The Perfect Gift

I can’t form words. I can only pant shamelessly as Lincoln presses a button on the vibrator, increasing the noise. Coming so close, so close we’re only a breath away from our first touch, Lincoln slides the vibrator between my legs, wedging the quivering ridge between my thighs. “Ride it. Look at me while you slide your hot, little pussy up and down, up and down. But if you let it inside you, I’ll take it away. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I sob. “Yes.”

I’m a slave to sensation, rubbing my slippery flesh on the vibrator. In my periphery, I can see myself rubbing my sex on the arm of the couch, faster, faster, my thighs hugging it on either side. It’s indecent. It has to be. But I can’t do anything but buck my hips and absorb the intense tremors from the wand while Lincoln stares right into my soul, hoarse sounds falling from his mouth.

“It feels s-so good when I press down here,” I say, leaning forward and holding, my teeth chattering. “Wh-why, Lincoln?”

“That’s your clit, Nova. Grind into it.” I gasp, the room spinning around me. “Those eyes are losing focus, little girl. You’re almost there. Show it to me—”

“Lincoln.”

My scream of his name burns up my throat. There’s a mighty squeeze inside me, contracting, relenting, contracting—and then it bursts, drowning my senses in a pleasure so intense, I can’t believe it has existed all this time. Tears stream down my cheeks, whimpers catching in my throat as my sex pulses, pulses, constricts, shooting bliss down to my toes.

“Wow,” I breathe, a drowsy smile spreading on my face, just for Lincoln.

The last thing I remember before falling sideways onto the couch in a state of utter euphoria—and passing clean out—is Lincoln watching my smile bloom in awe.

Right before I drift off, I remember my job here is to get pregnant.

With Lincoln’s issues touching people, that definitely won’t happen, but showing him my island and teaching him how to relax will be even better.

And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

4

Lincoln

When I wake up the next morning, I’m positive there’s been a mistake.

My ruthless business practices have surely earned me a place in hell, but I’ve been sent to heaven instead. There’s no other explanation for the angel beaming down at me, sunlight refracted around her in rainbow beams.

Nova stands on my bed in nothing but a flimsy white bikini top and a scarf wrapped around her hips, whirling in merry circles, her blonde hair floating around her in a cloud.

I’m instantly hard as a rock.

“I’m taking you on an adventure, Lincoln.”

Last night comes back to me in vivid images. Nova on the verge of tears because no one hugs her anymore, forcing me to acknowledge my heart isn’t dead after all. How could it be when her confession made it weigh a thousand pounds?

All the money in the world and I couldn’t give her that.

It shouldn’t bother me so much that I can’t hug this fairy, make her feel safe and wanted. The fact that it bothers me to the extreme is alarming, to say the least. Since when do I give a shit about anyone’s wants or needs? I see the world in black and white. Good investments and bad. There is no room for this beautiful ray of sunshine giggling and dancing around on my bed, joyful simply to be awake.

Another moving image from last night consumes my mind, making precome leak out onto my thigh and I stifle a groan. Nova fucking the arm of the couch, her sweet ass cheeks flexing, hips writhing, back arched, tits bouncing, head thrown back. There are men in my position who pay millions of dollars seeking sexual thrills like the one she offered last night, but those men are never fulfilled. Never satisfied.

Nova is the epitome of what those men hunt for, desperate for fulfilment. Some proof that pure innocence still exists in this world. I’ve got her here, all to myself.

And I’m too fucking damaged to possess her the way she deserves.

The way any man would do in my position.

My fist curls in the bedclothes, twisting with enough force to rip the seams. The idea of another man even looking at Nova enrages me. What sense does that make when I know she can’t be mine? Not completely.

I don’t have time for this.

I am not built for this.

Romance and me? I scoff out loud. What a ridiculous notion.

“I have work to do, Nova,” I growl, climbing out of bed and performing my usual routine of putting on my watch, making sure it matches to the second with my phone. There are seventy-six emails, all demanding my attention and I plan to give it to them. Not her.

So why can’t I bring myself to press the button to open my messages?