Every hair on your naked body stands at attention, acute sensation over your chest making you hyperaware of your exposure. Your vulnerability. The cold water flirts with your breasts, lightly swishing against their underside and occasionally rising to tickle the swell of your flesh with your strained, unsteady breaths. It’s as if the water is reaching for your areolas, as well, wanting to violate your tender peaks.

A rush of air bursts from your lungs that can barely draw breath when Frost’s long index finger grazes the curve of your shoulder. Just the very tip meets your skin in the barest of contact. But it sends seismic tremors coursing straight through you, making you quake like a fault line shifting deep inside your body.

The paperclip cruelly decorating your nipple gives a subtle pinch, a sharp reminder of its biting presence. Granted a front row seat to the depravity its kin surrounding you in the water silently bear witness to.

Your nipples throb at the proximity of his hand. You watch with trepidation as his finger trails slowly down to your heaving chest, your heart crashing against your ribs in a panicked rhythm that echoes mockingly between your legs. Your body tenses, muscles wound tight, braced for him to reach for the paperclip spearing your swollen nipple again. But he glides past it, moving instead to its suction-covered sister. You release a quivering exhale, simultaneously anxious and perversely disappointed.

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