You turn on twitchy, unsteady legs, placing one bare, wet foot in front of the other as your eyes look ahead to the figure taking the lead.
Your ears and cheeks are on the verge of burning themselves to a crisp, and you can’t even begin to describe the extremity of your embarrassment and self-consciousness right now. You’re all too aware of your nakedness, and all the muscles in your legs tense as cold air hits your bare bottom, the sensation only amplified by the shameful wet streaks lining your skin.
Impulsively, you pull at your top, stretching it downward from both the front and back as far as it will go, trying to cover your unmentionables. And all it does is make you look insane, the T-shirt too short to do more than what it was made to. But that doesn’t stop you from trying.
You try to steady yourself, each step in his direction more wary and timid than the last, but all your limbs are shaking so badly that it’s a miracle you can even move at all.
You only manage to get to the door of the dining room before your knees buckle from under you, and you go tumbling down to the floor.
Ungraceful would be an understatement.
You reach for the door handle reflexively, and somehow manage to grab the long metal bar on your descent, clutching it like an anchor even as it digs painfully into your already bruised palm. By some miracle, it’s enough to break your fall, but barely.
Frost turns around at the sound of the unexpected commotion, his icy eyes hot and impatient…but also…something else.
In three long strides, he’s completely closed the distance between you, and next thing you know, he’s picking you up by one arm, effortlessly pulling you back onto your wobbly feet. You simultaneously try to free yourself from his grip and shield your privates in embarrassment, but he’s not having any of it. His fingers dig into your upper arm intently and he holds you in place as if you weigh no more than the world’s smallest feather.
Without warning, and before you can even regain your balance, you find yourself being scooped off your feet and hauled into the air in one swift, unexpected motion, the action nearly knocking the wind out of you. In your disarray, it takes you a second to process what just happened. And, in utter mortification, you realize that Frost just hoisted you over his shoulder, draping you—an adult woman—over his broad, ripped body as though you’re just another one of his stethoscopes.
That’s all the time it takes for you to officially freak. The. Fuck. Out.
You jerk, squirm, and shriek over him like a crazed caterpillar, horrified that your ass is literally in the air, exposed and right next to his face! And, good God in heaven, your naked mound is now pressed snuggly against his chest. And the barrier of his clothes do absolutely nothing to temper that fact—or the sheer anxiety it induces in you.
And it only gets worse when you feel his hand on your thigh as he adjusts you over his shoulder, your pussy spasming at the feel of his fingers so close to it even as your heart threatens to torpedo out of your throat.
“Put me down!” you scream, trying to jerk yourself free of his hold in spite of your disadvantageous position. But you’re not doing yourself any favors with your attempts, the rapid, jerking motions making you feel dizzy and slightly nauseous as blood rushes to and pools in your suddenly heavy skull. Still, you can’t bring yourself to do nothing. “I can walk,” you insist when he shows no signs of letting up, even though it’s obvious to both of you that you’re having a hell of a time doing so. He doesn’t even respond to your demands, or your mortified squeals, and when you see that your protests are futile, you do the only thing you can do: struggle—quite ungracefully—to cover your bare bottom with your hand in spite of the difficulty your new location is making that task.
You gasp when you feel his hand on your behind, the pads of his long fingers pressing firmly into the flesh of your left ass cheek, obviously in a show that he’s getting annoyed with your fidgeting and restlessness.
“Settle down,” he commands, the words spoken so calmly yet, somehow, they wield so much power and authority. You instantly still at the contact, your breath stopping in your chest, your lungs failing, feeling as stiff as the ice in his eyes. You comply involuntarily, your body going static…except for your pussy.
The damn thing carries on like a lunatic, throbbing vigorously to hell and back, and its incessant, almost obnoxious thumping is driving you insane. You bring your thighs tightly against each other, locking them together as much as possible in fear that he can hear and/or feel the pounding in your vagina from this angle—or worse, that the treacherous thing pulls another fast one on you and ends up leaking all over his shirt.
Your face sets itself ablaze at the possibility, and an involuntary groan escapes you as you try not to think about the potential of something as life-changingly embarrassing as that happening to you. Especially right after the piss-mania episode you just went through.
