“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper, more to myself than him, my words drenched in disbelief, my entire body quivering as I stare at the crop now dangling between his fingers. I can’t seem to avert my gaze from the long, black whip even though every inch of my body urges me to do just that, my lungs working overtime, adrenaline-spiked blood coursing through every last inch of my body, making my skin buzz as if I just drowned in a tub of alcohol and my heart damn near beats itself to a pulp inside my chest.
In a nutshell, that’s how I feel.
Overwhelmed as all fuck would be a far more accurate statement.
“Not even a little bit,” is Frost’s immediate response to my barely audible remark, eyeing me intently, his expression completely and utterly serious.
I start to shake my head, more and more adamantly with each second, panic getting the best of me as the full weight of what he just said sinks in fully.
He wants to whip me.
He’s going to whip me.