Chapter Ninety-Five

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He turns away from me, casually picks my duffel bag up again, and walks ahead without another word. His scrutinizing gaze is no longer on me—for now, anyway—but I can still feel the lingering heat from his eyes on my skin. And he still hasn't told me where the damn bathroom is.

I steel myself and square my shoulders, urging my heart to slow down as I hesitantly follow him. I try to distract myself from my angstiness by looking around, keeping my eyes peeled for a bathroom.

The interior of the house looks a lot different from the way it does outside. There are alternating block and cylindrical pillars from the floor to the tall ceiling. The floor is made entirely of polished, expensive-looking wood. Probably mahogany or something. But I'm no expert, so I can't be sure.

There are granite counter-tops of various sizes dispersed here and there, and champagne colored tiles lining the ceiling. There are several circular lights embedded in the ceiling that are all on, giving the entire space a warm, amber glow. But their beauty is nothing compared to the massive black and clear crystal chandeliers hanging between them, breaking up the gorgeous sea of rose gold and further illuminating the vast space. The colors and atmosphere are honestly a world away from what I imagined a man like Frost would be in to.

Then again, maybe it's more his wife's taste?

I physically pause at that thought, my feet halting mid-step. Suddenly, I want to throw up.

The absolute last thing I want—or need—to be thinking about right now is the potential interior decoration style of a woman whose husband I'm about to fuck. Seriously.

I gather my wits about me, doing my best to zone any and all thoughts of her out of my head and focus on the here and now. I need to keep my eyes—and brain—on the prize.

My eyes dart to my right as I force myself to resume walking, and I notice that there's porcelain and glass fitted into the walls, and slender glass figurines dispersed on various counters made of what looks like obsidian. There are a lot of other artistic displays throughout the large open space. It looks like the main floor of a damn museum.

The whole place seems quite lavish and luxurious for a doctor but then again, I saw the kind of crowd he hangs out with. That birthday party opened my eyes up to a whole different world; a world where people don't spend a single moment of their lives worrying about money.

Apparently, my grandfather had been privileged enough to roll with those types of moneyed people in his earlier days during the prime of his musical career, but I guess none of it rubbed off on him long-term.

I have to push my wandering thoughts away once again. Now is definitely not the time to be thinking about my grandfather's alleged financial problems. Hell, now's not the time to be thinking of my dead grandfather, period.

My attention goes back to my lavish surroundings. It's unbelievably spacious in here. You could practically go race car driving in this foyer. I try not to let myself get overwhelmed by the beauty and luxury of it all, knowing that I'll never have anything close to this, but I can't help but take it all in. I may never get the opportunity to see anything like this ever again in my life. And since I'm already here anyway, I might as well take it for all it's worth and just enjoy any positive aspects of this experience as much as I can.

Just think of it as a once in a lifetime opportunity, I try to tell myself.

Yes. A once in a lifetime opportunity to bask in lavishness and money...

Even though you're only doing it as a whore, the logical voice in my head shoots back.

Those words hit me with a vengeance, bulldozing me back into a reality I'd much rather not think about. I swallow hard against another rush of shame and guilt and anger at my circumstances. But I don't have time for a pity party, so I gather my wits about me and dig deep inside myself for courage and resolve—just enough to get me through this night, or at least enough to 'get things started'.

"Follow me," he says, moving past me, his free hand shoved casually into his slacks while my duffel bag swings gently in the other. And speaking of casual, as good as he looks, I really can't get over how odd it is seeing him in casual attire.

Well, duh. The only other times you've ever seen him are at his job and a formal event—even though there was barely anything 'formal' about that wild, outlandish birthday party.

I follow behind him through the grand hallway, trying to keep enough distance between us but simultaneously trying not to get lost and keep up with his long, effortless strides as I continue to appreciate all the art, furniture, and displays around me. I don't have short legs by any means, but I curse them anyway for lagging behind his own quick and powerful steps. I try to pace myself and not trip over my own feet as I also do my best to pace my breathing so that I don't falter and land flat on my face. Or ass.

The entire place is silent except for the soft thuds of our feet against the hardwood; his even and well-paced, and mine irregular and unsure. It doesn't help that my knees are shaking so badly that they keep buckling every so often.

And he's the one carrying the duffel bag.

My eyes dart to his hand, focusing on how his fingers wrap themselves around the handles and grip tightly. I remember the feel of those same fingers around my neck in his office. And the involuntary memory startles me beyond belief, making me fumble on my feet, and I carelessly knock into a nearby sofa, jabbing my thigh against the leather upholstery. The sound of the impact isn't as loud as I anticipate, but it's still enough to get his attention. He looks over his shoulder at me, and I do my best to ignore his scrutinizing eyes as I recollect and compose myself.

"Pay attention to where you're walking," he says with a look of disapproval, and I know he wants to say more. Like, "How much of klutz are you that you can manage to bump into something when there's so much fucking space around you?" but he just turns his head again and keeps walking.

The silence is killing me, and the anticipation is making my heart work overtime, but it's less nerve-wracking than having him actually talk to me—knowing that it's just the two of us...and no one else.

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