Page 18 of The Comfort Trap

He looks me up and down, his expression unreadable. "You're actually on time," he says.

"Your standards are too low," I reply, trying for a cool, casual tone that still comes out sounding strangled.

He snorts. "We'll see about that." He steps aside, a clear invitation to enter. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before stepping over the threshold.

The apartment is small but neat, the furniture sparse and functional. There’s an old record player in the corner, a couple of records stacked on the side. It’s a glimpse into a side of him I know nothing about.

He closes the door behind me with a soft click, the sound sealing us in. The air is thick with a tension that is almost palpable.

"Look," he says, turning to face me, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Before we do this, I need you to understand something. This isn't a date. I'm not looking for a boyfriend. I'm not looking for a relationship. This is just sex. One time. Maybe more than one time, but… it's still only sex. No strings. No expectations. You don't get to call me your boyfriend.You don't get to get clingy. If you can't handle that, you can walk out that door right now."

I look at him, at the wall he has built so high and so thick. He’s bracing for impact, for rejection, for me to laugh in his face and call him a slut or something. He’s expecting me to be like every other guy who wanted a quick fuck and then moved on.

But I'm not.

I take a step closer, closing the small distance between us. I hold his gaze, letting him see my own sincerity.

"I'm not here for a boyfriend, Patrick," I say softly.

His brow furrows in confusion. "Then what are you here for?"

"I'm here for you," I reply simply. "Just you. Whatever you're willing to give me. If that's just sex, then that's what I want. If it's more, I'm here for that too. But I'm not here to play games or make promises I can't keep. I'm here because I can't stop thinking about you."

Something flickers in his eyes. He searches my face, looking for a lie, for a hidden agenda. He doesn't find one.

Finally, he lets out a long, slow breath. "I don’t get you," he says. It sounds almost like a compliment.

"I've heard that," I murmur.

He looks away, his jaw working. "I don't do sweet talk. I don't do romance."

"Good," I say. "Because I'm not here to romance you. I'm here to fuck you. If that's what you want."

He looks back at me. He closes the remaining distance between us, grabs the front of my shirt, and pulls my mouth down to his.

The kiss is nothing like I imagined. It is not sweet or gentle. It is a clash of teeth and tongues, a desperate, almost angry kiss. It is a battle for dominance that I am more than happy to lose. His fingers are in my hair, gripping it tightly, holding me in place as he devours my mouth.

I kiss him back, pulling him flush against me by his waist. I can feel his hardness pressing against my thigh, and a groan rumbles in my chest. He’s equally as affected by this as I am, and the knowledge is intoxicating.

He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes glazed with lust. "Bedroom," he orders.

He doesn't wait for me to respond. He grabs my hand and pulls me down a short hallway, shoving open a door at the end. The bedroom is as sparse as the living room, a mattress on the floor with a tangled mess of blankets and a single lamp casting a dim, yellow light.

He turns to me, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Take your clothes off," he demands, his gaze roaming over my body like he is already undressing me. I’ve never been so turned on in my life.

I pull my shirt over my head, fumbling with the buttons of my jeans. He tracks every movement, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. I kick off my shoes and push my jeans and boxers down in one go, stepping out of them until I am standing naked in front of him.

His gaze is intense, almost physical, as it sweeps over me. He reaches out, his hand tracing a path from my collarbone, down my chest, over my stomach. His touch is light, exploratory. My dick throbs under his scrutiny, pre-cum beading at the tip.

"Okay," he says. He seems pleased with what he sees, and his approval sends a fresh wave of arousal through me.

I watch, my breath held, as he pulls his own shirt over his head, revealing a lean, toned torso with a smattering of freckles across his collarbone I hadn't paid enough attention to before. He unbuttons his jeans with deliberate slowness, his attention still locked on me. He pushes them down, along with his boxers, and steps out of them.

He’s beautiful. All sharp angles and pale skin, his own dick jutting out from a thatch of dark hair. He’s art in motion,a masterpiece I’m desperate to touch. He closes the distance between us again, but this time, there is no rush.

He presses his naked body against mine, his skin hot against mine. He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper. His hands roam over my back, my ass, pulling me closer. I can feel the hard length of him pressing against my stomach, and I rock my hips, creating friction that makes us both moan into each other's mouths.

"Get on the bed," he whispers against my lips.