Chapter 15
Imogen
The credits roll over the screen and an acute pang of sadness washes over me. If the movie is over, will Lincoln leave? It’s
been unexpectedly lovely having him sitting here with me. His presence is solid and reassuring.
I didn’t mean to ask him to stay, but the thunderstorm threw me. On the nights when Larissa stayed at my grandfather’s house,
if there was a storm I would crawl into bed with her and she would gently scold me, before letting me curl up beneath the
covers. And on the nights she wasn’t there, I would hide under the covers with my copy of The Secret Garden and lose myself in the English countryside.
I have no idea why thunder scares me so much, but it has for as long as I can recall. I have a vague memory of being trapped
somewhere in a storm once, but it’s nothing more than the avalanche of thunder and the sensation of soaking wet clothes clinging
to me. I think I remember my mother’s voice too, but it’s all too foggy and muddled to make sense of.
“Have your cramps gone?” Lincoln’s deep soothing voice pulls me from that old memory.
“Yes, thank you. The hot water bottle did the trick.” Or perhaps it was the distraction of the movie, and of him.
I’ve been acutely aware of him the entire time, but not in any uncomfortable way.
More like in a fascinating way. Surreptitiously studying the tattoos on his forearms and marveling at the thick vines that wind along his veins.
Stealing glances at the way his thighs stretch his pants so taut.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with thighs as big as his.
Some of my grandfather’s drivers were big men, and usually they were mean with it, but Lincoln is the largest man I’ve ever seen.
Yet for all his size and obvious strength, he’s never mean. Cold and detached. Grumpy. But not mean. There’s a difference,
and I would know. I could never imagine him squashing a snail under the heel of his boot just because a small child took some
delight in it, or pulling the wings off a butterfly when it made that same child smile.
“That’s good.” Once again, his voice anchors me back to the much more pleasant present. “I should let you get some sleep.”
He climbs off the bed.
“Thank you for sitting with me, sir.”
He nods once, rubbing a hand over the mask covering his jaw. “Good night, Imogen.”
“Good night, sir.”
He slips out of the room and I watch him with a strange and heavy ache in my chest. I have no idea what this feeling is. It’s
a little like when Larissa would go away for weeks at a time in order to visit her family in Greece. A longing to be near
someone.
Except it’s different. I don’t just feel it in my chest, but low in my belly too.
I felt it grow stronger when the hero kissed his girl at the end of the film, and when he laid her down on the bed—a pulling feeling, or perhaps a deep ache.
The scene faded to black and I imagined what might have happened next.
Would Max have been rough with Sammi, or gentle?
I suspect the latter, given how tenderly he kissed her.
None of the depictions of sex Larissa showed me involved the kind of sex I imagine movie characters having.
They were only ever focused on the man’s experience, and in some videos, multiple men at once.
They invoked mostly feelings of revulsion and horror, and they were nothing like the scenes I imagine in my head.
After the scene in tonight’s movie, I stole a glance at Lincoln. That deep ache grew more insistent and had nothing to do
with my period cramps. And then I found myself imagining that it was me and him and not the characters on the screen. I pictured
him lying on top of me and kissing me the same way Max kissed Sammi. Until that deep achy feeling in my core grew stronger
and more insistent.
It’s still there now, dulled but persistent. I wish a hot water bottle could fix this kind of pain, but I know instinctively
that it won’t. Despite my limited experience of sex, I suspect that’s the only remedy for this kind of longing feeling.
I consider sliding my hand into my panties and touching myself there. If it weren’t for the blood, or the fact that since
the moment I learned about sex I’ve been taught that to do so would be a violation of my body, I would.
One of my many conversations with Larissa plays in my mind. I was fifteen and struggling with some of the changes in my body
and the intense feelings I was having. We discussed female orgasms and why self-pleasure was forbidden. A woman’s pleasure is an unnecessary distraction, Imogen. Do not be weak. The ability to bring a man to climax is a powerful
tool in your arsenal, sometimes one of the only tools at our disposal. Because men are weak, and they think with their dicks.
Then she took my face in her hands. Do not allow yourself to be controlled by your hormones, my sweet child. Do not give in to your base desires.
Instead of giving in to the urge, I turn off the TV and roll onto my side. And I find myself snuggling into the pillow Lincoln
was using. Burying my face into the soft cotton until the scent of him fills my senses—fresh and clean and comforting.
I fall asleep with images of him in my head, and then I dream of a faceless hero whose kisses feel like fire.