Page 32 of Frost and Death
Oh fuck, that feels so nice.
I whimper a soft moan of pleasure as the slight rubbing distracts me from my cycle pains. I close my eyes to the soothing contact, and my thoughts drift to the tune of the music.
The melody is euphoric, passionate, and slow, begging each dancer to dance in rhythm with the same vigor.
I loosen as it calls to me, finding the music’s reprieve.
“Tove,” my dance partner says, drawing me closer, breaking my stupor.
I scold him through gritted teeth, protocol slipping. “You should not be addressing me so plainly.”
His charm cracks when our gazes meet, blue eyes peering into me with pure annoyance. “I can leave if you’d like.”
The following spasm is unbearable, and it takes all my strength to not show weakness.
I want to apologize, but the music begs for us to part.
Drifting away to spin into him, I am winded and wiped clean of energy.
The room gets heavier, readying to collapse around me as another pang of cramps reverberates through my gut.
Strong hands reach for me, and it is all I can do to lean on them for support. They are the only thing I can focus on.
My vision blurs the light from the chandelier with the people surrounding me.
I feel… like I am in the sky.
My grip slackens as I whisper, “I don’t think I am feeling well.”
“That’s a wonderfully good excuse to get out of—”
The room collapses.
7
That Is Not a Cushion
Aforeign warmth caresses the side of my cheek as I adjust. The burning of oak wood dances along my nostrils as soft lips trail along my forehead, drawing a small smirk from me.
Hopeful this is reality, I keep my eyes closed and allow myself this peace.
When leaning to the side, a warm, solid cushion provides me with the best of comforts. I wiggle closer to it, burrowing deeper into the scent of an addictive cologne.
“Mmmm, I will be thinking about this all night,” I mutter into the supportive cushion.
But a low chuckle comes from it—
I jolt my eyes open.
“There you are,” the scarred man says, a small glimpse of relief behind his gaze.
I am draped across his lap, his arms cradling me close. My hands rest near my torso, intertwined with his black leather vest.
Humiliation swims through my thoughts as I take in our compromising position on the couch in the ballroom’s back room.
I try to move from him, only to have him pull me closer when a searing pain pierces through my stomach.
His eyes are lined with concern. “Are you hurt?”