He carries you over his shoulder across the corridor and through an ever-widening hallway, his movements swift, efficient and relaxed, as if he doesn’t have another whole, living human being weighing on him. You, on the other hand, are going absolutely ballistic; being forced to hang upside down and half naked like this, your hair falling into your eyes, your glasses sliding down your nose no matter how many times you push them back up, your thighs pressing themselves so tightly against each other you’re sure you’ll have bruises between them by the end of the night.
The second the unwelcome image visualizes in your head, you shriek internally, banishing any and every thought of anything happening between your thighs tonight for any reason. You try to breathe, hoping you can calm down enough to give your overworked brain a break, trying desperately not to feel like you’re on the verge of a nervous breakdown every other second when you’re near this man. But no such luck. You’re a total mess, and you don’t even want to think about how crazy you must look.
Your eyes are wide and alert, your neck straining itself to lift your head so you can see where you’re going. The dining room door progressively gets farther and farther away, seeming to shrink in the distance as you—no, Frost—keeps moving in the opposite direction, and it soon disappears from your view altogether as he turns a corner, your gaze landing on the side of a wall jutting outward less than a foot away. You suppress the urge to reach out and to grab it even though you know it won’t do shit to save you.
You bypass a myriad of household decor and interior extravagance, expensive, modern furniture intertwined with the kind of luxury and atmosphere that hints at old money. Extensive carpeting that you’re willing to bet is handmade. Walls lined with the type of unique, strange artwork that somehow costs millions of dollars. Wide, sleek flat screens equipped with wireless stereo systems, each of which could probably put you through college. But you can’t even get a good look at most of it from your awkward angle, never mind fully appreciate the beauty, managing only to catch glimpses of this man’s evident wealth here and there. Each area you pass seems to be segmented by a specific color scheme and material—sleek metallics and glass, earthy browns and burgundies, monochrome blacks and whites, beiges and taupes, marble and ceramic, leather and velvet. Nothing too bright and colorful. But definitely excessive and indulgent. Simultaneously a precise match and the complete opposite of Frost’s demeanor—or at least, what you’ve seen of it.
He comes to a stop briefly, as if he just heard your thoughts. Your neck strains as you struggle to look around his gigantic back, and you realize you’ve arrived at a grand staircase, your head bobbing slightly as he ascends the first step of the magnificent, modern spiral. A confused frown contorts your face as you notice that you bypassed the elevator on the way, and you can’t help wonder why he’s forgoing the lift that brought you up here. Not that you want to go back in there after what happened last time.
Good God, how many stories high is this mansion?! you wonder, your eyes flitting over each wide, carpeted step and its adjacent, black metal railing as he continues to climb.
You’re not sure how long he keeps going for, and your neck is way too strained and tense to keep trying to look up, so, as much as you hate it, you resign yourself to just hanging there like an overcooked noodle, your head and arms limp, swaying gently over his broad back. Still, you count each of them, hoping to God and every other deity out there that you won’t need this little piece of logistical information to give the cops if this man turns out to be a bona fide psycho and decides to hold you hostage in his attic. Or wherever the fuck it is he’s taking you.
Sixty-seven steps later, he comes to another halt, reaching the very top of the staircase. The lighting is sparse up here, much dimmer than the rest of the house. You can barely make anything out. It’s also much quieter.
The only sound you can hear is the blood pounding in your skull, and now, it has nothing to do with being turned upside down.
As if on cue, you feel Frost shrug underneath you, his shoulder dipping suddenly as he leans forward, one arm circling your thighs while the other lands on your back almost…protectively as he slides you away from his big body, setting you down.
But your feet are unprepared to bear the weight of your own so suddenly, the contact of the cold floor jarring, and you stumble, grabbing his shirt impulsively to steady yourself. He looks disapprovingly at you, his eyes arctic, the scowl on his face so clear in spite of the lack of light up here, and your ears burn with renewed embarrassment at this latest fumble of yours.
God, tonight is just really not my ni—
All thoughts cease, screeching to a halt the second your eyes land on the single door ahead.
It’s the only one in sight.
The only thing in sight.
And, compared to the rest of the ones you’ve seen so far, this door is small.
Frost gestures toward it with a small nod, his eyes still on you, edgy and full of the kind of danger that would make you wet your pants if you hadn’t already. “Ladies first.”