What does that even mean? “Do you mean buying me from the auction?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t regret that. It was necessary.”
“How did you even know about that auction? I was led to believe the only men invited to such events were affiliated with the Brotherhood in some way, or at least they hoped to be.”
He snarls. “I have no links with the Brotherhood. I despise them.”
“I guess we have that in common, then.” I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. He seems to be growing more annoyed with my questions, but he was the one who taught me to ask instead of assuming, so I persist. “I still don’t understand what you mean by what you’ve done wrong. What things have you done to me?”
“All of the things, Imogen. Kissing you. Touching you. Fucking you!”
His breathing is fast and hard, his eyes wild with both anger and desire, and I know exactly how he feels. Those same emotions rage through me. Lincoln looks like he might leap over his desk and fuck me right here where I stand, and I would welcome it. This push and pull between us drives me crazy with confusion sometimes, but at the same time I live for it. It makes me feel vibrant and necessary. It makes me feel alive.
“I resent the idea that those things weredone tome, sir, and I was merely an unsuspecting participant.” My tone is filled with defiance, so much of it that even I’m startled.
His jaw works, like he’s visibly struggling to contain his emotions. “Regardless, they won’t happen again.”
His words crack open my heart, leaving me reeling. “What if I want them to happen again?” I hear the desperation in my voice now and I hate it, but I’m powerless to stop it.
“How can either of us truly know that’s true, Imogen. Likeyou said, I own you. There’s a power imbalance here that we can never get past.”
“I’m sorry I said that. I’m sorry...” My lips and my voice tremble.
Instantly, he pushes back his chair and stalks around the desk. Cupping my jaw in his powerful hand, he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over my lip. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Then why does this feel like a punishment, sir?”
His dark eyes narrow. “I can assure you that it’s not. One day, you’ll realize that what I’m doing is the best thing for both of us.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His tongue darts out and he looks like he wants to argue with me. That, or kiss me, but he does neither. Instead he returns to his seat. “See yourself out and close the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”
Anger and injustice burn through my veins. How dare he! I want to cuss at him, call him out for being a hypocritical asshole, but I clamp my lips together instead, and do as he asks. Like the obedient little pet he bought.
I don’t see Lincoln again all day, not even for dinner, when I’m sure I’d get at least a glimpse of him. I thought about going into the library to read, but the door remained closed, and I took that as a sign he didn’t want me in there.
With all of that, I’m lying in bed and it’s after midnight. I heard him coming to bed about a half hour ago, hoping that he would stop by my room, if only just to say good-night. I closed my eyes and imagined him peeking inside and thinking I was sleeping, then silently tiptoeing across the room to kiss my forehead.
Of course he didn’t though and I’m still lying here, wondering how things went so badly so quickly. I go over and over our last conversations in my head. How his entire demeanor changed this morning when I reminded him that he’d bought me.
And before that... before that we were talking about somnophilia, and consent. He asked for mine, and I made an assumption that my consent didn’t matter. But I understand now that it does, to Lincoln at least. Today in his study, when I asked what he’d done wrong, he saidall the things I have done to you.I found it odd at the time but was too caught up in feelings to really unpack that with him.
But itwasan odd choice of words—donetome, notwithme. As though I had no say in the matter? And now I realize how poorly I handled the consent conversation. Since I arrived here, he’s never touched me without my permission. Never taken advantage of me. Never pushed me too far. Not once have I ever felt afraid of him. I’ve been mad as hell at him, like when he cuffed me and left me alone all night, but never afraid. I can’t recall a time in my life before living here when I wasn’t afraid.
I hurt him when I assumed my consent wasn’t even on the table, because if I think about how he’s behaved toward me, of course it is. And I should go tell him that, shouldn’t I? Right now in fact.
I pull back the covers and jump out of bed. Then I pace up and down the room for another twenty minutes, debating the pros and cons of marching into Lincoln’s room and telling him that I made a mistake. Offering him my consent of my own free will and not because of the fucked-up auction that brought us together.
I chew on a hangnail. It was Lincoln who told me to speak up for myself. He rewards me for telling him what I want. So surely, he would want me to do that now? Instead of .pacing up and down my room and driving myself sick with worry. I can dothis. What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll tell me I’m crazy and send me back to my own room again. That will hurt, but it won’t be any worse than this.
With my mind made up, I leave the sanctuary of my bedroom and cross the dim hallway to his. My fingers tremble on the handle, but I summon all my courage and push the door open. He’s asleep in the middle of his bed, the covers pulled up to his waist, the contours of his muscular body highlighted by the slivers of moonlight.
Not a monster at all. He looks more like an angel to me. With the exception of my father, whom I remember so little of, Lincoln is the best man I’ve ever known.
I tiptoe silently across the room, my eyes never leaving his sleeping form. He looks so peaceful. So beautiful. The pale light from the moon shimmers on his olive skin, making him look like he’s been carved from the finest marble. He has his right arm thrown above his head, revealing the full extent of his scars. White mottled flesh covered by dark tattoos.
I’m driven by the same desire I had this morning, to sink myself onto his rigid length while he’s sleeping. To unravel him using only my mouth or my body. To have him powerless beneath my touch. I peel my T-shirt over my head and drop it to the floor. Then I inch the cover down slowly, revealing his nakedness and the tip of his length. He’s already semihard. Is he dreaming about me? Wishing that I’d wake him the way I told him I’d like to?
