Chapter Ninety-Four

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I step over the threshold hesitantly, my shoulders and back stiff with discomfort. I'm really trying not to focus on how distressed and insane I feel about being here, but it's not working.

He opens the door wider and moves away slightly from the doorway, giving me some room to pass, but not enough to squeeze by without my body touching his. The act is intentional, and I only know that because he doesn't take his eyes off me, not even for a second. It's like he wants to see what I'll do, like he's testing me or some shit. I breathe out, trying to exhale some of the tension and anxiety, hoping to relieve some of the discomfort in the atmosphere.

"Uh...do you mind?" I say, hoping he'll just move and not be difficult.

"Do I mind, what?" he asks plainly, his expression neutral, showing no sign of what he's thinking.

"Could you move a little?" I clarify, not that he needs it. "I can't come in if you're in the doorway."

He stands there for several seconds, not budging and just staring at me. I would be creeped out if I wasn't so turned on. I walk past him, my shoulders brushing his chest even as I squeeze myself through the little opening between his body and the door as best as I can.

He makes no move to give me more space, nor does he seem to care that I'm getting into his personal space—or that he's imposing on mine, for that matter.

My heart beats hard in my chest at the contact. His cologne gently drifts into my nose, and I eagerly inhale the musky, intoxicating scent. I try to ignore it and keep placing one foot in front of the other. He looks amazing and he smells even better, but I can't let that distract me. I can't let that make me forget why I'm here.

I hear the door close behind me, and I grip the handles of my duffel bag until my knuckles hurt when I hear the turn of a lock and bolt. Despite my desire to be strong, I can't stop myself from looking over my shoulder to confirm what I just heard—to confirm that I am now indeed trapped inside this mansion with him.

He punches some numbers into a security pad hoisted on the wall by the door, and a corresponding beep follows, telling me that I'm now one hundred percent trapped inside this man's house.

My head whips the other way on reflex as soon as he turns around, my brain afraid to face him again. But it doesn't matter. He walks up to me from behind, and I can hear each footstep get unusually louder as he gets closer, as if each sound reverberates multiple times in my ears. Pretty sure it's the adrenaline fucking up my hearing, but I can't stop it.

I gulp, trying to swallow the canyon that just appeared in my throat. He comes to stand in front of me, and I force myself to meet his scary eyes. I don't want him to see me so intimidated.

He looks irritated as hell. But I maintain eye contact, even if my heart is threatening to explode right out of my chest.

I'm trying to get my brain to form a coherent sentence amidst all the nervousness I feel. I think I should apologize for being late. But I don't really want to. Maybe I could just explain why I was late. Or better yet, lie and say I had an emergency? Maybe that would work better?

After several moments of thinking of something to say, I manage to come up with...absolutely nothing.

Zilch.

Nada.

Yeah. This is going to be a hell of a weekend.

Thankfully he speaks first so I don't have to...even though his words are precisely what I don't want to hear.

"You're late," he says, the scowl on his face mirroring his displeased tone perfectly; a tone that's really pissing me off in spite of my anxiety.

Someone clearly has a tampon up their ass.

I take that back.

More like, an industrial rolling pin.

I hate how stoic and arrogant he is. But I mean, what else could I have possibly expected with the almighty, narcissistic, smarter-and-better-than-everybody-else-who's-ever-existed-in-all-of-time-and-space doctor Dexter Frost?

I breathe out an exasperated sigh, trying not to let his sour attitude get under my skin so soon into the evening. I mean, I literally just got here, and we're already off to a bad start. I can't say I didn't expect any backlash, though.

Might as well just get it over with already.

"I got lost," is my simple response, but my own passive aggressive tone is implicit, and I know it's not lost on him.

His expression morphs into one of disbelief. "You have access to a state of the art GPS navigation system on one of the best smartphones in the world and you got lost? What exactly—"

I frown at his condescending tone, cutting him off without apology. "Yes, that's what I said," I say firmly, steeling myself against his intimidating demeanor. "I didn't stutter, did I?"

I know I'm really pushing it with the last part, and I'm probably not helping the situation by being snarky, but I can't help myself. And he doesn't need to know all of the details of why I'm late, especially not with his current attitude.

His brow arches and his icy eyes go slightly wider; his first real show of surprise since I met him. I don't even try to suppress the smug "smize" that plasters itself on my face at seeing him react this way.

But my mini victory—if you can even call it that—only lasts for a second, before a sinister, devilish expression replaces any hints of shock on his face.

I have to grit my teeth against the wave of fear threatening to suffocate me propelled by his edgy, elusive stare.

I hate how he can do that; make me nervous beyond belief and drive me insane with absolute uncertainty about what he's thinking—and all with just one look.

I clutch at the handles of my duffel bag tightly again, wishing I could swing the damn thing at his face and wipe that stupid grin off his annoying, distracting lips.

His eyes move away from mine and land on the duffel bag hanging at my knees. "What's that?"

"Oh, uh...I brought a change of clothes with me," I say, feeling more than a bit silly at the sound of what I just said.

A change of clothes for a booty call.

Lovely.

Before I can say anything else, he reaches for its handles and pulls the bag out of my grip with practically no effort at all.

