Chapter Sixty-Five

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Several seconds pass, although in that moment, time actually feels like it's standing perfectly still—as does everything else.

I can only stare at Frost with what I'm positive is the most extra-confused, extra-shocked expression that has ever found its way onto anyone's face in the history of time and existence. I can almost feel my forehead scrunching itself into a million tiny furrows as my eyes stretch themselves as wide as they can behind my glasses. It's several more seconds before I can say anything, and even then, all I can manage is a strained and barely audible, "What?"

I must have heard him wrong. I simply must have.

Still, I feel another rush of wetness leak from my pussy, the hot liquid now seeping through my jeans, spreading across the faded blue denim fabric. I try to clench my thighs as tightly as I can, but it can't stop the treacherous flow from soaking the crotch area of my jeans.

I can't bear to look down at myself; can't bring myself to check if the sopping wetness between my thighs is as visible as I think it is, if it's as obvious to him as it feels to me. Especially not when he's looking at me the way he is; in that dangerous, overly calm, analyzing, calculating way he does when he's getting ready to do something outrageous, like a wild animal trying to decide how it's going to take down prey that it hasn't yet caught, but is a hundred percent confident it will. It's the same look he had on his face the night he dropped me off from the mansion party—just hours before I was met with his proposal.

He cocks his head ever so slightly to the side. "You heard me. Take off your jeans," he repeats, the edge back in his voice, perfectly matching the sharp, unwavering quality in his eyes; a quality I'm not sure I'll ever get used to. His stare alone is overwhelming, but coupled with his words, it's mind-blowing and arresting on an entirely different stratosphere.

Somehow, I manage to find my voice—or whatever traces of it are left—in the sea of confusion, paralysis, and sheer horniness that has hijacked my body. "Why?" is all I can come up with.

"Because I need to take your temperature," is his simple response.

My eyebrow almost shoots it way up into my hairline and a deep frown lines my lips. "From my ass?" I say incredulously, my voice coming out louder than I intend it to.

"The clinical term is rectum, but yes. From your ass." His words are laced with a smugness and nonchalance that makes my blood boil. I feel my fingers twitch with need to hit something, and I have to clench them into a fist in order to stop myself from slapping the living daylight out of him. How can he be so aloof and casual about this?

I shake my head vehemently, refusing to entertain this...this madness. "No," I say firmly. "Absolutely not. You can put it in my armpit, or even my mouth, but that's as far as it goes. I'm not some newborn baby that needs to have a bunch of thermometers stuck up her behind."

For some reason, he grins at that, and the wicked, lopsided half-smile makes me even more nervous than the neutral, unreadable expression it just replaced.

"What's so funny?" I ask, doing absolutely nothing to mask my irritation, but also trying not to sound as anxious as I feel.

He makes this weird gesture with his shoulders that I can only peg for some sort of shrug, though it doesn't quite look like one. "I actually intend to take it all three ways," he explains. "Oral, which is from your mouth, axillary, which is your armpit, and rectal—your ass, as you put it. Or more specifically, into your rectum through your anus."

I literally feel a blast of pure heat radiate from every inch of my face at hearing him say that word: anus.

Anus.

Aye-nus.

Immediately, my mind drifts back to the contract, the word triggering several others from the typed pages.

Anal intercourse.

Analingus.

Anal penetration.

Anal enema...

Oh God, why the hell did he have to go and say that?

And the statement, "I actually intend to take it all three ways", immediately followed by the word 'oral' doesn't exactly help matters, either.

I'm freaking out like a maniac on the inside as the words anus and oral interchangeably echo in my head. But somehow, I manage to quickly collect myself and contain my delirious, internal grimacing in a generic frown on the outside, though my voice now reflects a mix of apprehension and curiosity instead of just annoyance. "Why?" I ask.

He shrugs. "The temperatures in different parts of your body will vary slightly at any given time depending on location and method of measurement, and that's perfectly normal," he says. "I just want to make sure the variations aren't significant. That's all," he adds, his tone very matter-of-fact and almost clinical. But it still doesn't ease my apprehension.

I regard him warily. "And you can't just do that with the oral and auxilliary temperatures?"

"Axillary," he corrects.

"That's what I said!" I snap back, knowing fully well that it wasn't, but I'm not about to let this smug douchebag and his grammar Nazi-ness make me feel even more ridiculous than I already do.

He simply chuckles; a deep, calm, and frighteningly low rumble that seems to be coming from deep inside his chest rather than his throat, as if he's sharing an awesome inside joke with himself. And all it does is raise rigid goosebumps on my arms and the tiny, almost invisible hairs on the back of my neck.

His eyes move across my face slowly, as if to gauge my reaction, and then he resumes speaking. "Your rectal temperature will typically be higher than your axillary and oral temperatures because it measures core body temperature, but only by about one degree Fahrenheit. Any higher and it could be a sign of possible inflammation somewhere in your digestive tract. Unlike your axillary and oral temperatures, you rectal temperature won't be affected by ambient room temperature, or if you drink something hot or cold."

I hear everything he's saying, and it all sounds legit and logical, but I still can't bring myself to go along with it.

"I'm not comfortable doing it so I'd rather not."

He raises his eyebrow at me, presumably in frustration. "Look, I don't have all day," he finally says, running his hand through his dark hair once. "Just take the damn jeans off."

I cross my arms over my chest in defiance, my nose crinkled in annoyance. "No."

He exhales audibly, and despite the grin still toying with his lips, I feel like the gesture is meant to mask his own irritation. "Ramona, if I was going to fuck you today, believe me, it would have already happened. Twice. And I damned sure wouldn't have done it with a fucking thermometer."

I almost damn near choke on my own spit at hearing those words, my eyes stretching as wide as their sockets will allow.

My pussy jumps at the statement, throbbing viciously while another small pool of liquid dribbles out of it as my belly tenses. I feel it thumping so hard between my legs, hot and extremely tingly and frustrated. I can practically hear it screaming for attention, the rapid beats of its lust echoing in my ears. It's almost as if my pussy has taken on a life of its own, trying desperately to break free from the rest of my paralyzed body just to latch onto Frost and mount his visibly hard cock.

But despite my vagina's treacherous, knee-jerk response, I really have only one other word to describe my reaction to his statement:

Speechless.

***

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