Chapter 2

2

Lincoln

I’m extremely annoyed.

I have no time for an island vacation.

There is work to do back in New York. There is always work. Do my business partners honestly expect me to lounge around and drink mojitos for a week when I could spend that time conquering the world?

The limousine driver materializes outside my door and opens it, stepping back, chest puffed up. Careful to avoid brushing against the man, I slide a folded hundred-dollar bill into his hand. “Thank you, sir,” he says, bounding off to retrieve my single piece of luggage from the trunk. Only slightly curious about my accommodations, I turn to survey the property I was advised to buy for my brief time on this godforsaken island.

My personal real estate agent handled the sale, but if I recall his excited chatter over the phone, the property includes fourteen bedrooms, thirteen full baths, a movie theater, tennis courts, indoor pool, an outdoor pool and a helipad.

Not bad, I suppose.

When I’m done with this hellish week in paradise, I’ll offer it to my overseas investors as a vacation getaway or simply sell it. Doesn’t matter to me either way.

Nothing matters to you but money.

Was it always like that?

I ignore the sharp jab in my throat and stride toward the house, intending to unpack my laptop as soon as I’m inside. During the flight, I was emailed about an opportunity to invest in a new water purification technology out of Germany and the deal should be done by now. Already I’m behind and I’ve only been on “vacation” for less than five minutes.

Throwing open the door of the house, a series of tasteful lighting warms to a glow, an ocean breeze rifling from the other side of the expansive mansion space to ruffle my hair. A sunset fills every window, giving the air a pinkish-orange tinge. Ahead in the high-ceilinged living room, long white curtains waft up and down, a fire crackles in the marble fireplace.

Just like my penthouse back in Manhattan, it’s quiet.

Empty.

Exactly how I like it.

Again, there is a twitch of discomfort in my throat, but I clear it and hang up my overcoat on the convenient rack. Behind me, the limousine driver sets down my suitcase and closes the door without a sound. When I would have kept walking, I’m brought up short by a note on the entry table. My name is written in script on the front, so I pick it up and read the contents, my irritation already flaming higher when I see it’s from my business partners.

Last week, they came into my office—mid-conference call with Japan—and demanded I take some time off. You’re working too hard. You’re making us look bad, they said.

I let them think their cajoling is what convinced me.

I might have even convinced myself.

But the truth is, my birthday was last week. I’m thirty-four.

The same age at which my father died.

Just like him, I have only my money to keep me warm.

But unlike him, I am not neglecting a family.

My professional drive harms no one. That is the difference between me and him.

So why is it getting harder and harder to tell us apart?

Shaking off my troubling thoughts, I scan the contents of the note.

Dear Linc,

It only took ten years, but we finally got you to take a vacation.

After all the money you’ve made us, we wanted to make it a memorable one.

What do you buy for the man who has everything?

After a lot of thought, we think we found the perfect gift.

She’s legal, clean, on the pill—and she’s yours for the week.

Enjoy.

“What the fuck?”I mutter, positive they’re joking.

My business partners might be morally corrupt bastards—it’s what makes them such good hedge fund operators—but they know I don’t participate in their kind of extracurricular activities. I keep to myself. Women are nothing but needy distractions and I resent distractions. They’ve known this about me for years. There is no way they would procure me a woman as a gift. Unless they think a vacation will loosen me up into behaving differently. Wanting things I don’t normally want. If so, they’re dead wrong.

A muffled knock comes from the kitchen followed by some indiscernible muttering.

Feminine muttering.

Jesus Christ, they really did purchase me a woman.

Now I have to waste precious minutes getting rid of her.

I toss away the note and drag a hand down my face, moving briskly in the direction of the kitchen. I open the door, the command to please leave already poised on the tip of my tongue—

There’s a little blonde fairy, half turned away, talking to herself.

Hand gestures and all.

She’s tied in a big pink bow that covers her small breasts—and she’s wearing nothing else but a pink thong and high heels. I’m shocked as hell when my cock fills with blood and swells against the front of my slacks. I have no choice but to reach down and adjust the growing length. It must be her ass. It’s almost indescribably hot. I’ve never seen a bottom quite so… disrespectful. Her cheeks are so high and tight, they’re talking back to me. Even sassing me.

Have you lost your mind?

“Ta-da!” she half-whispers to herself, throwing her arms out wide and almost knocking herself over. “I’m your present and oh boy, I’m so good at sex. Oooh yeah. You better watch out.” She slaps her hands over her eyes. “Oh goodness. You sound ridiculous.”

