Chapter 33
Imogen
So, maybe I don’t hate Lincoln Knight.
Or maybe I do, but I still want him to touch me.
But he hasn’t, for four whole days, nothing more than a fleeting brush of his skin on mine, which is not the kind of contact
I’m aching for.
I pick at the petals of a daisy and let them drop to the ground. The gentle breeze carries the sweet scent of lavender through
the air, and I try to enjoy my favorite spot in the garden, but my thoughts are too jumbled. Too consumed with Lincoln. I
want him to touch me so badly that my skin burns with longing. Every time he’s near me, my entire being hums with desire.
Yet he remains infuriatingly distant.
He hasn’t come to my room, or invited me into his.
He’s still sweet to me. He’s still not wearing his mask.
And when I smile at him, he smiles back, but the time has gone for smiling to be enough.
How can he not want more of what happened just a few nights ago?
It doesn’t seem like he’s annoyed with me, and I suppose I assumed that even if he were, he’d still want to touch me, if even for his own pleasure and not mine.
Or else what was his stupid no-panty rule for in the first place?
And all his big talk about wanting to bend me over the kitchen table, which, as degrading as he may have intended that to be, actually sounded like it would be a lot of fun, was obviously only talk.
Of course there’s every possibility that what happened between us just wasn’t all that special to him. Given how skilled he
is, he must have had plenty of sexual partners. Perhaps sex is always like that for him. That thought in particular makes
me feel something new . . . I’m jealous! What on earth have I become? I’m ashamed of myself, honestly.
I stare out across the knotted brambles and the beautiful pink and orange colors of the sunset. The sound of his footsteps
makes every nerve in my body come alive with electricity. Maybe this will be where he lifts me into his arms and carries me
to bed. Or maybe he’ll just lie me down right here in the garden and have his way with me. The thought of him taking me here
on the ground, rough and dirty and urgent, does nothing to calm my raging libido. Nothing at all.
He sits down on the chair beside mine and I pretend to be engrossed in the sunset while trying to ignore the heartbeat between
my thighs. “What have you been reading today, angel?”
“Flowers in the Attic,” I tell him. “I finished it already.”
“And what did you think of it?”
“It was . . .” I search for the right word “ . . . different.”
“Would you tell me about it?”
I turn to him and find him staring at me intently. There’s something in his eyes that makes me feel like there’s an ice cube
running down the length of my spine. It’s a need. A hunger. As if he’d like to pin me to the ground and devour me whole.
So, why doesn’t he? “About the book?”
He nods. “I’ve never read it, although I’ve heard it’s a classic.”
I’m suspicious of his motives. Is he teasing me because he does actually know the plot of this story? Is he aware I’m a trembling
mess of desire aching for his touch. I try not to let any of that show on my face. “I don’t want to spoil it, sir. It’s a
very good story.”
He runs the tip of his pointer finger along my forearm and a shiver runs from the top of my head all the way to the tips of my toes. “I’d rather hear what you think of it.”
Angel? Is he calling me that to drive me crazy? Is this some kind of test to see when I’ll break? I squeeze my thighs together
as his touch on my skin ignites a burning in my center. I try not to think of other things he’s done with that particular
finger. Per his instructions, I’m not wearing panties and I definitely don’t want to leave a wet patch on the back of my dress.
“Well, it’s a little complicated.”
“I’m sure you can explain it in a way I’ll understand.” His dark eyes twinkle.
I run my tongue across my lips and eye him, yet he simply waits for me to talk. So I explain the plot, and he listens intently.
“So he raped his sister?” he asks, appearing genuinely curious.
“I don’t think either of them considered it to be rape,” I say. “At least not as far as I understand what rape is anyway.”
My ideas around consent are probably very skewed though, given that I was taught from an early that my consent is not actually
mine to give.
His eyes narrow. “And what is your understanding, Imogen?”
