Chapter 37
Lincoln
She apologized. After I fucked her with no remorse and then left her alone in handcuffs, she apologized to me. I may have fucked this test of mine up. Except, she’s there. Hiding beneath the veneer of obedience is the woman I’m searching for. The one full of fire and determination. The
one desperate to tell me to go fuck myself.
Just a little more prodding and she’ll come out to play.
It would be so easy to simply tell Imogen all of the things I’d like her to be and do. I could tell her that I’d like her
to stop calling me sir because she thinks she has to, or that I don’t want her to agree with everything I say. I don’t want
her to follow all my rules, and not only because I enjoy punishing her for any infractions far too much. I long for her disobedience.
For her fire. And it pains me to see her so confused while she tries to figure out what I want from her, when all I want is
whoever she truly is.
But I’m not sure she knows who that person is, and if I tell her who I think she is, then I risk her becoming the person I
want her to be, and not her true self at all.
Because as much as I think I see glimpses of the real Imogen, the one I love to touch and kiss and defile, perhaps that’s simply another construction and not her at all.
And if don’t have the real her, then this is all meaningless.
I cannot have a relationship with someone who believes she’s my property and acts accordingly.
I want a partner who has agency, one who isn’t afraid to tell me no.
Because if I don’t have that, then I will never truly have her love or her respect.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
Her face is unreadable once more and her armor is back in place, but she’s fighting to keep it intact. The cracks are forming,
spiderwebs appearing across her perfectly constructed veneer. “Should there be, sir?”
“You seem like you have something else you’d like to say to me. I’ll remind you that you can speak freely in this house, Imogen.
You’re free to be yourself.”
“Free to touch myself too, sir? Isn’t that what you said?” The fury in her is desperate to spill out. But the way she maintains
that calm steady tone to her voice is incredible. She’s incredible.
I suppress a smile. “And you are, angel. But when you’re being punished, I’m going to do everything in my power to see that
punishment through. I didn’t say you couldn’t get yourself off. I simply made it more difficult for you to do so.”
She elevates her chin ever so slightly but she doesn’t press the point further. Instead, she raises another. “I don’t like
being made to walk around the house naked. It’s degrading,” she says, color saturating her cheeks.
I lean back in my chair, studying her face intently. Does she actually feel degraded or is she playing me? She’s a mistress
of manipulation. Like me, a product of her environment—raised to survive using whatever means at her disposal. While I don’t
hold that against her, it does make me much more cautious of her motives. There’s the faintest tremble to her bottom lip before
she schools her expression once more. She is either the most incredible actress I have ever encountered or she’s telling me
the truth.
“Why is it degrading?”
Her nostrils flare, but the rest of her body language remains unbothered—passive. “Why is it degrading to be forced to walk
around this house naked?” There’s only a hint of accusation in her tone. What comes out of her mouth is always more difficult
for her to control than her body.
I sit forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. I’m close enough now to touch her, but she doesn’t show any outward signs
of discomfort. The only movement is the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the occasional flutter of her eyelashes against
her cheeks.
“Yes, why? There’s only Pierre and I here. As you are well aware, he cannot see you, clothed or otherwise, and I . . .” I
reach out and slide the palm of my hand over her outer thigh. Her skin is cream silk, soft and yielding. So easily marked.
“I have already committed every inch of your body to memory.”
Her breath hitches almost imperceptibly. “Regardless, it’s humiliating.” Her dark green eyes hold mine captive.
If she is indeed humiliated, then it’s not something I seek to prolong any further. I stand abruptly, and still she doesn’t
flinch. Still so well-behaved. Her pupils blow wider, and again I cannot tell whether it’s from fear or desire. Her years
of conditioning make it hard for even me to read her. In that way, we’re perfectly matched.
I unbutton my shirt and her eyes wander, following the path of my fingers as I unhook each button. I slide it off and then
slip it over her arms, the soft cotton gliding across her skin like silk over marble.
She stares into my eyes while I fasten the buttons and I find I’m unable to look away.
I am captivated by her. Innocence and seduction.
Strength and vulnerability. She’s had to harden her heart to the cruel world she was raised in, but yet her capacity for compassion is unmatched.
Despite how much I shouldn’t want her, and how utterly wrong this is, I cannot stop whatever is unfolding between us.
Purposely, I leave the top few buttons open, enough to leave the valley between her breasts exposed. When I’m done, I slide
my hands over her arms, kneading the muscles likely stiff and sore after last night, and feeling the warmth of her skin blooming
beneath my hands.
“Thank you,” she says, her breath dusting over my skin. The rosy-pink hue of her cheeks deepens to a cherry red—she couldn’t
control that if she tried. Her blushes are always real, even if nothing else is.
