Chapter Sixty-Seven

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I hear more rustling and plastic tearing, and then I feel his hand tug firmly at the collar of my shirt, pulling on it slightly. My body seizes involuntarily as the shirt gives way under his actions, exposing the very top of my breasts. My reflexes make me want to shield myself with my hands, but before I can follow through and react, he pushes the second thermometer into my left armpit.

"Don't let it fall," he says, and my heart almost bursts inside my chest at how commanding he sounds. "That goes for the one in your mouth as well," he adds firmly. Strangely enough, I let out an audible sigh of relief when he says, "Turn around."

And I don't hesitate to comply this time. While I'm not exactly thrilled to be having a foreign object going up my asshole, not having to look at him while it happens is a mercy I cannot pass up. I admit, having my back to him—and consequently, my guard down—isn't exactly the safest position to be in when dealing with a man like this. But on the bright side—which, I know doesn't even sound remotely sane given the circumstances, but hey, this is just me trying not to completely freak out here—at least I won't have to face the bastard or the evil grin I'm sure he'll be sporting while he shoves that funky-looking thermometer up my behind. And even more importantly, he won't be able to see my face.

With my eyes on barred window in front of me, I "hear" more than see him pick up the larger thermometer, but there are no rustling or tearing sounds. I try to brace myself for the impact—physically and mentally—but I don't think anything could have prepared me for this moment.

My brain goes into overdrive and my ass cheeks clench involuntarily when I feel his palm touch my lower back, his hand large and sure and possessive against me, his skin surprisingly warm, almost hot, the strength in his calloused fingers undeniable yet also strangely gentle as they graze my skin. My breath immediately catches in my throat without my permission, my heart accelerating at its own command, beating so ferociously in my chest that it rattles every single part of my shaky body. My fingers reflexively grip the sheets on the bed at the delicious contact, grabbing and squeezing palmfuls of the fabric until my knuckles turn almost as white as the cotton beneath them.

"Spread your legs," he says quietly, the edge in his voice returning, making him sound surprisingly menacing. Somehow, I can hear him clearly, even with the belligerent ringing in my ears and the sound of blood swishing around almost violently in my head.

My pussy jolts particularly hard at how both demanding and dangerous he now sounds, and I can't control the small puddle of wetness that leaves it. My vision goes slightly blurry for a moment as I feel a thin stream of hot liquid dribble down my thigh and meander to the back of my knee. I breathe out in a rush, as if my lungs can't expel the air inside them fast enough. My heart quickens again, palpitating and pumping with uneven, erratic beats, as if it's practicing for the fucking Olympics.

I reluctantly part my thighs after another moment's hesitation, feeling them tremble with so much force that I'm positive Frost can see them shaking as well. I force my eyes to remain as focused as they can be on the steel bars of the window while I gradually ease my legs apart, incrementally moving them away from each other as far as the restriction of my jeans will allow, and being as slow and inconspicuous about the action as I can. My breath catches in my throat when the air comes into contact with the moisture trickling down my legs, making me feel a distinct, cooling sensation on my inner thighs and all over my soaked pussy. I suck in another breath and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a sharp, overwhelming pang of trepidation at the knowledge that he can clearly see that I'm wet.

For him.

I have no doubt in my mind, none whatsoever, that he can see my desire oozing from my core; the hot, sticky moisture trickling down my thighs, disappearing into my jeans at my knees in a small but visible stream. But for some reason, he doesn't say anything about it; not a single mention of this obvious, literally wet elephant in the room, and despite my wariness and compulsive need to question his reaction—or complete lack of one, I suppose—I couldn't be more grateful for his silence on the issue. The absolute last thing I need right now is for him to verbalize the sheer and utter embarrassment and confusion I so clearly feel. Honestly, I'm not even sure which I feel more of. I mean, yeah, I sure as hell am embarrassed to shit, no doubt about that, but I also don't even know why I'm responding to him in this way, especially when he's such an arrogant son of a bitch. I hate arrogance and douchey-ass pricks. I always have. And Frost is clearly both. Yet, my pussy and the rest of my traitorous body certainly don't seem to mind at all. I hate that I'm wet and shaking and throbbing like a sexual desperado because of him and his smug, 'I am God' attitude. I mean, fuck, if I'm being honest, I used to look down on girls with this sort of 'Bad Boy' fever, cringing at how they got so hot and bothered and desperate for guys who couldn't be any more douchey if they owned all the wife-beaters on the planet, and here I am now, becoming one of those girls before my very own eyes. Jesus, is this payback for pulling Jenny Smith's ponytail every day in first grade or what?

His hand slides further down, in a slow, almost meandering motion, and comes to rest on the side of my left butt cheek. My upper body surges forward, my head dipping on reflex at the contact. More goosebumps immediately cover my skin, the little erect hairs scattering themselves all over my exposed flesh, rigid and tense and standing at attention like an assembly of tiny soldiers. Just like Frost's cock. Minus the 'tiny' part.

My eyes remain tightly closed, my eyelids squeezing each other to the point of discomfort as I feel the weight and strength of his long, calloused fingers on my naked ass, pressing into my vulnerable flesh with far too much clarity and awareness.

I exhale harshly, unable to stop the yelp that escapes my throat, but with the thermometer in my mouth—which I'm struggling to keep under my tongue and trying desperately not to drop—it sounds more like a moan. I have to bite down on it to keep it from falling out of my mouth, as well as to stop myself from making any more sounds that could give him the wrong idea. God, I seriously hope he doesn't get the wrong idea. Then again, I suppose we're already far past that point considering he can obviously see the wet, sticky streaks on my inner thighs, the liquid trails just mere inches away from his hands.

Relax," I hear him say calmly, his hand still resting firmly on my bare ass with no sign of moving.

Easy for you to say, jackass. You're not the one literally baring your likely hairy ass right in front of the one person in the world who always finds a way—or five—to drive you completely nuts.

I sneer at him even though he can't see me, angry that he can be so calm while I'm here, impossibly squeamish and on the verge of combusting into a gazillion pieces. I seriously want to tell him to go screw himself, but I don't because the thermometer in my mouth has rendered me all but mute, reducing me to grunts and moans, and the rest of me is too preoccupied trying to remember how to breathe.

My breathing continues in short, labored pants, coming and going through flared nostrils and a heaving chest. I'm starting to get dizzy from all the anxiety flooding my veins, and I feel unusually lightheaded, as if my skull is going to float right off my body any second now.

But despite his words, and as much as I try, the last thing I can bring myself to do right now is relax. My body won't listen to me. It's too tightly wound up, too rigid and tense to pretend otherwise, and there's just no convincing it to do anything else—

WHACK!

A sharp, whipping sound, slices through the air, immediately followed by a loud, almost thunderous crack. It comes and goes in an instant, but its echoes stay behind for several more, reverberating throughout the entire room, the shadows of the fleeting roar bouncing off the walls and ceiling in audible, dissipating waves.

For a split second, I don't even know what's happening. For a very, very brief fragment of time, all my brain matter inexplicably turns to mush and all my sense of time and space goes to shit. I forget who I am, where I am. But just as quickly as I lose my coherence, it comes back to me with a vengeance, and the realization of what has just happened hits me like a billion building bricks.

He...he just spanked me.

Hard.

***

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