Chapter Sixty-Two

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The sound of warm, ventilated air breaks the monotony of the eerie silence surrounding me, the gentle yet steady flow a huge relief from the frigid hell I had to endure outside not too long ago. I happily welcome the tiny blast of heat spreading over and seeping into my skin, thawing my stiff, nearly icicled limbs back into feeling what normal human arms and legs are supposed to feel like, but unfortunately, that's the only thing I feel relieved about right now.

The quiet humming of the heater in the background is disrupted only by the sounds of my unsteady breathing and the constant ticking of the large round clock hanging high on the wall opposite me. Other than generic white walls, a barred window, a single cabinet and sink, and the standard wheeled bed I'm sitting on, there's really not much else to look at in the bland, cookie-cutter room.

And then, of course, there's the unique, sterile, antiseptic smell wafting in the air; the kind that you can only find in a hospital or some sort of health facility—precisely where I am, and precisely where I don't want to be.

My chest rises and falls unevenly as very familiar, cold metal touches my skin, moving over various parts of my exposed torso again and again. My fingers clutch the hem of my shirt, trembling slightly as they hold it high above my belly, revealing a good portion of my body.

I reluctantly look at the man right in front of me; the one who'd instructed me to hold my shirt up. The same man who sat across from me only a week ago as I signed away my soul in his office. The same man I haven't been able to stop thinking about even before that surreal event happened, and the same man who insisted that I get a complete and thorough physical exam before attempting any invasive medical procedures—hence my reason for being back in the surgical center; a place I have come to abhor for more than one reason.

Frost sits opposite me on a tall stool, equally silent, with his breaths as quiet as the still air around us—a stark contrast to my own strained breathing. His large hands are sure and steady as he maneuvers his stethoscope over my body, his fingertips grazing my skin around the chestpiece, leaving invisible trails of heat and tingles everywhere they touch me. Somehow, it feel like his hands are doing all the talking, saying everything his lips aren't.

I've been here for almost thirty minutes, and he still hasn't said anything about what happened the last time we saw each other. He hasn't talked about our agreement, about the contract, or Mindy. Hell, he hasn't so much as remarked on the weather, as shitty as it is. Nothing. Okay, not exactly nothing. He did give me a very casual, almost indifferent "good morning", reread my chart, and told me to lift my shirt so he could work his magic stethoscope on me again, but that's about it. Then again, why am I even complaining? Do I really want him to bring up the contract? The suspense is practically killing me, but I don't want to be the one to bring it up, either. Heck, I'm not even sure I'd know how to if I did.

I don't know how he can act so calm and aloof considering the more than awkward circumstances. Then again, maybe it's only awkward for me. Maybe he's this casual about it because he's done this before. I wouldn't be surprised, and it would totally make sense given how straightforward his approach was when he made his proposition.

I feel my chest tighten at the thought of being just one of many women he's paid for sex. The thought of being just another sheep in his vast, ever-changing herd, or just another little, insignificant drop in his large fuck-pool of women evokes a wave of disgust from deep within me, making me feel sick to my stomach. But it also evokes another feeling that I can't quite put into words...

A strange sort of sadness? Disappointment, maybe? Whatever. It doesn't matter. Men like him typically don't ever put any woman on a special pedestal, not even the ones they marry, evidently. Like he said before, what we share is a business arrangement. He has a demand, and I have a service which I can supply him with...for a price. That's it. Business 101. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I shouldn't feel bad. It's not as if I could or should even want to expect more from a man willing to cheat on his wife with a stranger. And, more importantly, it's not as if I'm looking for love, either.

But despite my words, and despite my own morals, I can't deny that I'm attracted to him. No matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, I can't convince myself that I don't want to suck on his tongue and nibble on his lips, or wonder what it would feel like to have his cock buried deep inside me.

My inner thighs clench involuntarily, pressing themselves against each other as the thought lingers in my mind; a thought that I've become well acquainted with over the last couple of days. I subtly regard his impressive profile as his focus remains on me, his icy, light blue eyes seemingly colder than the metal he's using on my body.

He brings the stethoscope up, placing the chest-piece just under my left breast, and I immediately tense at the contact, my toes curling in response. I hold my breath on reflex, and my lungs seize up momentarily, forgetting how to expel the air that's trapped inside them.

As if not sensing my discomfort, he looks me straight in the eye, placing his other hand on my waist. "Breathe," he mutters, his voice mildly annoyed.

I can only manage a frown. Easy for you to say, douchebag.

He moves the stethoscope further down, placing it firmly against my belly, just below my navel. I gasp loudly at the frigid sensation, inhaling sharply through both my mouth and nose. He looks at me again, his eyes focused and as intense as ever.

"Cold?" he simply asks, much like he did that first time, his tone almost nonchalant, as if he's only asking for the sake of formality.

I can only nod frantically. Yes, the metal is cold as hell, but it's not the only reason I'm having trouble breathing. Heck, it's not even the main one.

My heart speeds up even more, thumping rapidly in my chest, and I can feel its frantic beats echoing vigorously between my thighs. For some reason, the frigid contact shoots sharp, angry tingles straight to my pussy. I try to clamp my thighs even tighter, being as inconspicuous as I can, but considering that my vagina has suddenly decided to go rogue on me, being discreet is proving to be quite the challenge.

My pussy pulses with even more force, and I'm afraid that I can actually hear the blood roaring within its walls. I'm even more afraid that Frost might be able to, too, especially since he's letting that stupid stethoscope of his linger on my lower belly. It certainly doesn't help that my pussy doesn't seem to want to help me out here. God, I wish I could just tell it to calm the fuck down and stop acting like I'm fantasizing about Henry Cavill or some other drop-dead-gorgeous Hollywood hunk—even though I can't deny that Frost is clearly in that league, both physically and in his socio-economic status.

Still, he's one hell of a smug and arrogant bastard as it is. He certainly doesn't need his overly-inflated ego to swell any further, especially not at my expense.

The last thing I want is for him to know that simply checking my vitals is turning me on this much.

Well...that and the fact that the only thing that stands between his fingers and my pussy is a single layer of denim.

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