His remark evokes the coldest, most insidious chill I’ve ever felt, slithering up my spine and making it go painfully rigid. Even when he briefly goes silent, I can still hear the echo of his voice in my head; implicit. Sinister. Foreboding.
A series of tremors rips through me, all the air rushing out of my lungs as they seize uncontrollably. I freeze, body and mind; fear and uncertainty paralyzing me in every way, but I highly doubt knowing what he’s going to do next would make me any less afraid.
Frost stays behind me, his overbearing presence all too apparent even though I’m not facing him—and I have absolutely no desire to—my heart thumping sporadically, swelling with uncontainable anxiety.
“Go straight,” he says.
My stomach knots up at the unexpected command, a wave of goosebumps breaking out over my shoulders. My eyes slam shut briefly, hating that I have to walk in front of him again with my whole, entire body on display—imperfections and all.
Reluctantly, I stagger ahead of him, my skin aflame, buzzing with distress and…and…anticipation?
No. No way in hell. It’s just my nerves on overdrive—and with good reason.
And, as if to add insult to injury, the dull, lingering throbbing between my thighs only adds to the challenge of walking. I really wish I could ignore the distracting sensation…as well as the not-so-distant memory of its creation.
Of all the things…
God…I honestly can’t believe he just did what he did; literally wake me up from sleep with a minute-long finger-fuck—only to deny me release yet again.
Son of a bitch.
My thoughts crumble and I almost jump out of my skin when I feel his hand on my lower back all of a sudden, new moisture involuntarily forming in my core at the contact. His hand is placid, yet deceptive in its gentleness, and he easily guides me, closing the distance and walking side by side instead.
Oh God, shoot me now!
I’m not sure which is worse: this or having to walk in front of him knowing my entire behind is in full, HD view.
I try to breathe normally, swallowing multiple times against a reforming lump in my throat as I remind my legs how to work, silently begging the knees between them not to buckle.
And then…it occurs to me that he might be taking me back to that horrid, shitty clock-wheel from last night.
I instantly tense at the notion, my steps slowing automatically, but Frost doesn’t seem to notice my change in demeanor—or simply doesn’t give half a shit—and keeps walking at his usual pace, his hand not leaving my back so that I’m forced to keep up in spite of my building apprehension.
We walk down the hallway from my room, turning into another wing that opens up into a slightly narrower but far more striking corridor, lined with vintage brick walls covered in a sharp, silver-grey finish; cold yet strikingly beautiful.
Just like him.
Several more turns lead us to a single, isolated black door in a little pocket of the wing, not necessarily inconspicuous but not in plain sight, either. After a torturous, mortifying journey that took for-fucking-ever—it certainly felt like it, anyway—I can only assume that we’ve arrived our destination.
This appears to be a private area, simply because of its location: away from pretty much everything else, secluded in an eerily quiet corner of this super-mansion.
I can’t help but wonder if it’s always this quiet here. But, more than that, I wonder what lies beyond the lone door in front of us.
I frown as I study it, noticing that there’s no handle or knob. No apparent way to open it—at least, not that I can see.
Frost steps ahead of me, his hand leaving the small of my back and reaching for it.
To my surprise, it lights up, the glossy obsidian finish changing that the point of contact, morphing into a stunning, metallic chrome around his hand. When he removes it, the imprint remains on the door for a few seconds, dissipating from the edges until it fades completely, getting swallowed back by the surrounding black.
A quaint, eloquent female voice comes from nowhere.
“Welcome back, Dexter.”
I jump at the unexpected sound, startled and absolutely confounded.
It sounds kind of like…like…the GPS voice on the Ice Block. But better. More realistic. Like…an actual person.
The door gives off a soft, automated click and slides open on its own, revealing a dark, obscured interior.
You have got to be shitting me, is all I can think, my eyes bulging with both amazement and disbelief behind my glasses.
Frost leans in to me, his mouth hovering by my ear, causing my breathing to falter and violent tingles to shoot straight to my pussy. His hand finds my lower back again, nudging me forward.