I wake up abruptly to the feeling of an odd, staggering fullness, hazy from deep slumber but somehow also on high alert.
My hips jerk for no reason, my forehead scrunching into a million creases as the bloated sensation quickly spreads through my groin and fans into my lower belly, all the muscles in them going tense, clenching around something.
Something…that shouldn’t be there.
In my muddled disorientation, I gasp into the pillow, my face contorting further in confusion at the startling presence in my body. It takes two seconds too long for me to realize what’s happening, and I whip my head over my shoulder impulsively, only to find Frost’s big body behind me and his diluted sapphire eyes staring right into mine, their usual iciness now possessing elements of pure heat, strangely making him look even more sinister…
As well as his finger in my pussy.
Instinctively, I try to move, to reach for his arm—and am bitterly reminded that he shackled me to the bed, unable to do much more than buck involuntarily and grip the bars of the headboard until my knuckles crack from the effort.
Holy crap, when the hell did he get back? And, more importantly, how the hell didn’t I hear him come in. Or even unlock the door?
All my thoughts disintegrate when I feel him slide another long, thick finger inside me, and I can’t suppress the deep, gruff moan that rips itself from my throat as a result, surprising even me.
Almost immediately, I start to squirm, my hips jerking furiously, trying to retreat from his impaling fingers, but there’s nowhere to go, my body restricted by these goddamned cuffs.
I exhale harshly, staring up at him with a confused glare. Invisible smoke fogs up my head, and it feels like my skull is swelling to three times its size. He prods his fingers inside me slowly, the long pair rubbing firmly against my walls as they go, sliding in further and further each time they advance.
My lips part wide without my permission, a dry pant escaping me as my brows draw close, utterly perplexed.
He doesn’t say anything. Not a single word. Doesn’t make a sound.
He lifts his free arm to chest-level, his glacial, consuming eyes staring at his watch as he continues to pump me, his intent gaze intermittently switching between it and mine.
The sight confuses me even more, my brain turning to mush as all the synapses in it fire simultaneously, screaming at me and begging for clarity…
When it finally hits me.
For some reason, in my muddled, chaotic state, I somehow grasp what’s going on, the mystery of my current situation becoming evident, summed up in only two words:
That…that’s what he’s doing right now.
Being my…alarm clock.
For a split second, I experience the biggest, most intense brain-fart in history, completely shutting down, freezing in time. I legit don’t know what to think. Or how to, for that matter.
The realization is mind-blowing, absolutely preposterous and down-right incomprehensible.
Hell, the mere idea is just fucking insane.
And yet…it is happening.
My spine turns impossibly stiff and frigid, as if his cold gaze just turned it to ice. He continues to look between me and his watch, speeding up his exits and entries, pumping me faster and harder; his thick, long fingers pushing into me unapologetically. Blatantly. Forcefully.
He actually times and paces himself and, if my speculation is correct, the idea is to finger me for one minute—the same amount of time an alarm clock sounds for without turning it off or hitting the snooze button.
An annoying, conflicting mesh of emotions fills me, and I don’t know how to feel about it—if I should even feel anything at all.
He continues to thrust his fingers harder, almost stabbing me, forcing my ass higher in the air as I involuntarily grind against them, unsure of whether I’m retreating from or leaning toward him anymore.
He slips one out suddenly, placing it on my clit as the other continues to move frantically inside me, picking up speed. The pad of his finger presses down on my engorged bud firmly, the action making me shudder, the sharp, unexpected twinge sending bolts of lightning throughout my body. He circles the tender flesh, rubbing me in tight, lazy rotations at first, but he accelerates before I can react, dragging a lengthy, piercing, delicious pressure from my core out of nowhere.
I pant heavily, bucking and jerking against my will, my hips moving in a crazed, haphazard rhythm as the friction culminates and the pressure mounts, building too fast.
Despite the cool temperature of the room, my body grows scorching hot in just seconds, it seems. For a brief moment, I’m propelled into this strange, blinding vacuum, on the brink of something I haven’t felt before. Something I can’t even begin to explain.
