But it’s the memory of the promise I made to her father that stops me. Imogen DeMotta might be mine, but I can’t fucking have her.
Chapter 13
Lincoln
Living in this house with her is torture—the most exquisite kind of torture that exists. Imogen DeMotta is sweet and vulnerable, yet she is equally dangerous and addictive. I made the costly mistake of touching her skin a few nights ago in the library, and now the desire to do so again grows stronger with each passing moment. And no matter how much I tell myself I should avoid her, I cannot.
I feel her presence whenever she’s anywhere near me, like a strange crackling of electricity directly beneath the epidermis of my skin. I slip on my mask, the one I always keep in my pocket when I’m in the upper parts of the house now. By the time she’s reached Pierre and I, as we sit on either side of my desk in the library, my face is concealed once more.
She glances at the chess set on the desk, and then at the two of us. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and a tiny flicker of emotion crosses her face before she’s back to neutral. Unreadable. I’m not sure what I saw there. It looked like fear, but from what I know of her, she is not easily scared. So, perhaps she’s nervous. “I need some things. I’m sorry I should have asked for them sooner, but I haven’t been able to keep track of the dates since I got here.”
What dates?
Realization dawns on me. Of course, she’s been here for over three weeks already and I can think of one obvious reason she’d need to keep track of the specific days. “Did you get your period?” I ask, saving her the trouble of saying it aloud.
“Yes.”
Pierre takes one of my pawns. “There are some things in your bathroom, mademoiselle.”
“I know. I saw them, but I can’t use tampons. I prefer pads.”
Pierre winces. “I did not think, sir,” he whispers. “I assumed all ladies used tampons,non?”
Imogen’s cheeks are flushing a light shade of pink now, and as adorable and intriguing as it is, I would prefer to spare her any further embarrassment, in front of Pierre at least. “I’ll go into town and get some pads. Is there any particular brand you prefer?”
She shakes her head. “As long as they’re the unscented kind, please.”
I push back my chair. The nearest town is at least a two-hour drive from here. “It will take me some time, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, sir.” She gives me a polite nod and then slips away. Only when she’s out of the room and probably thinks she’s far from my line of sight, do her steps falter and she lets her hand go to her stomach before sucking in a deep breath. If I didn’t pay such close attention to her, I wouldn’t have noticed. I make a mental note to get her some Advil too.
The store clerk eyes me suspiciously, which I suppose I can’t blame her for. I look oddly out of place in this small-town drugstore, dressed all in black and wearing a mask. Although since the whole COVID shit show, the world in general has grown more accepting of face coverings.
“I have emphysema,” I tell her, noting her name badge. “Can’t risk getting sick, Alma.”
Her eyes narrow for an instant, but then she notices the giant pack of pads in my hand and something about that, or perhaps it was me using her name, seems to warm her to me. “You shopping for your lady?” she asks, cracking her gum before flashing me a smile.
“Yeah. These are the good kind, right?” I hold up the packet. I opted for the most expensive ones in the hopes that equates to quality. While I have zero qualms about purchasing sanitary products, this is the first time I’ve ever actually done so and I have no idea what I’m doing. There are also a confusing amount of products on offer.
She nods.
“And they’re not scented?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t sell those fancy scented ones around here. I mean who wants their hoo-ha smelling like a cheap can of air freshener.”
I place the packets on the counter. “Can I get some Advil too?”
The cashier makes a sad face now. “Oh, does she have cramps? Poor honey. They’re the worst.” She grabs a pack of Advil from behind the counter. “That’s the best thing about reaching a certain age, you know?” She winks at me like she’s letting me in on a secret. “I hope she has lots of chocolate on hand too.” After that moment of unexpected kindness, she starts ringing up the items on the old-fashioned register.
Chocolate, why the fuck would she need chocolate?My experience of women is generally limited to one night, and since I’m not averse to period sex, I’ve found an orgasm is usually a decent cure for cramps, at least that’s what I’ve been reliably informed.
And now I’m getting a very inappropriate hard-on thinking about how orgasms would be a much more fun way of helping Imogen with hers. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I grab a pack of Milky Ways and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from the stand near the counter and add them to my order.
“Mine used to be every four weeks like clockwork until I had my first baby, and then...” Alma goes on to tell me about her first pregnancy and the incredibly traumatic birth, and I half listen while I grab another two packs of pads. Might as well stock up a little. I grab another few packs of chocolate too. “Do you have any diaries? Or calendars?”
“Not much call for them in May honey,” she says. “But you know we might have a calendar or two left over from January. Let me go check.”
