"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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My butt cheeks clench involuntarily, the action provoking renewed throbbing on the bruised flesh that I have to grit my teeth against. An overwhelming sense of foreboding floods my brain, and I go stiff until my muscles cramp, my body turning impossibly rigid without my permission as I try desperately to shove the thought of something else that's stiff and rigid sliding between my—
No, no, no, no!!!
Don't you dare even think it!
My eyes flutter rapidly, my heart palpitating in tandem with them as I fight to banish the possibility of things I'm too scared to put a name to, let alone imagine. My shoulders tense to the point of pain, and goosebumps resurface with a vengeance along the entire length of my back, making me shiver uncontrollably. I feel impossibly guarded, my upper body slouching into a hunch, wanting nothing more than to curl into myself and disappear.
Frost meets my eyes again, seeming to notice my unease—which isn't exactly difficult considering just how tightly wound I am. He continues to look at me expectantly, the silent command mirrored in his icy gaze.
He won't repeat himself.
Mine swings between him and the kit, unveiled distrust reflected in it, causing me to hesitate—and with very good reason. But his stare is unwavering, firm and unapologetic. I exhale in resignation, reluctantly putting my palm out toward him even though every cell in my body resists the action.
I swallow with difficulty, watching his every move like a hawk, feeling a weird, conflicting mesh of doubt, suspicion, uncertainty, anticipation, and something akin to hope, but not quite, my blood buzzing with adrenaline, my muscles contracting, preparing to retreat at any second.
He takes my hand in his without hesitation, the action surprisingly gentle, his thumb lightly grazing my palm, tracing over the bruised, broken skin.
My lungs instantly forget how to work, seizing for several seconds as I hold my breath impulsively at the sensation of his fingers, their size and strength a complete contrast to the warmth they hold and the unexpected lightness of his touch, and I can't help but stare at the way his large hand easily engulfs mine, the sight both incredible and utterly unnerving, a solid reminder of my physical disadvantage against him.
The action is clinical, his eyes assertive as they roam over them, and yet it feels...kind of...intimate.
My brain does a one-eighty as soon as the thought forms, and I realize just how ridiculous that sounds.
Ha! Intimate? Bitch, please. The only thing intimate here is his bizarre relationship with the damn kit.
He's completely focused, his expression serious, and I tear my eyes away when I realize I've been gawking at him in spite of myself, replacing the striking lines and shadows of his profile with the site of his attention.