But then, it dissipates, almost as quickly as it came, replaced by an unexpected, frightening sense of urgency.
My breathing halves itself, both my inhales and exhales morphing into short, labored gasps, as if I’m hyperventilating. I turn my head away from Frost, unable to bear the intensity of his eyes at the same time, my face falling into the pillow once more as my neck and gives out, muffling the embarrassing sounds I’m making. But they grow louder still as I feel myself reaching a dangerous tipping point, my abs tensing, my lower belly buzzing as though a billion volts just zipped through it.
My eyes slam shut, and I have to bite down hard on my bottom lip against the stuttered scream that rips itself out of me, my fingers desperately clutching the headboard until my knuckles go numb, the raw, exposed bud between my legs at the mercy of Frost’s relentless finger, the slick bundle of nerves engorged and ready to detonate.
Oh, God…oh god, oh god, oh god…
I find myself falling too fast, every ounce of control I have slipping into nothingness, as if all the pent-up tension from when he fucked me comes rushing back in an instant, the accumulation of past and present need desperate to be released, even more urgent than before.
I slide against the sheets in a frenzy, the fabric clinging to my sweat-stained skin slightly as my ass violently jerks back and forth over his fingers, almost relishing in the feel of them both on and inside me; strong and assertive and certain, burrowing through slick, pliable flesh that pulls at it even though a small part of me still protests its presence.
Oh, my God, yes, yes, yes, yes—
Everything comes to a complete, screeching stop.
Frost withdraws abruptly, the speed with which he does creating delicious but fleeting friction, his finger exiting with a lewd, sucking sound, much like his cock had earlier—not nearly as audible but no less mortifying—leaving me with a strange void.
Sans warning, he inserts both fingers in his mouth simultaneously, licking them clean as his piercing, predatory eyes bore into mine. I watch him over my shoulder in a shocked, silent daze, completely speechless, breathing hard and shuddering with each exhale, my skin buzzing with need—a ravenous, unsettling need.
Without a single word himself, he leans over me, and I go tense all over again at his new, abrupt closeness. I recoil impulsively, unsure if I’m shaking because I’m scared or aroused, waiting for him to touch me again…when he uncuffs me.
Just like that.
He slides the leather bands off both my hands and leans away, letting them dangle from the headboard they’re still chained to. I sit up on the bed awkwardly, rubbing my wrists and readjusting the Band-Aids on my palms, still on super-high alert and unsure of how to react, trying to ignore the mesh of wetness and deranged pulsing between my thighs. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, every cell in my body guarded, vibrating with anticipation of what he’s going to do next.
From the corner of my eye, I notice that the sky is blue-black outside now, no longer light grey like it was when I fell asleep.
It’s already sundown, I realize, that detail making me even more nervous, and while really short daylight hours are typical of winter in the Midwest, I can’t believe I slept through most of the day.
“Good evening,” he says after a brief pause, his voice even and calm.
My brain does a three-sixty inside my skull, renewed confusion spreading itself all over my face, my lips parting, as if to say, “Um…what in the actual fuck?” but the words unable to leave them. When I don’t say anything—because I’m clearly far too dumbfounded by his bi-polar—no, multi-polar—actions—he frowns slightly.
“It’s common courtesy to say, ‘Good evening’ back,” he scolds.
I can’t hold back an incredulous huff, staring at him in utter disbelief, almost laughing right then and there in spite of myself, thinking this would be comical if I didn’t know he’s actually being serious.
What in Satan’s eyeballs is even remotely common in this situation?
Just when I thought he couldn’t get any crazier…
But, instead, I say, “G-good…good evening,” unable to recognize my gravelly voice when it forms, the words strained and botched and…and…
“Get up,” he says.
He starts for the door, and this time, he doesn’t need to tell me to follow after him. He holds it open and I struggle to swallow, folding my arms over my naked chest as I barely manage to walk out of the room, visibly wobbling when I accidentally brush past his arm.
He closes it behind us, pausing briefly.
“I hope you had a good nap…for your sake.”