Page 12 of The Comfort Trap

Out of pure habit I reach up, my skin tingling with the need to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin against my palm.But before I can make contact, his hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist with a firm grip.

"Don't touch unless I say so," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I drop my hands instantly, my cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. I look up at him, eager, waiting for his next move. He reaches down, tilting my head back. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, a slow, deliberate caress that makes my whole body ache.

I can feel myself throbbing between my legs, the need for friction almost overwhelming. As I watch him, he fully pulls himself out of his boxer briefs, his dick hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. He's so hard for me, I can barely breathe, my own erection pressing against my stomach, desperate for attention.

Instinct takes over. My hand starts to move, reaching down to grip myself.

His hand is in my hair before I can make contact. He tugs, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to pull my head back, to make my eyes snap up to meet his. The sting on my scalp is sharp.

"I said don't touch," he repeats. There's no anger in his tone, only a steely resolve that makes my stomach clench with desire.

I let go of myself immediately, now gripping my bare thighs, my nails digging into the skin. I look up at him, my heart pounding, my body thrumming with a desperate, needy energy.

He releases my hair, his hand moving to stroke my cheek, a gesture that's at odds with the command he gave. "You're such a good boy," he praises, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "Waiting for what I give you."

He steps closer, the head of his dick brushing against my lips. I part my them automatically, eager to take him, but he holds back, out of reach.

"Beg for it," he says, rough with lust.

My cheeks burn hotter, but the shame is quickly swallowed by the raw need coursing through me. "Please," I whisper.

"Please what?"

"Please, sir," I correct myself, the word feeling natural now, necessary. "Please let me taste you."

He rewards me with a slow smile, a hand still cradling the back of my head. "Good boy."

He finally guides himself forward, and I open my mouth eagerly, taking him in. The taste of him floods my senses, and I let out a soft moan around his length. He sets the pace, one hand in my hair, the other on my shoulder, his hips moving in a slow, controlled rhythm. I am completely at his mercy, and the feeling is liberating.

He watches me the entire time, his gaze dark and possessive, whispering praises that make me melt. "That's it, just like that. So fucking perfect."

His words push me closer to the edge, even without a hand on my own aching length. I’m lost in the sensation, in the sound his moans, in the knowledge that I am giving him this, that I am trusting him with this part of myself.

Suddenly, his hand tightens in my hair, pulling back with enough force to make my mouth slide off him with a wet pop. I look up, my lips parted and swollen, my eyes searching his. I'm waiting. Learning. I think I'm getting better at this.

"On the couch," he directs, a sharp nod of his head indicating the leather cushions behind me. I hesitate for a fraction of a second, my mind racing.

How does he want me? On my back? My stomach?

The overwhelming desire to do it right, to be exactly what he wants, paralyzes me. I open my mouth to ask, a question forming on my tongue, but the words die there. Before I canspeak, he’s gripping my waist with an urgency that steals my breath.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts and tosses me onto the couch.

My back hits the cool leather with a soft thud, the air rushing from my lungs. I try to push up on my elbows, to orient myself, but he's already moving, stepping out of his jeans and underwear.

Then he's on me, his weight pinning me into the soft cushions. One hand presses firmly on my shoulder, holding me down, while the other spreads wide across the center of my chest, right over my hammering heart. He lowers his bare hips, grinding into me. The friction is electric, his dick sliding against my own, and I can't stop the moan that tears from my throat.

He leans down, his mouth hot against my neck.

"You don't get to think right now," he growls, his breath warm on my skin. "You only get to feel. To be mine."

His words shatter me. I let go of my thoughts completely, gripping his shoulders to hold on. To anchor myself in this overwhelming storm of sensation. He kisses me then, a deep, claiming kiss that tastes of me and him and us.

The pressure on my shoulder disappears. For a heart-stopping second, I'm untethered, until his hand moves lower, wrapping around both of us. The heat of him, the slickness of our combined arousal, it's almost unbearable. He strokes us together and I'm leaking so much I can feel it smearing across my stomach, a wet testament to how completely he's undone me.

Then his grip loosens. His hand, now wet and slippery with our combined fluids, moves back to my ass. His fingers, first one, then two, work me open again, stretching me, preparing me. I'm arching into his touch, a silent plea for more, when he finally replaces his fingers with the blunt, insistent pressure of his dick.He pauses there, the head of him pressed against my entrance, a question without words. He's watching me, waiting.