Chapter 23
Imogen
Lincoln’s eyes blaze with so much heat that my skin burns under his gaze. What have I done? Have I pushed him too far? Am
I actually prepared for any of what might happen now?
His lips crash against mine, brutal and tender at the same time. He licks the seam of my lips and I part them willingly, allowing
his warm velvety tongue to slip into my mouth. He flicks it against mine, causing a desperate moan to roll out of my throat.
Unable to do anything but feel, I melt into his hard body. And there are so many feelings, all of them new and exciting—explosive
and overwhelming. I revel in them all. And I want more.
Lincoln’s powerful arms snake around my waist, crushing me against him, and now I’m entirely lost to the sensations flooding
my body. Without intending to, I find my good hand threading through his dark hair. It’s as silky and thick as I’ve imagined
it would be. His tongue continues exploring my mouth and I can only respond on instinct, hoping that what I’m doing is right.
It certainly feels right, so very right. And from the sensation of his rock-hard length digging into my stomach, I assume
he’s enjoying this too.
My head is spinning. My panties are damp and sticky.
His fingers brush against my stomach and my lower abdomen feels like it’s being pulled into itself, causing a delicious burning ache.
His kisses linger, my lips feeling tender and bruised but in the most delectable way possible.
I could spend hours doing nothing but being kissed by him.
Much too soon, he pulls back, and we both pant for breath.
“Fuck!” he grunts.
What does that mean and why does he sound so annoyed? Whatever the reason, I don’t want this to end. Instinctively, I grind
my hips against his, seeking a little relief from the deep throbbing ache between my thighs, finding it in the thick ridge
of his length straining against his pants. Pleasure skitters up my spine.
Lincoln groans, a sound so feral and full of longing that it makes my legs tremble. He stares at me, dark eyes still raging
full of fire.
“Please, sir,” I whisper.
His lips find mine once more and he kisses me again, less urgently this time, yet still possessive and dominating. I’m not
sure anything in the world could ever feel better than this. Seeking that same sweet relief I found a few moments ago, I rock
my hips against his.
A growl rumbles deep in his throat, and the sound sends shivers of ecstasy hurtling through me. He slides a hand down over
my ass and then the outside of my thigh before slipping it beneath my dress. And now his warm rough hand is gliding over my
skin. My heart rate spikes and my breath stutters in my throat.
I rub against him instinctively and his hand moves up my thigh.
I’m sure my heart rate just doubled.
Moaning softly, I flick my tongue against his as I grow more confident.
His soft grunt tells me he likes it. He still has his hand beneath my dress, gently caressing my skin, but he’s not yet touching me where I yearn to be touched.
When my thighs part a little of their own volition, I realize my brain has fully checked out of this situation and is letting my needy lady parts run the show.
Lincoln responds by herding me back a few steps until my ass bumps against his desk.
I shuffle backward, perching on the edge of it while he slides his hand between my thighs, pushing aside my, now very damp, panties.
And I tell myself that this is okay to want this, because giving him pleasure is exactly what I was trained for. And he’s definitely enjoying this.
My body pulses with electric energy.
I cling to him, desperate for more of whatever he’s offering, wondering how it’s possible to feel this much desire and bliss,
when he ups the ante, swirling the pad of his index finger over a particular spot that has euphoria spiking hot and fierce
through my entire body.
“Oh!” I gasp, wrenching my lips from his as my full body trembles.
He keeps his other arm locked firmly around my waist, holding on to me, and smirks, before repeating the action. Then he runs
his nose over my neck and growls. “Do you like that, angel?”
I nod, biting down on my lip so that I don’t moan out loud and reveal myself to be too needy and desperate, because men don’t
like that. But is that my clitoris he’s toying with?
“Have you ever made yourself come, Imogen?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know how to, sir.”
His eyes narrow on my face, trying to assess whether that’s true.
“I never tried. They told me it was wrong.”
He arches an eyebrow, swirling his fingers over my hyper-sensitive flesh. “Does this feel wrong?”
“God, no!” I moan aloud now, no longer able to stop myself.
And far from not liking it, me being vocal seems to please him. He gives a soft satisfied growl. “There are so many ways your
body can feel pleasure, Imogen. Would you like me to show you?”
I nod, my cheek brushing the fabric of his T-shirt over the hard muscle of his chest. “Yes, sir.”
He circles my entrance, and every single nerve ending in my body is screaming for him to relieve this deep bone-aching need
he’s stoked in me. Even though I have no idea how I could know what it is I need him to do, instinct tells me that if he pushes
that finger inside of me, it will make everything better.
“Has anything or anyone ever been inside you, angel?”
He inches the tip in the slightest fraction of an inch and I tremble. “N-no. Nothing. Not even a tampon.”
He closes his eyes and mutters a string of curses.
“Please, Lincoln,” I beg, ashamed of myself for allowing my body to have this much control over my mind. Although not my entire
body, just this single part of me where he has his hands. Nothing in this entire world feels more necessary than what he’s
about to do.
