“Thank you, sir.”
He pulls me to straddle him again, sliding his arms around my waist. “I wish I didn’t have to leave you.”
“I wish that too, sir.”
He dusts his lips over mine. “I’ll be back Sunday evening.”
That’s four nights without him. I let my mask slip for a moment, let him see the sadness in my eyes before I pull it back up, back to where it’s comfortable. I was taught that emotions are weakness, but he’s made me realize that they’re not. They’re beautiful and messy and wondrous and life-affirming. But old habits die hard.
Chapter 41
Imogen
My fingers tremble as I spread my legs wider, imagining Lincoln were here with his strong hands on my thighs, pushing them apart. The ache between them has grown impossible to ignore. Lincoln has unleashed a monster in me. If I close my eyes, I can hear the feral-sounding growl he makes when he does this, which is usually closely followed by him tasting me.
There’s very little in this world that feels better than Lincoln’s mouth on my pussy.
I whine, rubbing my fingertips over my sensitive clit and wishing he were here with me instead. My fingers never feel as good as his. There’s no replacement for the scratch of his beard on my skin, of the way his thick length fills me so completely. And this is only my second night without him.
Heat blooms deep in my core. I fumble around on the bedclothes in the dark for my gift and quickly find the smallest plug. I discard it for later, and carry on the search until my fingers grasp the base of the glass dildo. Vivid images of Lincoln using it on me yesterday before he left, and the way he forced me to watch what he was doing to me, already have wetness seeping between my thighs. I notch the head of the dildo at my entrance, guided by instinct rather than any expertise, andincrease the pressure on my clit, teasing around the edges the way Lincoln does.
My legs tremble, my body craving some kind of release. But I wait before pushing the toy inside myself, denying myself in the same way he does. Dipping it an inch before pulling it out again, imagining that it’s him taunting me. I feel his breath on my skin, his hands, the silky strands of his hair tickling my inner thighs.
“Linc!” I whine his name into the darkness and then sink the dildo as deep as it will go. Pleasure floods my core. Wet heat slicks over the glass toy. I slide it in and out, and the loud slurping sounds fill the quiet room. My breathing grows heavy. My fingers cramp but I push through, chasing the sweet oblivion of release. And when it comes, it’s quiet and devastating and wonderful. I whisper his name into the night, hoping that somehow he might hear me and wondering if wherever he is, he’s thinking about me too.
Chapter 42
Lincoln
Edgar hands me a small slip of paper, an address in his familiar handwriting. “This is his home, right?”
He nods.
“Where his fucking kids live?”
Another nod.
“Sick fuck.”
Edgar snorts, like we didn’t know that already.
I glance at the paper again, committing it to memory before handing it back to him. Adrian Farnham. Hedge fund manager, gun lobbyist and father-in-law to the governor of Ohio. Rich enough to have security, but not enough to have the kind that can stop people like me.
“How many guards does he have?”
Edgar holds up one finger. “One at the gate.”
“Cameras?”
He nods. “I’ll jam the feed and disable the alarm. Just tell me when.”
“Three a.m.,” I tell him. Three to four is the hour when people usually are in their deepest sleep. Adrian is a fifty-three-year-old man, and his two youngest daughters are nine and twelve, so no teething babies or night-owl teenagers to consider. He has no live-in help. His wife died a year ago, and instead of getting himself a new one, he bought himself his very own slave at an auction. I’d love to slit his throat, but that would definitely draw a whole lot of attention, so for now, he gets to live. At least if everything goes to plan. Which is to get in, get the girl, and then get out again without anyone noticing—a far cry from my last rescue.
Edgar nods his agreement, then gives me a pat on the shoulder, as much affection as I imagine him showing for anyone. “Good luck.”
The guard on the gate is staring at the camera screens, which Edgar is about to hack into so he won’t see me climbing over the back wall. I land on the ground with a soft thud and skirt the edge of the property to avoid triggering any security lights. I studied the floor plan earlier, and it’s a vast house, with east and west wings. I have no idea where Lot23 is being kept, but I suspect the basement or somewhere as far away from the kids’ bedrooms as possible, which would mean somewhere in the west wing of the house.
When I get to the back door, I’m relieved when no alarms go off. Not that Edgar has ever let me down before, but it’s always a point where things could go wrong. I pick the lock and get inside, making my way along the downstairs hallway and looking for the door to the basement, until I see the door that’s a little different from the rest. Its handle is less worn than the others, and more alarmingly, there’s a lock. I bet he tells his kids it’s to keep them out, but my guess would be it’s more likely intended to keep someone in.