Is this girl…rehearsing what she’s going to say to me?

I realize my mouth is arranging itself in a smile and quickly stamp it out.

This has already taken up too much of my time.

Even if I find her extremely sexy, I know damn well I won’t sleep with her.

Sex requires human touch. Human touch burns me like fire and I have no desire to fix myself. For a while in my early twenties, I tried to undo the belief that pleasure equaled weakness, but it didn’t work and I haven’t had the desire to try again in over a decade. Forgoing human touch keeps me alone and alone is where I love to be.

Surprised by my hesitation to get rid of the girl, I force myself to rap a fist on the door.

The fairy whirls around to face me with a gasp—and falls squarely on her tight butt.

My life flashes in front of my eyes in a frenetic slide show. When it stops, there is nothing but the fairy. My heart pounds like a fist on a drum. And I can’t do anything but stare.

Her face.

It’s innocence.

It’s angelic purity and yet my cock hardens further, eager to defile.

Blonde hair falls around in her comically stunned face, wide green eyes blinking up at me, her puffy mouth parted in surprise. My body aches for release simply by looking at her from the neck up, but below that…fucking Christ. Her ass was only the beginning. The outlines of her stiff nipples are visible through the soft material of the pink bow. With her leaning back on her hands, knees raised, I can see the mound of her pussy and I stifle the urge to get on top of her and hump that little thing until my balls are empty.

“A-are you Mister Lincoln?”

My loins twist like a fucking pretzel at the full, husky sound of her voice saying my name. “Lincoln is my first name,” I rasp.

“Oh. Umm…”

She turns over and awkwardly gets to her feet, the high heels clearly two sizes too big. Despite her whispered claims to be good at sex, I’ve never been more convinced in my life that someone is a virgin. That only makes me burn hotter, makes my dick harder, even though I know unwrapping this gift is impossible. I hate to be touched.

Finally, the fairy gets her balance and flings out her hands. “Ta-da! I’m your—”

“I heard.”

“Oh.” Her face goes pink, arms drifting down to her sides. “Did I mess up already?”

Why is my heart flopping around like a fish? “No. No, you did fine, but…” I clear my throat hard and step aside. “You may…”

I can’t bring myself to say “leave.”

Just say it.

“You want me to go to the bedroom, right?” There is a brave set to her shoulders as she sails past me. “I hope you don’t mind, I already had a tiny peek at the master. Everyone is so jealous that I get to see the inside of this wonderful place. It has been towering over the beach for so long and no one has ever been invited.”

I follow her out of the kitchen and toward a staircase. “Who is everyone?”

She stops and turns with her hand on the rail. “Sorry?”

There is a rather obnoxious need to know who this girl associates with, how often and where. “You said ‘everyone is jealous.’ Who is ‘everyone’?”

“Oh!” She counts off on her fingers. “My sisters, some of our regular customers, Marcel the cook—”

“You work in a restaurant.”

“Yes.” She starts up the stairs, her peachy little ass on display, the pink strip of her thong separating cheeks that lift, fall, lift, making the tie around my neck feel like it’s strangling me. “That’s where your friends found me.”

It hits me hard how fucking debased this situation is. My partners went into this girl’s place of work and paid her to service me for a week, even though she’s young as hell and clearly innocent. I’m not a man who does things like this. I’m not turned on by breaking the rules or flexing my power. This is wrong and yet, I follow her up the stairs as if in a trance.

The fairy stops at the top step and flits to the window overlooking the ocean, sighing with hearts in her eyes. “Isn’t my island beautiful?”

“Yes,” I say, even though I can’t tear my eyes off her long enough to look. “What is your name, girl?”

A dimple pops in her cheek. “Nova.”

Those two syllables whisper through me like a cool breeze. “Are you here of your own free will, Nova?”

Am I looking too closely or does a hint of the sparkle leave her eyes? “Yes.” She ducks her head and glides past me, the pink ribbon fluttering out behind her, stopping when she reaches a doorway, her supple, young body outlined in gentle light. She pinches one end of the pink ribbon between her fingers and draws it slowly through its loop, the sound of rasping silk making my cock throb uncontrollably. Finally, the ribbon flutters to the floor, baring her hot, perky little tits and I have to remind myself to breathe. “I’m here of my own free will, Lincoln But I’m really here to bend to your will. Aren’t I?” she says huskily, trailing a finger down the doorjamb. “Wonder how you’ll do it?”