Broken Open
Patrick [NOW]
The café is a ghost town when I finally finish counting the till, the last of the caffeine addicts having stumbled out into the night an hour ago.
Gabriel, a scrawny newer guy who's somehow become my favorite right after Aubrey, is already by the door.
His hoodie is up, earbuds are in, looking like he's about to vibrate right out of his own skin with impatience.
He's good at his job, I'll give him that. He’s efficient, quick on the draw with the espresso machine, always smiling, doesn't cry when some asshole spills his latte all over the counter. A goddamn angel.
I'm wiping down the last of the stainless steel, watching my reflection blur and distort like some funhouse mirror version of myself, when Gabriel walks up to me.
"Hey, boss," he whispers. "There's... someone outside."
I sigh, not even looking up. "It's LA. There's always someone outside."
"No, I mean... there's someone sitting there. In a car. Been there for like, twenty minutes. It's giving me the creeps." He bites his lip, his eyes wide. "My boyfriend made me watch Terrifier last night and I swear to God, if I go out there and some clown is gonna jump me with a hacksaw—"
I finally straighten up, tossing my rag onto the counter with more force than necessary.
"You carry mace?" he asks.
"I have a knife," I say, patting my pocket where the butterfly knife I've carried since I was fifteen rests. Old habits die hard. "What kind of car?"
He points a trembling finger toward the window. "It's shiny. And he's revving it loud."
My stomach does that stupid little flip it always does when I think about Ricardo and his ridiculous car. I move to stand beside Gabriel, peering through the glass into the dimly lit parking lot.
And there it is. Ricardo's baby. A gleaming chrome beast that looks like it was designed by a god with a serious hard-on for speed and aesthetics. Even in the dim parking lot lights, it's unmistakable.
"Oh," I say, the sound barely audible. "That's my boyfriend, Ricky."
Gabriel's eyes widen even further. "Your boyfriend? I like his car... Why is he just sitting there?"
I pull out my phone, fumbling with the screen. No missed calls. No texts. I’m staring at the same lock screen of us at that stupid flea market last year, me scowling while he grins like an idiot with some vintage hat perched on his head.
"I have no fucking clue," I mutter, my mind already racing through possibilities. Car trouble? Surprise visit? I stuff the phone back in my pocket.
"Alright, Gabriel. You're good to go. I’ll lock up in a second."
He looks relieved, practically sprinting for the door. "Thank you. See you tomorrow!"
The bell above the door chimes as he scurries out, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. I watch him for a moment, then turn my attention back to the car. To Ricardo.
I take a deep breath, the scent of burnt coffee and cleaning supplies filling my lungs. Time to go find out what kind of fresh hell awaits me.
Gabriel's beat-to-shit Honda sputters out of the parking lot, and I'm halfway to Ricardo's chrome monstrosity when the driver's door aggressively swings open.
"Hey, baby, what's—"
"Get back inside."
The words hit me like a slap. "What?"
"Get back inside," he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now."
My brain's still trying to process this whiplash-inducing turn of events. "Oh. Okay." I turn on my heel, my keys jangling in my hand as I head back to the café door. The bell chimes its irritating little tune as I swing it open.
"I'm basically ready to go, I just needed to set the alarm and lock up." I glance at the clock on the wall. "It's not even late or anything—"
Click.
The deadbolt slides home behind me, and I spin around so fast I almost lose my balance. There he is, his back pressed against the door, staring at me with an intensity that gives me goosebumps.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He takes a step forward, and I’m watching a switch flip. This isn't my Ricardo, the one who hums while doing taxes and gets all flustered when I talk about which milk foams best.
This is the man who showed up at my window with a boombox and a bouquet of flowers like he was storming the Bastille.
He doesn't answer. He keeps advancing, forcing me backward into my own territory.
I'm stumbling, tripping over a stack of unopened supply boxes, my back hitting the wall with a thud that knocks the wind out of me.
I put a hand up against his chest, a flimsy barrier against this sudden, overwhelming force.
"Ricky," I start, but it's useless.
He grabs my wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and keeps moving.
I'm walking backward now, my mind racing to map out the familiar space I suddenly can't navigate.
Before I know it, I'm in the back office, the sudden darkness making me blink.
My hip smacks against the edge of the desk, sending a jolt of pain up my side.
The ancient computer monitor glows with a sickly green light, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
I push off the desk, grabbing his shoulders, trying to regain some semblance of control.
"Baby," I start again, lost between confusion and arousal.
He pushes me back, harder this time, and I'm pinned against the desk, the wood digging into my lower back. The scent of old paper fills my nostrils, mingling with his own clean, masculine scent that's suddenly overwhelming.
I try to get a grip on his shoulders, to anchor myself. "Ricky, what in the hell—"
He catches both my wrists, his grip solid, and guides me around so fast the room tilts on its axis.
My back slams against the metal wire shelf unit, the one crammed with binders full of employee records and expired health codes I've been meaning to shred for two years.
The wire bites into my spine, each individual strand a line of fire through my thin work shirt, as his body presses flush against mine.
His mouth crashes down on mine and it steals the air from my lungs.
His teeth scrape my lower lip, drawing a faint coppery taste that mingled with the coffee and mint on his breath.
His tongue invades my mouth, dominant and searching, mapping my teeth, the roof of my mouth, curling around my own tongue in a possessive dance that leaves me breathless.
One of his hands releases my wrist only to fist in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss, to take what he wants without asking.
The other hand remains locked around my wrist, pressing it into the metal shelf above my head.
My body arches involuntarily. His free hand slides down my back, fingers digging into the flesh above my ass, pulling me even closer until there's no space left between us, only the hard planes of his body and the unyielding metal at my back.
