to his feet. His hands move to his own pants, deftly working the button free, then lowering the zipper with agonizing slowness. When he springs free, hard and ready, my mouth goes dry. He's bigger than I remember, thicker, the head flushed a deep purple and already glistening with pre-cum. He wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly as his eyes rove over my body, taking in every detail—my flushed face, my heaving chest, my wrists bound above my head.

"I love you like this," he admits.

I can only nod, my words failing me as he steps closer, the head of his dick brushing against my stomach, leaving a wet trail on my skin. His other hand returns to the plug, twisting it again, sending another jolt of pleasure through me.

"I'm going to fuck you," he says, not asking, but stating it as fact. "And you're going to take every inch of me. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

He doesn't remove the plug right away. Instead, he continues to manipulate it, stretching me, preparing me, watching myreactions with intensity. A whimper escapes me as he finally eases the plug out, the sudden emptiness making me clench around nothing. He positions himself between my legs, grabbing them into his arms, the head of his dick pressing against my entrance.

"Look at me," he commands. "I want to see you."

I obey, my gaze locked with his as he pushes forward, the head of his dick breaching me with a stretch that burns and pleasures at the same time. My breath catches in my throat, my hands clenching into fists above my head as he presses deeper, filling me inch by excruciating inch.

"Fuck… You’re so tight," he murmurs.

The praise sends a shiver through me, my walls clenching around him involuntarily. He groans in response, his hips pressing forward until he's fully seated inside me, his balls flush against my ass. The sensation is overwhelming—fullness, pressure, a deep, primal satisfaction at being claimed so completely.

He stills for a moment, giving me time to adjust, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel my pulse racing where we're connected, can feel every twitch and throb of him inside me. All of this feels intimate in a way I've never experienced before.

Then he starts to move. Slowly at first, with long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside me. Each thrust is designed to drive me to the brink of insanity. My head falls back against the shelf with each powerful movement, my mind going blank with pleasure.

"Fucking perfect," he growls. He grips my hips hard enough to leave bruises. "You feel incredible."

The praise, combined with the relentless stimulation, pushes me higher and higher. I'm a mess of need and want, my body no longer my own, existing solely for the pleasure he's giving me. The metal of the handcuffs digs into my wrists, the pain a distantecho beneath the overwhelming burn of my own list for more of him.

"Can I come, sir?" I gasp, barely recognizing my own voice, so desperate and wrecked.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he reaches between us, wrapping his hand around my dick, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is too much, the coil of pleasure tightening to the breaking point.

"No," he growls against my ear, the word a low rumble that vibrates through my entire body. "I'm not done with you."

I arch up against him, desperate for any friction from the hard planes of his stomach, but he catches on immediately. Before I can register the movement, he's pulling out completely, leaving me empty and aching. I groan at the sudden loss, my head falling back against the metal shelf as my feet hit the floor.

He takes a few steps back. His sight roams over my body, taking in every detail—my heaving chest, the sweat beading on my forehead, the way my wrists strain against the handcuffs. His dick is still hard, glistening in the dim light of the office, pulsing with unspent need. I'm panting, sweating, pulling uselessly at the cuffs, and somehow the predatory look in his eyes fuels my ego more than anything I've ever experienced.

He smirks and bends down to retrieve the keys from where they'd fallen on the floor. The movement is controlled, giving me a perfect view of his toned back and the muscles flexing in his thighs. Before he unlocks the cuffs, he grabs the belt still cinched around my waist, using it to pull me flush against him. The kiss he gives me leaves me breathless and dizzy.

Then he finally unlocks the cuffs, the metal clicking open. The gentleness as he rubs my wrists, massaging away the indentations left by the metal, makes my heart flutter in my chest. He takes my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and kisses me again, soft and tender.

"I love you," he says.

Before I can find the breath to echo the sentiment, I'm yelping instead as he heaves me up, his strength catching me off guard.

Papers fly as he pushes me chest-first onto the desk, the wood digging into my ribs and my cheek pressed against a stack of invoices. The sudden movement leaves me breathless. His hand comes down on my ass, the smack echoing in the small office. The sting radiates through me in a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that makes my dick throb against the hard wood of the desk.

"Color?" he whispers again, his body covering mine, pinning me in place.

"Green," I moan, the word muffled by the papers beneath my cheek. "But it's about to be yellow if you don'thurry up—"