Chapter 20
Imogen
Despite savoring every single word of it, I still managed to read through The Secret Garden in less than a day, and now the book sits in pride of place on the antique walnut dresser in my room. Always there whenever
I need to escape into its pages.
Now I find myself in the library searching for a new read, once again entertaining the notion of the epic romance novel that
might allow me to live vicariously through its pages. At this point, I’m willing to do anything to stop the highly improper
and ridiculous thoughts I keep having about Lincoln. He left the day after he gave me the book—slipped out in the middle of
the night without so much as a goodbye. From Pierre’s grumblings I assume his leaving was a surprise to him too.
I scan the rows upon rows of shelves, examining the titles and not knowing which ones might be the kind of story I’m looking
for. Until I spot one that has a title that must be about romance—Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
Larissa had a copy of this book. I saw her reading it once, and when I, being a curious child at that age, inquired about it, she scolded me.
Then she told me it was a book for adults, full of sin and wickedness, and that if I ever looked between its pages, I would go to hell.
I think I was about seven years old at the time, and I never questioned her logic, nor why she was reading it if it led directly to hell, but it’s a memory I’d forgotten until now.
I slip the book from its snug spot on the shelf and head to my armchair. Tenderly, I open the first page, my fingers trembling
slightly as I dislodge the scent of old paper and ink. I glance around nervously, ensuring I’m alone before I continue reading.
The harsh memory of Larissa’s words makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’m most definitely an adult
now. And if it did indeed lead directly to hell, then Larissa would be there.
The text is small and the language unusual, but I soon find myself lost in the pages, rooting for Constance to find her chance
at true happiness and escape her loneliness. Quickly, the pages become shorter, or my reading grows much faster. From the
first kiss on Connie’s cheek every page becomes more thrilling and exciting, until . . .
My eyes linger on the words. A flush heats my cheeks. Not because of the content, or the detail, but because of the tenderness—the
quiet reverence with which Oliver touches Connie. Yet the passion between them is so fierce that it ignites the pages. A far
cry from the preparation I had for the act of sex. The vulgar, crude videos that were only ever about female submission and male pleasure. Base animalistic
acts devoid of desire and connection, nothing like the depiction in the book. I wonder which of them is the true reflection
of what happens between a man and woman? My rational mind tells me it can be both—perhaps even the most vulgar of acts can
be tender with the right person.
I close the book and clutch it to my chest, too breathless with want and too unsure of what to do with all these feelings flooding my body to read any more.
Closing my eyes, I tuck my feet beneath me and lean back into the chair, the scent of leather reminding me of Lincoln, and suddenly my thoughts are no longer of characters from a book, but of him.
I long to be touched the way Connie is. I want to feel his lips on my cheek and his powerful hands gently caressing my skin, stroking me between my thighs, in that place that has started to ache only for him.
And the though the thoughts are sinful and might send me straight to hell, maybe that’s not the worst that could happen.
Not if I get to be loved the way Oliver loves Connie.
And if I got to be loved that way by Lincoln . . .
My heart is beating so wildly it might just pound straight out of my chest and fly away. But, if that were to happen . . . If Lincoln were to touch me the way I’d like him to, well then I think I’d walk straight into hell
of my own free will.