A loud, startling bleep cuts through the air abruptly, sounding off over—and halting—both my whimpers and Frost’s grunts, instantly putting everything in pause. At first, I think it’s all in my head, but the sound continues, prolonged until I feel Frost shuffle behind me. I hear the ringing right in my ear…and I realize it’s coming from his watch.
I sense more than see him click it impatiently, stiffening behind me, his cock still tucked between my ass cheeks, but his hands release their grip on me.
“Hello?” he snaps, his voice gruff, his tone impatient and drenched in irritation. Some chatter I can’t make out—largely because of the thumping in my temples—follows in the background, but it sounds like another male voice.
“I’m not on call,” I overhear Frost say.
I chance a peek over my shoulder, my stomach sinking slightly when I see the scowl on his face. His full lips are tilted in a frown next to the watch raised to them. I realize it’s a pager, and I think he’s getting called in for work.
There’s some more back and forth, and I can’t even begin to describe how awkward I feel just crouching there in silence, every cell in my body wanting nothing more than to shrivel up and die from the impossibly sobering and untimely interruption.
Frost sighs after another brief pause.
“I’ll be right there,” he finally says.
My head whips ahead impulsively as soon as he clicks his watch off, my heart thumping in my chest as I both hear and feel him grumble, muttering something under his breath that I’m more than willing to bet is a curse.
I feel his big body move away from behind me, taking its heat along with it. I peek over my shoulder again and watch as he tucks his cock back under his sweats, releasing a deep sigh as he ties their drawstrings and gets off the bed.
Not for the first time, I’m both utterly baffled and speechless…but this absolutely takes the cake. And while I know better, it kind of upsets me for some reason; the thought of being ditched right after—hell, during—sex.
He runs a hand through his hair, the thick dark mane slightly disheveled…and a lot sexier than I’d like to admit. He slides into his running shoes and heads for the door without a word.
I frown incredulously as he reaches for the knob, pulling it open.
“You’re just going to leave me here like this?” I blurt, my eyes darting between him and the leather cuffs chaining me to the bed.
He eyes me over his shoulder, his brow arched in nonchalance. “Would you prefer the rotating clock from last night?”
I physically shut my mouth at that, the fresh memories of excruciating pain and the subdued aches I still feel making my mouth go arid. I swallow as my wide eyes continue to behold his unwavering stare, wanting to scream my head off in frustration, but I’m not sure what that would get me…other than a raw throat and high blood pressure.
He turns away from me, seemingly satisfied by my silence.
“I’ll be back,” is all he says.
He steps out, closing the door behind him. My eyes dart to the cuffs briefly, and I can’t help but wonder when, but considering he got paged out of the blue, he probably doesn’t even know that detail himself.
Strangely, I feel simultaneously relieved and disappointed that he’s leaving. I exhale long and deep, his abrupt absence forcing me to contend with what just happened:
The fact that I just had sex with Dexter Frost.
My mind races in every direction, and every thought that fills it centers around what happened. Both downstairs and just now. I…I just had sex. I almost can’t believe it. Real, coherent, memorable AF sex…and I’m not sure how to feel. What to feel. At least, emotionally.
Physically, my body is on overdrive, my skin buzzing like a billion bees are fighting to fly out from under it, my head swimming with barely-contained blood rush, my heart pounding with adrenaline, and the loud, incessant echo of it in my pussy.
I’ve just experienced what actual sex is like for the first time in my life; to feel a man inside me the way I did…the complete opposite of my actual first and only time before this. Even to this day, I can hardly remember the experience, an utter contrast to what just transpired, as if it was an overcompensation for my first time, making up for the lack of it and then some—as well as all the sex I haven’t had up until this point.
And I find myself surprised that I…I…liked it?
I’m…I’m not sure.
I think so.
Even though it was absolutely nothing like I imagined my “real” first time—my do-over, so to speak—to be, they are in books and movies: romantic with rose petals, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries with a man who is genuinely, head-over-heels in love with me.
But the reality is those dreams died when my parents did, leaving me with no need or desire for Hollywood fantasies and fictional tropes.
An undetermined stretch of time passes and I start to drift off, both my mind and muscles growing weary from exertion, thinking about the individual who has irrevocably changed my life…now in more ways than one—and I’m not entirely sure if it’s for better or worse.
I eventually fall asleep, thinking of my past life and everything that had to happen in it for me to end up right here in this moment—bound to a bed in the house of a man who just completely redefined sex for me.