Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Two Hundred and Seven

Frost returns with my duffel bag, eyeing it curiously. “Why bring clothes when you won’t be wearing any?” he asks, his tone a mixture of amusement and something darker. The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication.

My mouth goes dry, and I struggle to find my voice. “You never said I couldn’t,” I manage to croak out, hating how small and uncertain I sound. It’s a weak defense, and we both know it.

His lips curl into a smirk that sends shivers down my spine. “Strip,” he commands.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. I glance around nervously, half-expecting his attendant or someone else to walk in at any moment. The thought makes my stomach churn with mortification. But Frost’s piercing gaze brings me back to his demand, to the reality of what I’m about to do. Right here. Right now.

With trembling fingers, I start to undress. Each layer I remove feels like I’m shedding a piece of armor, leaving me more vulnerable than before. First, my coat falls to the floor with a soft thud. Then, my scarf slips away, exposing the fading marks on my neck. I see a flicker of something in Frost’s eyes—pride? possession?—and it terrifies me in a way I don’t want to think about.

It’s just sex, I remind myself. Just sex.