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

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

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

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

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