Chapter 27
Imogen
I wake in a cold sweat, my limbs twisted in the sheets, my heart pounding and a persistent, throbbing ache between my thighs.
In my dream, Lincoln was here. He came home and snuck into my room in the night. Whispered in my ear how much he missed me,
and how he couldn’t stay away—even now the mere memory of the deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Then
he pulled the bedclothes off, slowly inching them over my body until I was fully revealed to him. I still feel the weight
of him easing himself onto the bed as he crawled over me, his mask in place and wearing black camo gear, growling his intent
to do all manner of wicked things to me.
Then his mask had disappeared, and he was trailing his sinfully delicious mouth over my hardened nipples while he peeled off
my panties.
“Do you want me inside you?” His voice deep and gruff still resounds in my head.
And then I woke up, hot and needy and aching. I roll onto my back and suck in deep breaths, but nothing seems to calm my racing
pulse. The deep pulling in my abdomen grows stronger and all I can see is Lincoln’s strong hands delving between my thighs.
I can almost feel his finger pushing inside me.
I screw my eyes closed but the images intensify. The ache grows stronger and more insistent.
It’s wrong to touch myself. Wrong to bring myself pleasure.
I take a deep calming breath.
It doesn’t work. Nothing works. There’s no room in my head for anything but this bone-deep longing for release. I slip my
hand inside my panties. Perhaps if I touch myself, just briefly, I can stop the infernal throbbing.
I swipe the pad of my index finger over the swollen bud of flesh and realize I was wrong, even the slightest contact sends
pleasure rocketing through my entire being. My skin grows hot with shame when I find my flesh already slick with my arousal,
but it feels too good to stop.
I recall Lincoln’s fingers on me, and try to mimic what he did. My movements aren’t as refined as his are, but I move on instinct—increasing
the pressure and speed and ramping up the euphoria. I venture closer to my entrance and consider sliding a finger inside myself.
My body screams at me to do it, but that would feel like stepping over a line that I shouldn’t cross. And what if Lincoln
were to somehow know I’d done that? I’m still his property and I’m not sure if this is even allowed.
I go back to toying with my clit, which is more than enough pleasure for me to handle. The euphoric sensation builds quickly,
cresting and falling as I bring myself close to the edge of something. I wonder if I can even do this myself. It feels good,
satisfying, but not as intense as what Lincoln did.
I close my eyes again and recall my dream, and it mingles with my memory of our night in the library. I imagine it’s his hands
on me. I can hear the filthy words he growls in my ear. Feel the scratch of his beard on my skin.
I get closer as my fingers work faster, slipping and sliding over my soaking flesh.
So close . . .
Blinding white euphoria washes over me. A moan is ripped from my chest and I slap my hand over my mouth to drown out the sound. My head swims with warm fuzzy feelings and my limbs tingle with pleasure.
I gasp for breath as I slide my slick fingers out of my panties.
I know I should feel ashamed, but mostly I just feel satisfied . . . and a little proud. I just did that. I just made my body
do this incredible thing, all on my own. I brought myself intense physical pleasure with just two fingers. Wow!
And I could do it again if I wanted to. Every single day for the rest of my life. For now, I’m sated enough.
I yawn, my eyelids already fluttering closed again before I fall into a dreamless sleep.