7. Chapter 7
Testing the Edge
Patrick [NOW]
Our first session was good. Real fucking good. But it didn't quite hit the spot.
Ricardo is on his back on our bed, his arms stretched above his head, anchored to the headboard by a pair of leather cuffs. The room is dim, lit only by a single candle on the dresser, casting dancing shadows across my focused face as I kneel between his legs.
This was supposed to be the next step, the logical progression from our last attempt. The cuffs were my idea—something I'd been thinking about for days. My hands tremble slightly as I fumble with my belt buckle, the metal cool against my sweaty palms.
I look down at Ricardo, his eyes closed, lips parted slightly, breathing steady. He looks so fucking trusting, so willing, and it makes something twist in my gut. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I'm pushing too hard, trying to force something that was never meant to be.
But then his eyes flutter open, and they're focused on mine, clear and steady, and for a second, everything clicks into place. This is what we both wanted, right? What we agreed on? Trying something new together?
My fingers brush against his wrist, testing the fit of the leather. He watches me, waiting. Waiting for me to take control, to be the person he thinks I am. And god help me, I want to be that person. I really fucking do.
"You can still say no," the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, automatic as breathing.
I mean them. But the second they're out, it hits me—I need him to. Not because I want him to tell me no, but because if he can't, if he's just going along with this to make me happy, then none of this means anything. We're playing dress-up in a house of cards that's about to fucking collapse.
Ricardo studies me for what feels like an eternity. Then he nods.
"I know."
The words should reassure me. Instead, they terrify the shit out of me, because I'm not sure he really does know. I'm not sure either of us knows what the hell we're doing anymore.
"Ricky," I murmur. "You're such a good boy."
He arches into my touch and I lean down, my mouth hovering above his nipple, my breath warm against his sensitive skin. He waits, his own breath held in anticipation, but I don't close the distance. I stay there, letting the tension build, letting him want it.
"Please," he whispers, the word torn from his throat.
"Please what?" I ask, teasing.
"Please, sir," he corrects himself, the title feeling more natural each time he says it. "Please touch me."
I smirk before finally lowering my head. My tongue darts out, circling the tight bud before my teeth scrape gently against it. A jolt goes through him, and the moan that escapes him is music to my ears.
I take my time, lavishing attention on one nipple before moving to the other, still gripping his thighs.
My mouth leaves a trail of wet heat down his stomach, my tongue dipping into his navel, making him squirm.
He's already hard, achingly so, and when I finally reach his dick, I can practically feel his relief.
I don't take him in my mouth, not yet. Instead, I press a soft, teasing kiss against his head.
Then my tongue peeks out, lapping at the bead of moisture gathering there.
"Patrick," he gasps, his hips bucking upward.
"Ah ah," I chide, moving to pin his hips to the mattress. "You don't move unless I say so. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," he breathes, his body trembling with the effort to stay still.
I take my time, exploring him with my mouth and hands, pushing him to the edge over and over again, only to pull back at the last second.
He's a mess of need and want, his mind a blissful blank, filled only with the sensations I'm creating.
My fingers trace patterns across his skin, raising goosebumps while my tongue follows paths he never knew existed on his own body.
I alternate between soft, teasing touches and firm, possessive grips that remind him who's in control. Each time I think he can't take anymore, I change tactics, keeping him off-balance, guessing, craving. The candlelight flickers across the ceiling.
I grip the backs of his thighs, holding him in place, exposing him completely to my gaze and my mouth.
The position is vulnerable, almost obscene, but to me, it feels sacred.
My breath comes hot against his most intimate places before my tongue begins its relentless exploration.
I trace the seam behind his balls with agonizing slowness, making him shudder with every pass.
Then my mouth moves lower, circling his entrance with firm, wet strokes that make his toes curl.
He's gasping now, his body arching despite my earlier direction to stay still.
I press my teeth against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, a sharp counterpoint to the slick heat of my tongue.
The leather of the cuffs I picked out—fucking expensive, too—digs into his wrists as he strains against them.
I can practically feel the pain merging with the pleasure until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
He's floating, the way I wanted him to, completely lost to anything but my touch, my command, my will.
Finally, when I think he can't take anymore, I let his legs fall back to the bed and reach for the lube.
The sound of the cap popping open is loud in the quiet room, a sound that makes my own dick twitch.
My fingers, slick and cool, press against his entrance, and he moans, pushing back against them, desperate for more.
I work him open slowly, methodically, stretching him until he's writhing beneath me.
"Please, sir, I need you," he begs, and the words send a jolt straight through me.
"Patience," I remind him, playing the part I've rehearsed in my head a hundred times. "Good things come to those who wait."
I add a third finger, curling them just right, hitting that spot that makes him see stars. His back arches off the bed, a perfect, desperate curve.
"God, yes," he cries out, clenching his fists above his head, the leather of the cuffs digging into his skin.
That's when it happens.
His whole body goes rigid beneath me. The pleasure, which was written all over his face moments ago, vanishes. The cuffs suddenly look like actual restraints. The vulnerability I was so carefully crafting for him starts to look like genuine fear.
The want in his eyes is replaced by a rising tide of panic I didn't put there.
My blood runs cold. My heart starts to hammer against my ribs, but not with arousal.
My breath catches in my throat, and the room starts to feel too small, too close.
I'm still touching him, my fingers still inside him, but the sensations that were bringing him pleasure now feel invasive and overwhelming under my hands.