In another moment, you feel Frost’s hands on you again, his digits leisurely tracing the curvature of your inner thigh, searching for the latch cinched around it. With one decisive tug, he releases it with an audible, Velcro-like strip that taints the otherwise quiet room. The sound seems to boom through the air like a clap of thunder, jerking you completely back into reality. He does the same with the other, his motions efficient and precise. His fingers move with intent and speed as he frees you from each restraint, not giving you enough time to think, to prepare before his next words fill the air.

“You’ve forfeited your hydrogen atom,” he announces with finality. An unwavering tone that does nothing to hide what you can only recognize as…disappointment.

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