I feel the heat flush across my cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
He frowns. “I’m simply asking you a question. What is your understanding of the term? And why does me asking make you feel
uncomfortable?”
“I feel like you’re making fun of me, sir. You know I don’t have much experience beyond . . .” I tip my chin and hold his
gaze. “Beyond what happened between you and I.”
His frown deepens and he leans back in his chair, his scrutinous gaze making me want to fidget in my seat. “I assure you I
would never make fun of you, angel. And as for what you know of sex, our encounters might be your only lived experience, but
you were taught about sex before you arrived here.”
I nod. I already told him that I was, but I don’t understand why he’s questioning me. “Yes.
He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips, dusting them over my knuckles. The space between my thighs grows wetter.
“I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable, Imogen. I just want to understand you a little better.”
As much as I crave his affection, I’m not sure I want him to delve into the deepest parts of my psyche and discover all the
parts of me. They’re the only parts nobody else can ever touch or take. “But why?”
He grinds his jaw. “Did you like me touching you?”
My cheeks burn hotter. “Yes.”
“Did you enjoy having sex?”
I nod.
“Would you like to do that again?”
“Y-yes, sir.” Right now would be ideal.
“If we’re going to have sex, Imogen, then surely we can discuss it too?”
How about we discuss the reason you made your stupid no-panty rule but won’t touch me! I bite my tongue and don’t say that, because then he’ll know how much I want him. And that gives him all the power, and he
already has enough. “Yes. And I’ve never had an issue discussing sex. But that was before I experienced it. And now, I . . .”
I swallow.
“Now you can’t discuss it without thinking about me fucking you?”
Heat sears between my thighs and I almost choke on my breath before I answer, “Yes.”
“And is that an unpleasant thought?”
I look down at my hands and he cups my chin, gently tipping my head up so I can’t avoid him again. “No, sir. But it does makes
me blush, although not because I’m embarrassed.” Because I want it to happen over and over again.
“Tell me what you learned before you got here.”
I roll back my shoulders and remember that I’m not controlled by my raging libido.
I’m Imogen DeMotta, daughter of Luca and Carmen DeMotta.
I am strong and capable and I am not defined by the man that owns me.
He can push and I will bend, but I will never break.
“I learned the physicality of it. The mechanics. What parts are supposed to go where. Larissa allowed me to watch some videos too, so I could see for myself what would happen.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Videos?”
“I believe it’s called porn.”
“You learned about sex from porn?” He pinches the bridge of his nose.
I don’t understand his reaction. I was told lots of men watch porn and that’s why it was used to teach me what to do. “Is
that bad?”
“Not necessarily, angel. Depending on the porn, I suppose.”
I swallow down my discomfort. “What I didn’t learn about was the emotional aspect of it. Nothing about how it would make me
feel, and certainly nothing about female orgasms.”
He opens his mouth, like he’s about to ask me something else, but Pierre interrupts us. “Sir, that information you’ve been
waiting for has come through.”
Lincoln stands, presses a tender kiss on my forehead and then goes into the house with Pierre. Like always, it’s the tenderness
that unravels me. He cares for me, I know he does. So why won’t he touch me the way I want him to?
Lincoln didn’t come back to the garden after abruptly ending our confusing, and somewhat frustrating conversation.
So I was left alone, once more, feeling wet and achy and needing some kind of relief.
What was the point of him ordering me not to wear any panties if he wasn’t planning on touching me?
He spoke about wanting unrestricted access, which was infuriating at the time, but I’ve done as he asked.
I’ve sat beside him in the shortest of sundresses, like this white one I’m wearing today, and he still hasn’t touched me.
A flicker of something unfamiliar sparks inside me. What if I simply disobeyed him and wore some panties anyway? I’m sure
he wouldn’t even notice, but oh, my, what if he does? Suppressing a smile, I head upstairs to my room to change for bed. A
thrill of excitement skitters through me.
Is this what rebellion feels like? If it is, I think I like it.