Jackass!“Not entirely.”
He wipes his mouth with his napkin and pushes back his chair. “When I slip my hand beneath your dress, or into your leggings, I want nothing between my fingers and your cunt.” He walks around the table until he’s standing directly in front of me, and I’m looking right at his groin area, where I can already see the outline of his semihard dick through his pants. “If I wish to bend you over this table and fuck you, I don’t want panties getting in my way. Does that answer your question?”
My brain misfires. I’m equal parts indignant and turned on.I have so many questions about the practicalities of such an insane request, but I clamp my lips together, the only way to stop myself from asking them. Is this my life now? Do I become his little pet to play with and use when he pleases? Was I completely wrong thinking he was any different to all the men I was warned about? Tears burn behind my eyes and my throat constricts tightly with the effort of keeping them in.
He holds out his hand. “With that in mind, do you have something for me?”
I look up into his face and he’s staring at me, eyes sparkling with hunger. He’s waiting for my panties, isn’t he? Right now at the breakfast table. I take a breath and recite the nursery rhyme again until it calms me.
Then, obediently, I stand and slip my underwear off before pressing them into his hand. He closes his palm over the soft white material and then walks out of the room without another word.
I sit back down at the table and allow myself the luxury of one single solitary tear. I hate Lincoln Knight.
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.
