Chapter Ninety-Nine

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He doesn't budge. Doesn't move a single muscle to give me space. And from my experience in the elevator...I know he won't.

I guess things could be worse.

I let out a silent sigh and turn around slowly, holding my breath as I graze against his body. And my lungs almost implode in my chest when I feel a familiar protrusion against my lower back, hard and unapologetic.

My eyes flutter closed as my ass and the rest of my body lean forward and away from him as much as physically possible. My hips jut forward on reflex, pressing hard against the sink painfully. And that only makes my bladder take another hit.

I wince at the unbearable sensation, biting my lip to stop myself from hissing in discomfort. I'm grateful that there aren't any mirrors in here. I can only imagine how I look right now, and I feel some sense of relief knowing that Frost can't see all the timidity and discomfort in my reflection while he corners me from behind.

With a trembling hand I reach for the faucet, but before I can turn it on, his voice breaks through the silence. "Roll your sleeves up," he says with his lips by my ear, his warm breath caressing my skin with each word that leaves his mouth. I don't hesitate this time. I roll both sleeves, hiking them up my wrists impatiently.

"Higher," he insists. "Past your elbows."

I comply, rolling them all the way up, even though I want to roll my eyes all the way to the back of my skull as well.

I finally turn the faucet on, and the flowing water only reminds me off my pressing need to pee. It only gets worse when the water touches my skin, drenching my fingers and scraped palms. The bruises sting under the water pressure, throbbing with renewed irritation. My eyes slam shut, and my breathing becomes more shallow, my nostrils flaring with each exhale. I do my best to ignore the pain. I try to keep it together, gritting my teeth against the increasing pressure in my groin as the water stream continues to hit my hands.

I reach for the soap dispenser, and dollops of liquid detergent automatically fall into my palm. I rub my palms together tentatively, trying not to get too much soap on the cuts and bruises. I watch as a smooth, creamy lather forms between my hands, quickly followed by a slight, burning sensation around the broken skin. Under normal circumstances, I'd appreciate how rich the lather is and how amazing it smells, but I'm way too distracted by both my bladder and Frost's closeness.

Just as I'm about to place them under the running water again, Frost interjects.

"Lather all the way up to your elbows," he demands. "Be thorough, and make sure you wash three times."

I can barely stop myself from huffing out loud in frustration.

How about I get them nice and clean so I can elbow you in the face, jerkoff?

I'm really pissed off as it is—in more ways than one. My bladder and lower abdomen are still tingling and prickling desperately in the aftermath of what happened in the elevator. I try to ignore the sensations as best as I can, but he's really not helping with his annoying interjections and OCD rules. And as much as I want to tell him to go to hell three times, I already know challenging—or insulting—him isn't going to help my cause. Not one bit. His little elevator stunt certainly proved that much.

Be smart, Roni. Stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment with this guy.

I wash all the way up to my elbows as quickly as I can.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Rinse. Lather. Silently curse. Repeat.

When I'm finally done, I can't believe how exhausted I feel after doing something as simple as washing my fucking hands. I can't possibly imagine how anal and annoying Frost must be in every other aspect of life if he's like this with what's supposed to be a trivial, everyday thing.

I'm just going to have to brace myself for more when it comes to the clearly insane, neurotic Dexter Frost.

A hell of a lot more.

I've only been here ten minutes and I'm already on the verge of ripping my brain out of my skull. And this is obviously just the tip of the iceberg.

We finally make our way into the dining area. I'm instantly greeted by the sight of a large, grand table at the center of the room, stretching forever in either direction.

Holy mother of God...

I feel like I'm on the set of some elaborate medieval fantasy movie.

It's quite possibly the biggest table I've ever seen—in both virtual and real life.

My eyes dart across its impressive expanse, scanning every item displayed on the massive structure. If anyone ever wanted to make a lasting statement with their furniture, this table would definitely do the trick. It's only set for two in spite of the fact that it could probably seat the entire US Armed Forces.

The legs are wide and blocky, standing at at least half my height. They look more like pillars to hold up national monuments instead of an oncologist's dinner table. The whole thing looks like it's made of dark wood and some highly reflective metal. Maybe titanium or something. It's so shiny it almost looks like a mirror. But the table looks far too sturdy to be made of any sort of glass, even partially.

It's set with lavish china, expensive silver cutlery, and sculpted crystal flutes that look like they'd cost me an arm and a leg... and an eyeball...okay, probably both eyeballs.

And speaking of my eyeballs...

They can't stop staring at the most important display of all; the mouth-watering food.

And boy is there a lot of it.

Far, far more than enough for two people.

It honestly feels weird and, frankly, kind of stupid for only two people to dine at such an enormous, extravagant, over-the-top table—which makes me worry that he has something else up his sleeve. Hell, the whole idea of having dinner with him at all is beyond unsettling and I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.

"Sit," he says, gesturing toward one of the seats at the center of the table—one with a folded paper sign on it. I look closer at it, and almost choke on my spit when I read the words.

Reserved for sub.

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