Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen

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I turn on twitchy, unsteady legs, placing one bare, wet foot in front of the other as my eyes look ahead to the figure taking the lead.

My ears and cheeks are on the verge of burning themselves to a crisp, and I can't even begin to describe the extremity of my embarrassment and self-consciousness right now. I'm all too aware of my nakedness, and all the muscles in my legs tense as cold air hits my bare bottom, the sensation only amplified by the shameful wet streaks lining my skin.

Impulsively, I pull at my top, stretching it downward from both the front and back as far as it will go, trying to cover my unmentionables. And all it does is make me look insane, the T-shirt too short to do more than what it was made to. But that doesn't stop me from trying.

I try to steady myself, each step in his direction more wary and timid than the last, but all my limbs are shaking so badly that it's a miracle I can even move at all.

I only manage to get to the door of the dining room before my knees buckle from under me, and I go tumbling down to the floor.

Ungraceful would be an understatement.

I reach for the door handle reflexively, and somehow manage to grab the long metal bar on my descent, clutching it like an anchor even as it digs painfully into my already bruised palm. By some miracle, it's enough to break my fall, but barely.

Frost turns around at the sound of the unexpected commotion, his icy eyes hot and impatient...but also...something else.

In three long strides, he's completely closed the distance between us, and next thing I know, he's picking me up by one arm, effortlessly pulling me back onto my wobbly feet. I simultaneously try to free myself from his grip and shield my privates in embarrassment, but he's not having any of it. His fingers dig into my upper arm intently and he holds me in place as if I weigh no more than the world's smallest feather.

Without warning, and before I can even regain my balance, I find myself being scooped off my feet and hauled into the air in one swift, unexpected motion, the action nearly knocking the wind out of me. In my disarray, it takes me a second to process what just happened. And, in utter mortification, I realize that Frost just hoisted me over his shoulder, draping me—an adult woman—over his broad, ripped body as though I'm just another one of his stethoscopes.

A millisecond.

That's all the time it takes for me to officially freak. The. Fuck. Out.

I jerk, squirm, and shriek over him like a crazed caterpillar, horrified that my ass is literally in the air, exposed and right next to his face! And, good God in heaven, my naked mound is now pressed snuggly against his chest. And the barrier of his clothes do absolutely nothing to temper that fact—or the sheer anxiety it induces in me.

And it only gets worse when I feel his hand on my thigh as he adjusts me over his shoulder, my pussy spasming at the feel of his fingers so close to it even as my heart threatens to torpedo out of my throat.

"Put me down!" I scream, trying to jerk myself free of his hold in spite of my disadvantageous position. But I'm not doing myself any favors with my attempts, the rapid, jerking motions making me feel dizzy and slightly nauseous as blood rushes to and pools in my suddenly heavy skull. Still, I can't bring myself to do nothing. "I can walk," I insist when he shows no signs of letting up, even though it's obvious to both of us that I'm having a hell of a time doing so. He doesn't even respond to my demands, or my mortified squeals, and when I see that my protests are futile, I do the only thing I can do: struggle—quite ungracefully—to cover my bare bottom with my hand in spite of the difficulty my new location is making that task.

I gasp when I feel his hand on my behind, the pads of his long fingers pressing firmly into the flesh of my left ass cheek, obviously in a show that he's getting annoyed with my fidgeting and restlessness.

"Settle down," he commands, the words spoken so calmly yet, somehow, they wield so much power and authority. I instantly still at the contact, my breath stopping in my chest, my lungs failing, feeling as stiff as the ice in his eyes. I comply involuntarily, my body going static...except for my pussy.

The damn thing carries on like a lunatic, throbbing vigorously to hell and back, and its incessant, almost obnoxious thumping is driving me insane. I bring my thighs tightly against each other, locking them together as much as possible in fear that he can hear and/or feel the pounding in my vagina from this angle—or worse, that the treacherous thing pulls another fast one on me and ends up leaking all over his shirt.

My face sets itself ablaze at the possibility, and an involuntary groan escapes me as I try not to think about the potential of something as life-changingly embarrassing as that happening to me. Especially right after the piss-mania episode I just went through.