“Now that you have some clothes, will you join me for some breakfast?”
The faintest smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, sir.”
“What would you like to eat?” I ask her when we get to the kitchen.
She glances around. “Where is Pierre?”
“He’s taken the day off.”
“I didn’t realize he took time off.”
I know he’s mentioned his family to her during one of their movie evenings, so I’m not breaking any confidence when I reveal
where he is. “Today is the anniversary of his wife’s and daughter’s deaths and he always spends it alone, locked in his room
with a bottle of French cognac.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, that must be so hard for him.”
I adore her compassion for others, and also that she doesn’t assume she can help him or offer to go check on him. Pierre has
dealt with his grief the same way on every anniversary since their death, and if he ever has the desire to change that, he
knows I’m always here for him. I never travel on this day for that very reason. And I’m sure he knows that Imogen would be
there for him too.
I wipe a stray tear from her cheek. “Breakfast?”
“Um.” She presses her lips together. If she says oatmeal, I’ll put the cuffs on her again and force feed her some pancakes and bacon. “How about waffles? I know how to make them if you don’t. Pierre showed me.”
Waffles? Not oatmeal. There’s my good girl. Perhaps my test helped more than I realize. I would wrap her in my arms and kiss her right now, but that would likely lead
to something other than breakfast. “I know how to make them. Can you brew some fresh coffee?”
“Uh-huh.” She heads to the cupboard and hums to herself while she makes coffee and I gather up the ingredients for waffles.
“You like waffles too?” she asks.
“Not especially, but I eat them on occasion,” I tell her.
“Oh.” When I glance over at her, she’s frowning into the coffeepot.
“Why does that surprise you?”
“It’s just . . .” She purses her lips, and just like that she’s clamming up again.
I suppress a sigh and I walk over to her, pulling her into my arms. I grip her chin and tilt her head up. “You don’t have
to think about your answer, Imogen. I want to hear the truth. Always.”
“I don’t lie,” she whispers.
“Okay. But not lying is different from being truthful. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I guess so.”
“So why are you surprised that I don’t love waffles?”
“You just looked, I don’t know, a little happy when I suggested them. I assumed you really liked them, is all.”
Maybe I did let a little of my relief about the oatmeal slip out and onto my face. “I was happy with your choice, but not
because I love waffles, because you hate oatmeal.”
“I don’t hate it,” she protests. “It’s edible.”
“Only edible? So why do you eat it?”
“It’s healthy and nutritious,” she repeats that mantra that someone, probably Larissa, drilled into her head.
“So is fruit and yogurt, eggs, whole wheat toast. Even waffles.”
She blinks at me. “I didn’t realize my eating oatmeal was a big deal to you.”
I shake my head. “It’s not the oatmeal. It’s that you do what is expected of you, Imogen, even when you don’t want to. All
the damn time.”
“You don’t think I should do what’s expected of me?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. How did waffles and oatmeal get this complicated? “Sometimes it’s okay to say no. To push back
when you don’t like doing something. To tell someone to go fuck themselves if they make an absurd rule that makes you feel
uncomfortable.”
She bites down on her bottom lip, her green eyes widening as she stares up at me. She visibly steels herself before speaking.
“I don’t like not wearing panties. I like panties.”
Despite not wanting to show her my reaction, I can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across my face. “Then, you’re
free to wear panties whenever you like.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Her brows pinch in a frown as she fails to hide her reaction, another layer of her armor slipping away. “So the no-panty thing
was some kind of test?”
“Not exactly a test. An exercise designed to encourage you to speak up for yourself.”
Her frown intensifies, and she appears deep in thought now. “But you punished me.”
“Well, that was just for fun.” I slide my arms around her waist, holding her close. “I’ll still make you some rules to break,
baby. I’ll push you, especially when it comes to your body, and I’ll enjoy punishing you, but I’ll never hurt you.”
A rough sigh escapes her as she takes a moment to consider what I just said. “I think I understand. But, if I can wear panties, what about your access, sir?”
“Do you really think a pair of panties will stop me?”
She wraps her arms around my neck and presses her beautiful tits against my bare chest. “No,” she purrs. Her breath is warm
on my face, her scent addictive and intoxicating. I fucked her three times last night and I still want her again.
“I’ll make us waffles and then I’ll reward you for telling me the truth about what you want. How does that sound?”
Her breath catches in her throat. Still so curious and naive, and that’s something I hope she never loses. “Wh-what’s my reward,
sir?”
I nuzzle her neck, cock already aching for her. “As many orgasms as you can handle, angel.”