“Fuck, Imogen,” he groans, pained. But I’m sure it’s me who’s suffering here. He’s the one with all the power. He has all
the control. It goes against everything I have been taught my whole life to let go this much, but I’m a trembling mess made
up of nothing but desperate need and a desire so fierce that it’s searing through my flesh.
I grasp his shirt in my fist, pressing my forehead to his chest and clinging to him like he’s my only chance of survival.
“Linc,” I pant out only half his name in a plea.
He rests his lips on the top of my head and tightens his grip around my waist before he sinks his thick finger inside me.
I see stars. Every single particle of energy in my body rushes to the place between my thighs. Nothing exists outside of this
room. There’s nothing except for me and him. And nothing before in my entire life has ever felt so right.
There’s a rush of slick arousal. A deep pulling sensation in my core. The feeling that I’m floating.
“You’re doing so well for me.” His free hand slides to the back of my head, palming it possessively, while also grounding me back to reality as he works his finger deeper and grinds the heel of his palm against my clitoris.
I groan. Another rush of wetness.
“Such a tight little pussy,” he groans against my skin.
Oh, god! Overwhelming need and the burning requisite for some kind of release of all this pent-up feeling thunders around
my body. I have to let it out before I implode.
“Let go for me, angel.” His deep growling voice washes over me, soothing and encouraging. He probes deeper. My head is whirling.
Vision blurry. I can’t hold on. I don’t want to. White-hot euphoria detonates in my core. Starlight explodes in my vision.
My body goes rigid, both fighting and clinging to this strange and wonderful feeling that’s dominating my entire consciousness.
I let out a garbled cry, something between a curse and a prayer.
What the hell was that?
Lincoln holds me tighter, his skilled fingers massaging my tender flesh. “That’s my good girl,” he growls, all dominance and
possession and fire.
It takes minutes for my body to stop shaking, for me to uncurl my fingers and toes. I melt against him like a candle left
too long in front of an open fire. My entire being hums with relief and contentment as I bask in the aftermath of what I assume
must have been an orgasm. And if that’s what they feel like, how does a person ever go back to a normal life knowing that
that kind of pleasure exists in this world? Why did nobody ever prepare me for this? Not even Lady Chatterley and Oliver could
explain just how life-changing a climax would be.
Lincoln’s lips are pressed firmly against my forehead. “You did so good for me.”
Something about his praise unravels me.
A tear runs down my cheek.
I was never prepared for this because this was never supposed to happen. This kind of experience isn’t the norm for girls and women sold at auctions. More tears run down my face and I don’t try to stop them. I can’t recall the last time I cried so openly, but it feels good. Necessary.
“Imogen?” His voice is tinged with concern. He slides his finger out of me, and the loss feels so great that I sob out loud.
He brushes my hair back from my face, and as he does, I notice his palm streaked with blood. It freaks me out less than I
thought it would. That, I was prepared for. “Are you okay?”
I nod, lip caught between my teeth so that I don’t sob again. When I can trust myself to speak, I whisper, “It was intense.
I feel like I fell apart.”
He dusts his lips over mine, wrapping both his arms around me. “I have never seen anything more beautiful than your undoing,
angel.”
Bending low, he rests his forehead against mine and our warm breath mingles in the space between us. There’s a connection
like I’ve never experienced before in my life. Like my soul has been anchored to his, and I might die if he lets me go. It’s
warm and safe and everything I have ever wanted.
And then he breaks it.
Without warning, he takes a half step back, creating a physical space between us, and his arms slip from around me. My legs
wobble. He glances at his blood-streaked palm, and raw shame and guilt flash in his dark eyes. Surely he knew that would happen?
“You should go to bed, Imogen.” His tone is cold now. Detached. He’s an entirely different person than the man from a moment
ago.
Is he upset about the blood? Or is he upset with me?
“Did I do something wrong?” I hear the tremor in my own voice, and under normal circumstances, I would despise such a weakness and do whatever I needed to correct it. But he has cracked me wide open, and now he’s just going to leave me to put myself back together? Pretend like this didn’t happen?
He pinches the spot between his brows and paces across to the other side of the library. “No,” he grits out the word. “Just
go.” When I don’t move, he yells, “Leave. Now.”
And now I get it. It wasn’t only me who lost control. He did too and he’s hating himself for it. I don’t understand any of
this. By his own admission, Lincoln Knight is supposed to be a monster. He paid ten million dollars for me at some twisted
auction, where my purity and obedience were the selling point. Yet he’s consumed with guilt for touching me. Why?
Whatever it is, I should be grateful for his lack of interest in me because it provides me with an opportunity. It allows
me to refocus on the only thing I should be focusing on—the one I keep forgetting about. My freedom. If he’s not strong enough
to get past his guilt, or shame, or whatever the hell it is that’s holding him back, then it only helps me push forward.
I slide off his desk and walk out of his office, the dull throbbing between my thighs growing more intense with every step
I take—a reminder of what I just gave him, and what he just threw away.