"You won't be needing any clothes while you're here," he says casually, tossing the duffel bag on a nearby chaise before his gaze is fixated on me once again. His words are so simple, so matter-of-fact but the dangerous edge in his eyes give him away.

A million and one little heat waves collectively blast over my entire body and my eyes bulge wider than they ever have behind my glasses. My lips part without my permission, my chin almost making its way to the polished wooden floor in absolute shock.

After several more seconds of baffled staring and incredibly difficult swallowing, my voice comes back from the Land of the Lost.

"E-Excuse me?"

I don't even know how I bring myself to speak after hearing that mind-blowing sentence leave his lips, even if it's only a mere two words and they come out in a weird stutter.

"I'm more than certain I was perfectly audible, Ramona," he says sternly, his eyes penetrating. "So, I know you heard me clearly."

He steps in front of me, completely closing the distance between us without any warning, and before I can even react, his hand juts out toward me with a speed I can't even comprehend and wraps itself around my throat.

I instinctively grab at his forearm with both hands, struggling to free myself from his grasp as fear and animal reflex take over. His grip is firm and...almost subduing. But he's not hurting me. To be honest, the sensation feels...kind of amazing.

But I don't like what it's doing to my pussy.

I have to clench my thighs together tightly against the sudden, intense throbbing inside my core, and to keep the hot liquid pooling inside me from escaping. And to make things worse, all the tingling and pulsating is making my bladder cry out for attention even more.

He tilts my neck to the side slightly, and my neck involuntarily gives in to the action. My brows draw closer together in confusion as my hands continue to clutch at his. My lips part in shock, unable to verbalize my silent question:

What the hell are you doing?

But before I can actually voice the words, I feel his thumb slowly tracing back and forth on the side of my throat, caressing my skin in a hypnotic, to-and-fro motion that clashes with the dangerous edge in his eyes. The sensation feels so good, and it pacifies my apprehension and dilutes my desire to resist his touch. To resist him.

I watch him from the corner of my eyes as he watches me, and I'm not entirely sure but I think he's examining my neck or something. And then it hits me.

The hickeys.

Oh my God, that's what he's looking at! Those are what he's running his fingers over!

They're barely noticeable anymore after almost two weeks; practically invisible, actually. No one would notice the barely-there traces of bruised skin—unless they already knew they were there. Or unless they put them there. And when he meets my eyes again, I know I'm right when a cocky grin tugs slightly at the corners of his lips; very subtle but unmistakable.

He lets go of me abruptly, and I hate that I immediately miss the amazing, almost possessive feel of his long, strong fingers on my body. But the sudden absence of his hand also leaves me even more flustered and confused, and incredibly self-conscious about my reaction to his unexpected touch.

"I'll show you to your room and then we'll head upstairs for dinner," he finally says.

My eyebrows rise in confusion.

Huh? My room? Dinner? What the deuce are you talking about?

I look at him warily, my eyes unable to mask my apprehension.

But first things first.

"Can I use the restroom?" I can barely focus on anything but my screaming bladder right now, so I don't voice my silent questions. As confused as I am by the fact that he wants to give me a room of my own and have dinner with me, nature calls—and right now, it's calling with a goddamn air horn.

"There are several sinks and hygiene stations leading up to the dining room where we'll be having dinner," he says in a matter-of-fact tone. "You can wash your hands in one of them."

I nod unenthusiastically. "That sounds great, but I need to do a tad bit more than wash my hands, if you catch my drift."

"I 'catch your drift' perfectly, Miss Gallo," he returns, narrowing his eyes at me. "You need to urinate."

I can't help but cringe.

He frowns. "What?"

"Do you always talk like that?"

"Talk like what?"

"Like you're giving a frickin' anatomy lecture," I say, looking at him like he's some weird alien species. After what I've seen of him so far, I don't think I'm far off the mark.

He arches his brow, his expression not the least bit amused as he cocks his head to the side ever so slightly, his icy eyes narrowing at me even more, like lasers zoning in on a target, ready to strike the bull's eye at any moment.

But then, the most subtle grin tugs at the corner of his lips, and a dangerous spark of mischief and something else I'm afraid to put a name to flash through his eyes, making their icy blue hue even more intense.

There's pure power in his gaze, his eyes simultaneously scorching hot and cold as a blizzard. I have to tear my own eyes away as my heart pounds uncomfortably hard in my chest and my deranged pussy echoes its own sentiments just as strongly below.

As much as I hate myself for it, I can't stop my feet from physically stepping backward in retreat at the overwhelming sight. But that only makes him come closer again, not even the slightest bit hesitant—and seemingly quite eager—to invade my personal space. He gets as close as he can without actually touching me, our bodies separated by the width of a single strand of hair. He towers over me like a moving, breathing pillar, lowering his head so he can bring his lips to my ear.

"I guess you'll get your answer once I'm done "lecturing" you," he says confidently, his words sharp and calculated. Promising.

I...I think he just threatened me. Or made some sort of twisted vow. I'm not sure which.

And I think, in a stupid attempt to be witty and smug, I just royally screwed myself over.

***

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