The kiss deepens further, becoming sloppy, wet, and utterly consuming—a desperate, hungry thing that leaves me gasping when he finally pulls back enough to speak against my swollen lips.
Okay.
He's definitely not angry. He's... playing. My grin breaks through the kiss, and I start to reach for him, to pull him closer, but he's faster.
He pins both my wrists above my head with one hand, his other hand disappearing into the cargo pocket of his pants. He pulls out the handcuffs.
Before I can even process this, he's clicking them shut around my wrists, then looping the chain through one of the metal poles of the shelf above my head. The sound echoes in the tiny office. I tug experimentally. No give.
He slams my hands back against the binders behind me.
"Stay." The word is a command, low and guttural.
"Okay," I manage.
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. "Yes, sir," he corrects.
A shiver runs down my spine, electric and sudden. "Y-yessir," I stammer, the word feeling foreign and thrilling on my tongue.
"Color?" he whispers, his breath warm against my neck.
I can't help but smile. "Green."
I feel his laugh against my skin. His free hand finds the collar of my shirt, and he rips it open.
Buttons fly everywhere—pinging against the glass desk lamp, skittering across the tile floor like tiny, frantic insects.
I gasp, the sudden cool air hitting my chest. My dress pants are next.
He works the button free with a flick of his thumb, then yanks all of the fabric down my hips with a rough, efficient movement that leaves me entirely exposed and vulnerable.
He slides the belt from the loops with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath catch, the leather whispering against the belt loops. He doubles it in his hands, snapping it together with a sharp crack that echoes in the small office.
I look up at him, and my breath catches in my throat. This man—this creature standing in front of me, with his jaw set and his eyes burning with an intensity I've never seen before—is almost a stranger. A dangerous, thrilling stranger who's somehow wearing my boyfriend's face.
The belt loops around my waist, the cold leather a shock against my bare skin. He cinches it tight, the buckle digging into my hip bone, leaving enough room for his fingers to hook under the strap. Then he yanks hard.
I stumble forward, my crotch smashing against the rough fabric of his pants, and the hard length of him presses back.
My own dick, already at attention from this whole fucked-up scenario, throbs in response against his zipper.
His face buries itself in the crook of my neck, and his mouth is a hot, wet assault on my skin.
We had a rule, didn't we? No marks. But this is different.
These are the kind of marks that nearly fade before morning, the ones that are just for us.
He sucks and bites, a trail of fire down my shoulder, each hickey a brand.
One hand clamps down on my hip, holding me in place while the other snakes around to grab a handful of my ass, his grip digging in hard.
"You belong to me," he whispers against my ear, the word a vibration that rattles my teeth. His hips grind against me, a slow roll that promises more than a quick fuck in the back office of a coffee shop.
"Yessir," I manage.
He drops to his knees. His hand disappears into his pocket again, emerging with a travel-sized bottle of lube and something else that glints in the dim light of the office.
"Prove it," he commands. He flips the cap with his thumb, squeezing a generous amount into his palm—way more than I'd ever use, but this isn't about efficiency.
It's about excess. About overwhelm. I eagerly follow directions.
His touch is slick, sliding over my ass, between my cheeks, teasing, exploring.
I groan, bucking my hips, desperate for more contact, but he holds back, drawing this out, making me wait.
He finds every sensitive spot, pressing, circling, until I'm a trembling mess.
Then, without warning, his teeth sink into the flesh of my left thigh, sharp and possessive. At the same time, a slick finger pushes inside me. I cry out, the dual sensations of pain and pleasure threatening to send me over the edge. He pauses, letting me adjust.
"Color?" he asks, his voice suddenly gentle.
I let my head fall back against the metal shelf, a laugh escaping me that's half-hysterical, half-ecstatic. "Green. So fucking green, Ricky—"
The correction is immediate and brutal. He yanks his finger out, the empty sensation making me gasp, and brings his hand down hard on the side of my ass cheek.
The crack echoes in the small office, and I see stars behind my eyelids.
The pain blossoms, hot and sharp, mingling with the pleasure until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
"Sir!" I gasp, the correction automatic. "I meant to say sir."
"Mmm," he rumbles, his face pressed against my groin. "Good boy."
His hands return to their work, one slicking me up again while the other steadies my hip.
One finger, then two, stretching me, preparing me.
And then something else enters me, something firmer, thicker, that settles deep inside me.
The other object from his pocket—it’s a plug.
I've never done this before, never even considered it.
”Still green?”
My wrists strain against the handcuffs, the metal biting into my skin. The fullness, the helplessness, the overwhelming sensations are almost too much. “Green.”
"Beg for me," he directs.
And I do. The words pour out of me, raw and desperate.
I'm not begging, not really—I'm confessing.
I'm begging for his mouth on my dick, for his touch on my body, for anything and everything to push me over this razor's edge he's created.
I'm begging because he's made me want to beg, made me need it like air, made me crave the humiliation of needing him as much as I do.
When his mouth finally closes around me, taking every damn inch with a heat that makes my vision white out, I can't stop the guttural moan that tears from my throat.
His slick hand follows, wrapping around my balls, tugging hard enough to send sparks shooting up my spine.
My head falls back against the metal shelf with a thud that barely registers. The handcuffs bite into my wrists.
And then it hits me. This role I'm playing tonight isn't about giving up control.
This is it. This is the missing piece I've been chasing. And Ricardo—my sweet, steady Ricardo—is the one who's finally found it. It’s about the way he looks at me, like I'm the only thing in the universe that matters. Like he means it, when he says he’s not going anywhere. It’s how he lets all his walls down when he fights for me.
In this cramped, dusty office with the smell of burnt coffee and stale paper, I feel more powerful than I've ever felt in my life. Here, with my wrists locked in cold metal and his mouth claiming every inch of me, I'm Ricky's.