Chapter One Hundred and Two

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I continue to stare at them, my brain registering their neutral faces in utter shock and mortification.

Seriously? Waiters? He got bloody waiters for a weekend with a call girl?

This man clearly has no frickin' clue what to do with his money. But more importantly, I had absolutely no idea there was going to be anyone else here, and now there are not one, but six healthy and coherent eye witnesses who can attest to my presence here - and worse, the reason for it.

It's obvious—far too obvious, actually—that they can all read the tag sitting right next to my plate. Hell, one of them probably printed the damn thing out and put it there.

I feel bile rise all the way to the top of my throat at the thought of how many times they've done this before; set a dinner table and placed a ′Reserved for sub′ sign on the very seat my ass is parked in.

I think I'm going to throw up.

Chances are they've been through this countless times now that it's probably routine for them. Their expressions may not show it, and they may not explicitly say it, but they're obviously thinking the same thing: yet another shameless, lazy, gold-digging slut.

Oh my God, I want to crawl underneath the table, shrivel up into myself, and die. They probably wouldn't even find my body underneath the massive structure. Perhaps all the better. I don't need cops and forensics slut-shaming me, too—especially when I'll already be well on my way to the seventh circle of hell by then.

I mean, here they are, actually working to earn their keep. And what am I doing for money? Oh, that's right; about to fuck their very rich, very married boss.

Perfect.

Let the judgment officially begin.

"Our guest has declined dinner and any refreshments," Frost says simply, forcing me out of my internal freak out. But the accusation in his tone is not lost on me, and it seems the waiters and waitresses can sense it, too. "Please clear the table and pack up for the night."

They get right to it without any hesitation or questions, picking up platters and dishes full of untouched food and disappearing behind the double swinging doors they came through.

They all avoid making eye contact with me. I don't think it's because they're afraid or uncomfortable being around Frost's uptight ass or anything—although I would definitely understand if they were. In fact, they seem to complement his energy pretty well, strangely enough. Each of their movements are so uniform and in sync with the others' it's almost...robotic.

Yeah, that's it. They're like a group of slightly relaxed robots; as oxymoronic as that sounds. But then again, that's precisely their bosses' M.O, isn't it? Minus the 'slightly relaxed' part, anyway.

In practically no time at all, they take everything away, and the table is almost as bare as Frost's icy soul.

"Leave that there," he instructs as one of the men reaches for a pitcher full of water.

Uh oh.

This can't be good.

The waiter only offers a simple nod in response. None of them say a single thing. It's like they're frickin' mute!

My 'name tag' is also left untouched.

"Thank you all for your hard work," Frost says to them. "You can leave for the night."

I watch as they disappear behind the swinging doors one after another, each of their footsteps becoming more and more faint until finally, I don't hear them anymore.

My head whips back to face Frost when I hear him abruptly get up from his chair.

"You never said anything about anyone else being here," I sneer, my accusation clear in my raised voice.

He arches his brow, clearly unamused with my angry tone. "I never said there wouldn't be anyone else present," he counters. "And you may not realize this, but you're being incredibly ungrateful considering that those men and women are the ones who spent hours preparing food for you—which you so rudely declined—and got your room ready for your stay."

I don't have a comeback for that, knowing he's technically not wrong. So I just grumble underneath my breath and frown.

I can't help it. I'm not mad at the waiters for being here. After all, they're just doing their jobs and they need to earn a living like everyone else. It's not their fault their boss is a deceitful tool.

Out of nowhere, his expression changes completely, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

"Sit tight," he says with a mischievous grin, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I'll be right back."

I frown at his annoying sense of humor, not one bit amused as my bladder continues to burn. Still, my stomach drops to my feet as he walks away, my heart racing as my mind tries to anticipate what's coming next. But as always, he doesn't let on.

Twisted son of a bitch.

He disappears behind the large double doors we came through. A wave of panic washes over me as my eyes dart around for signs of a bathroom, also looking out for any cameras. There doesn't seem to be any of either in sight.

I grip both armrests until my fingers hurt, using the leather pads as an anchor for my suddenly heavy body. I try to hoist myself up, and I almost squeak from the sharp, piercing jab that hijacks my lower belly. My breathing immediately turns shallow and harsh, air entering and leaving my body through flared nostrils as my severe discomfort spawns a strange, unexpected rush of nausea.

I try to inhale deeply and focus on standing instead of the disgusting, unmistakable taste and feel of bile rising in my throat.

Come on, girl. You can do this. Get up.

I can't believe I need a fucking pep-talk from myself to stand up from a bloody chair, but hey, desperate times and whatnot.

I try to ignore the rising pressure in my lower body and shaky knees as I push myself up, steeling my feet hard against the floor. My eyes slam shut and my head dips itself forward on reflex while I try to mentally adjust to my new position.

You're doing great, Roni, I tell myself.

But before I can think of taking a step, my blood runs cold as the sound of Frost's voice fills my ears.

"Going somewhere?"

My eyelids fly open and something frigid and slithery creeps up my spine.

Oh. Fuck. Me.

I didn't even hear him come back in.

I slowly raise my head, dreading what's potentially about to follow with every inch of my flailing, erratic heart.

I reluctantly meet his gaze, his narrowed eyes the color of diluted sapphire, like the very tips of a blue flame.

My skin tingles with both fear and excitement as he looks on, and I can feel my pussy throbbing beneath my swollen bladder, the liquid pressure amplifying its angry pulses. I'm at a loss for words. I mean...what can I even say? He just caught me red-handed.

And what the fuck is wrong with me, anyway? Why in tarnation am I getting turned on right now?

My lips part to offer up a bullshit explanation that I'm positive he'll see right through, but before I can get the words out, my eyes land on his right hand.

It's my duffel bag.

Um...why does he have my stuff?

I look to his other hand, and the second my brain registers the object dangling from his fingers, my heart bungee-jumps right into my throat and my lungs shrivel up like raisins.

Silver handcuffs.

***

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