Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Three

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Before I can so much as blink, Frost is towering above me, his broad chest suddenly a mere whisper away from my face. One second, the tray is in my hands and the next it's flying out of my grasp. My heart lurches into my throat at the abrupt commotion, skipping several beats as my wide, alert eyes follow the platter and its items on reflex, watching them leave my grasp and clatter loudly as they skid and topple across the table. It happens so fast I can barely track it, and before I can even draw my next breath, my feet leave the floor without my consent.

Devoid of any warning, I find myself hauled into the air, the wind getting knocked out of me for a split second, my head spinning with the jolting intersection of flying and falling at the same time.

Powerful, unyielding hands grip at either side of me, lifting me onto the edge of the table far too easily, as though I weigh no more than the Band-Aids they just put on mine. Before I know it, Frost is roughly yanking at my robe, pulling back the thick fabric in harsh, forceful strokes. I reach for his hands impulsively, trying to stop them even when they so easily overpower me, fighting even when it's obvious that my efforts are futile.

He grabs at the cincher, his fingers dipping under the belt before pulling in a single tug, and it comes undone instantly, easily unraveling before being carelessly tossed in the opposite direction. Cool air grazes my skin, and the weighty robe slides off my shoulders almost immediately. More of my body quickly follows, and my entire torso comes into view as he continues to pull on its front, stripping me unapologetically. Palpable fire scorches my entire face when I feel my breasts jiggle slightly from being exposed so abruptly, and I watch as his eyes zone in on my bare chest briefly, his tongue darting over his bottom lip before the intense pair of diluted sapphire rise to mine again.

My ass comes into contact with cold, hard marble, but I barely even process the sensation before I'm pushed further up the table, feeling the hem of the robe stretch to capacity as the sinister, unpredictable man in front of me positions himself between my feet. Frost practically picks me up like a utensil and places me next to the discarded tray, and almost immediately, I feel his fingers on my calves, sliding up the back of my legs before he hooks his hands under my knees.

And then he lifts; pulling intently, raising my legs off the table. The action is precise. Eager. Efficient. But inertia quickly takes its place, forcing the rest of me to topple like the breakfast items laying less than a foot away. And then his grip is on my knees, forcing them apart and spreading my legs wide open, taking advantage of both my current physical handicap and the sheer shock it spawns, and in one swift motion, he hoists my lower body up to his face, simultaneously dipping his head between my thighs. The sight quite literally makes my heart stop, and a strained croak stutters out of me as his fingers dig into my skin, pulling me closer to him.

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