"That's it, baby," he continues, his tone almost soothing, despite the filth spilling from his lips. "Take my cock. Take all of it."
Baby.
My belly flutters, my heart soaring like a fool even though I know it's a runaway utterance. A thoughtless spi...
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Any thoughts of introducing myself for the sake of politeness catapult themselves right out the window.
Fuck.
Me.
I didn't recognize her at first—and I probably wouldn't have without the black and white uniform—but now I think I recall seeing her in the distance back in the dining room briefly, not that I could focus on anything other than my inflamed bladder for more than a nanosecond the entire time. But it doesn't erase the fact that she was there; there to witness some part of the most humiliating experience of my life.
Oh, God...was she actually here the whole time?
Did she stay the night?
Holy crap, did she see the piss on the floor?!
Did she clean it?
Is she the special housekeeper he was talking about?
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—
"I was asked to wake you up for breakfast before I take my leave while the Master is away," she explains, cutting my internal panic-attack short.
A scowl creases my forehead instantly.
The...Master?
Suddenly, I can't breathe. "E-excuse me?"
She gives me a quizzical, almost incredulous look, as if I just asked her a trick question.
"The Master of the house," she says, her brow slightly arched, her head tilting to the side ever so subtly. "Master Frost."
All I have to offer in return...is an extremely puzzled expression.
Jesus, what the hell is this, old country?
I'd burst out laughing if I wasn't in so much pain.
This is a modern mansion, and she has an average, all-American accent, but the way she speaks—especially when referring to the person I now know as Lucifer himself—is so formal. Almost rigid.
And straight up bizarre.
Still, my brows jump in surprise, slightly thrown off by the knowledge of his absence.
"A-away?" I frown, confused. "Do you know where he went?" I don't even know why I'm asking. After last night, I'm not sure I want to know that detail.
"No, Ma'am," is her simple, direct response. "He didn't relay that information to me."
"Well...do you know when he'll be back?" I press.
This time, I do know why I'm asking. The sooner he gets back, the sooner we can get this...this shit-show over and done with, and the sooner I can go home and, if it's even possible, actually start to process what's already proven to be a gigantic, hot mess of a weekend.