He carries me over his shoulder across the corridor and through an ever-widening hallway, his movements swift, efficient and relaxed, as if he doesn't have another whole, living human being weighing on him. I, on the other hand, am going absolutely ballistic; being forced to hang upside down and half naked like this, my hair falling into my eyes, my glasses sliding down my nose no matter how many times I push them back up, my thighs pressing themselves so tightly against each other I'm sure I'll have bruises between them by the end of the night.

The second the unwelcome image visualizes in my head, I shriek internally, banishing any and every thought of anything happening between my thighs tonight for any reason. I try to breathe, hoping I can calm down enough to give my overworked brain a break, trying desperately not to feel like I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown every other second when I'm near this man. But no such luck. I'm a total mess, and I don't even want to think about how crazy I must look.

My eyes are wide and alert, my neck straining itself to lift my head so I can see where we're going. The dining room door progressively gets farther and farther away, seeming to shrink in the distance as we—no, Frost—keeps moving in the opposite direction, and it soon disappears from my view altogether as he turns a corner, my gaze landing on the side of a wall jutting outward less than a foot away. I suppress the urge to reach out and to grab it even though I know it won't do shit to save me.

We bypass a myriad of household decor and interior extravagance, expensive, modern furniture intertwined with the kind of luxury and atmosphere that hints at old money. Extensive carpeting that I'm willing to bet is handmade. Walls lined with the type of unique, strange artwork that somehow costs millions of dollars. Wide, sleek flat screens equipped with wireless stereo systems, each of which could probably put me through college. But I can't even get a good look at most of it from my awkward angle, never mind fully appreciate the beauty, managing only to catch glimpses of this man's evident wealth here and there. Each area we pass seems to be segmented by a specific color scheme and material—sleek metallics and glass, earthy browns and burgundies, monochrome blacks and whites, beiges and taupes, marble and ceramic, leather and velvet. Nothing too bright and colorful. But definitely excessive and indulgent. Simultaneously a precise match and the complete opposite of Frost's demeanor—or at least, what I've seen of it.

So far...

He comes to a stop briefly, as if he just heard my thoughts. My neck strains as I struggle to look around his gigantic back, and I realize we've arrived at a grand staircase, my head bobbing slightly as he ascends the first step of the magnificent, modern spiral. A confused frown contorts my face as I notice that we bypassed the elevator on the way, and I can't help wonder why he's forgoing the lift that brought us up here. Not that I want to go back in there after what happened last time.

Good God, how many stories high is this mansion?! I wonder, my eyes flitting over each wide, carpeted step and its adjacent, black metal railing as he continues to climb.

I'm not sure how long he keeps going for, and my neck is way too strained and tense to keep trying to look up, so, as much as I hate it, I resign myself to just hanging there like an overcooked noodle, my head and arms limp, swaying gently over his broad back. Still, I count each of them, hoping to God and every other deity out there that I won't need this little piece of logistical information to give the cops if this man turns out to be a bona fide psycho and decides to hold me hostage in his attic. Or wherever the fuck it is he's taking me.

Sixty-seven steps later, he comes to another halt, reaching the very top of the staircase. The lighting is sparse up here, much dimmer than the rest of the house. I can barely make anything out. It's also much quieter.

Eerily so.

The only sound I can hear is the blood pounding in my skull, and now, it has nothing to do with being turned upside down.

As if on cue, I feel Frost shrug underneath me, his shoulder dipping suddenly as he leans forward, one arm circling my thighs while the other lands on my back almost...protectively as he slides me away from his big body, setting me down.

But my feet are unprepared to bear the weight of my own so suddenly, the contact of the cold floor jarring, and I stumble, grabbing his shirt impulsively to steady myself. He looks disapprovingly at me, his eyes arctic, the scowl on his face so clear in spite of the lack of light up here, and my ears burn with renewed embarrassment at this latest fumble of mine.

God, tonight is just really not my ni—

All thoughts cease, screeching to a halt the second my eyes land on the single door ahead.

It's the only one in sight.

The only thing in sight.

And, compared to the rest of the ones I've seen so far, this door is small.

Plain.

Simple.

Unremarkable.

Frost gestures toward it with a small nod, his eyes still on me, edgy and full of the kind of danger that would make me wet my pants if I hadn't already. "Ladies first."

***

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