Pierre must have told Lincoln about my plans for the garden,and my love of purple. And he must have got these for me during his last trip. Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, well in my eyes. He might explain the book away as a coincidence, even if the inscription was not, but this... this was thoughtful and deliberate. It makes my heart ache with happiness and sadness at the same time. If he can do this, if he can be this sweet and kind, how can he be so cold and detached too? How can he push me away when I show him the most vulnerable parts of myself?
“Do you like your gift,monchou?” Pierre snaps me from my thoughts of Lincoln.
“I love it, Pierre.”
“It is for the garden,non?”
“Yes. Some gloves and pruning shears.”
He smiles. “Then you will be able to get to work on your grand plan.”
“You told him?”
“Oui,monchou.He likes to know how you are settling in and how you pass the time while he is away.”
Another thing that makes sense, but also doesn’t. For some unfathomable reason, Lincoln seems to care for me, or at least about my well-being. The way he tended to my wound last night was proof enough of that. Absentmindedly, I brush the pad of my thumb over the plaster on my pointer finger. Yet he ran away the moment there was any kind of actual connection between us.
“Your toast is ready, mademoiselle. Come eat if you are to be toiling in this garden all day.”
I follow Pierre back into the house, with my new gifts clutched to my chest. A reminder of the enigma that is Lincoln Knight.
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 ifthisis 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 rippedfrom 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!
