Chapter Eighty-Seven

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I head into the kitchen and grab the lone, half-empty bottle of water from the fridge and take a sip, letting my lips linger at the mouth for a moment. And, for the billionth time today, I wonder why he asked me to drink so much water before coming. It freaked me out when I first read the text. Hell, it's still freaking me out now. As much as I hate to admit it to myself, though, underneath all the nervousness and anxiety, there's also...something else.

Curiosity, maybe? I dunno.

My tongue instinctively pushes into the hole, blocking the opening and stopping the water from flowing into my mouth. Without thinking, my eyes flutter closed and I relish in the wet, cool sensation for a few seconds, and before I even know it, my brain shocks me by imagining Frost's lips and tongue on the bottle, sipping the water down...only to hold it in his mouth and release it into mine.

My pussy throbs emphatically, pulsating with an eagerness that it hasn't felt since the last time I saw him. I feel the slightest trickle of moist heat escape from inside me, spreading onto my panties and dampening their cotton strip. I have to steel myself against the overwhelming sensation and the building arousal in my core. The last thing I want is to show up at his place smelling like sex before anything has even happened. Just how pathetic and desperate would that make me look?

Besides, these "sessions" of his may involve a shit ton of sex, and potentially other unconventional activities which I'm trying my damnedest not to think about right now, but they're still business transactions at the end of the day.

And that's all they are.

Period.

None of this is actually about pleasure—at least not mine, anyway. He made that crystal clear in that stupid contract of his.

Still, in spite of knowing that, my pussy continues to throb incessantly. I still feel this paradoxical sense of both fear and excitement. I just can't decide which I feel more of.

I try to not let my imagination get the best of me, but I can't seem to stop playing out potential scenes of what he has planned in my head. The uncertainty and anticipation are really, really getting under my skin. I seriously don't know just how much more I can take at this point. I need to leave. Now. Before I yank every single strand of hair out of my scalp.

I tilt the bottle higher, finishing off the remaining water before tossing the empty bottle on the counter. I grab my coat and my keys, quickly checking all the windows and appliances to make sure everything is locked and secured. I place the duffel bag over my shoulder, biting my lip in uncertainty as I walk towards the door.

I force myself to stop obsessing and wondering about what lies ahead of me tonight. It's not like worrying or stressing over the situation is helping any. In fact, it's only making my anxiety worse. I'll drive myself insane if I keep this up.

I look around tentatively, my slightly twitchy eyes darting left and right, hoping I don't miss anything important as I do one last sweep of my room and the rest of the apartment. I make sure not to forget my birth control and MP3 player. Lord knows I'll need both now more than ever if I'm going to survive this weekend with Frost.

Don't worry about it, Roni. You'll be just fine, I tell myself, hoping that my little internal pep-talk actually works. And, surprisingly, it does. Well...sort of, anyway.

With a somewhat renewed—but very brief—sense of resolve and a really deep breath, I make my way towards the door.

That's right. One foot in front of the other.

I'll just show up, do my part, and be done. And then I'll put this whole thing behind me and never speak or think of it again.

End. Of. Story.

I haul all my stuff over to the car, forcing myself to leave, despite my immense reluctance and cold feet—both figurative and literal.

Harsh, icy wind greets me as soon as I step outside, instantly numbing my skin and making my eyes tear up. I rush to get to my car, slipping twice on the thin layer of ice stretching over most of the main sidewalk and parking lot. I almost damn near crack my head open on the frozen asphalt in my hurry.

Damn this shitty weather to hell and back.

It's going to be a bitch trying to drive around with all this slippery ice. As if I need any more anxiety on top of my already frayed nerves. I guess not even constant salting can get rid of this stubborn Milwaukee winter ice.

I almost don't recognize my Polo when I get to it. It's completely covered in snow, and not even an inch of its worn, vintage red color is peeking through the iridescent, white blanket engulfing it. If there were ever a Transformer that could turn into a giant Popsicle, this right here would be it. Frickin' Popsiclon.

I'd actually take the time to admire it and even take a picture if I wasn't in such a rush or so pumped up on adrenaline and a host of other stress hormones.

I shove the duffel bag into the backseat before I grab the old, barely functional ice scraper and snow shovel from underneath the driver's seat. I get to work, pushing snow and ice off the windscreen in wide, haphazard strokes. My arms move back and forth, shoveling as much snow off the car as quickly as possible, and I do the same with the rear window. I try to ignore the fog that keeps reforming on every single spot I clean off, and finally get back into the car to take off. The trunk, bunker, and roof are still completely doused in snow, but it'll have to do.

With super shaky hands—resulting from both immense anxiety and a severe drop in my body's temperature thanks to all that snow shoveling—I struggle to punch the address Frost sent me into the Ice Block's GPS. A second later, an automated female voice comes on with an address confirmation, telling me that my destination is exactly forty minutes away with the shortest route to it mapped out.

My eyes dart up to the small digital display on the upper right hand corner of the screen.

7:01 PM.

Okay. I'm cutting it kind of close, but I should be there with about ten minutes to spare if I leave right now.

I take another deep breath and push the key into the ignition and turn. The motor starts up and then...silence.

My heart almost leaps out of my chest as my brain spins into yet another bout of panic.

"No, no, no, no!" I plead to the universe, my voice getting progressively louder until I'm yelling like a maniac inside my car. I turn the key again and get the same result. The car won't start up.

My precious little Polo needs to get warmed up for about twenty minutes in the winter before it can move an inch. But this isn't news to me, or anyone else in this damn state for that matter. This is just common knowledge. Common sense. And yet it clearly evaded me. How could I forget?

Why didn't I turn the ignition on while I was shoveling the snow off? God, my thoughts were so scattered and unfocused that I wasn't even paying attention or thinking straight.

I just set myself back at least fifteen minutes. It sure as fuck doesn't help that my fingers are practically on the verge of getting some serious frostbite—

I wince at the thought of the word, my forehead dropping to the steering wheel in frustration.

Frostbite.

Frost. Bite.

An intense shiver crawls up my spine and back down, but this time, I know for a fact it has nothing to do with the cold.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think—

"Fuck!" I curse out loud, hitting the steering wheel repeatedly until it becomes too painful to keep going. I'm probably doing more damage to my palm than I'm doing to the damn thing.

I want to scream and call my car all sorts of names right now, but I know this isn't its fault. It's mine. I just made myself late. And if Frost is even remotely as anal as I think he is, I know this isn't going to go over well with him. Not one bit.

Fuck my life.

***

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