Abigail heard the screech of Preston’s chair and at a moment’s notice, he sat by her side. He lassoed the leash around his wrist and tugged to have her face him. A string of Greek slipped from his lips as he whispered in her ear.
“Wh—What did you say?” Abigail stuttered as electric chills traveled down her spine.
“My angel.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t stress about tomorrow. Everything will be fine, I promise.” He pressed a kiss on her temple. “I love you, Abigail.”
As she leaned into Preston’s touch, Abigail realized it wasn’t the welcoming people of Athens or the panoramic sceneries, nor was it the rich history of Greece that had amazed her throughout this trip. It was, without a doubt, her husband who’d taken her breath away.
Sometimes literally.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mixing foundation and concealer wasn’t an easy task and should be considered an Olympic sport. Then again, the most Abigail would earn would be a bronze medal. She never took this long with makeup, usually only wearing mascara and a gloss on the lips. Since the day Master Trice compared her to a “sad fucking clown” she had even forgone mascara altogether.
Not today, though.
Today Abigail was meeting Yiayia and she didn’t want her asking why her new granddaughter was covered in colorful bruises from head to toe or why she wore a collar meant for an animal around her neck.
That was if she considered Abigail a part of her family.
From what Preston had told her about his pious grandmother, Yiayia was very old-fashioned, said no to anything having to do with technology, and owned a rotary phone. Although Yiayia was religious, she believed a good spanking was needed to show the consequences of one’s foul actions. That’s how the late Mr. Trice was raised. Preston and Beth got their fair share of spankings whenever they visited during the summer.
Abigail hoped Yiayia wouldn’t ask much about her family or wedding because she wouldn’t be able to fib. What would Yiayia say if she found out her grandson hadn’t gotten married in a Greek Orthodox Church? What would she say if she found out they hadn’t gotten married in any church? Or that just the thought of kids repulsed her?
In her early twenties, Abigail learned to shout a “fuck you” to anyone who called her a freak, crazy, or mentally ill for her preferences. But for some reason, she wanted Yiayia to like her. No, not just like her. Abigail wanted Yiayia to embrace her into the family with open arms and an even wider smile.
It was their last night in Athens and she wanted tonight to be a memorable night for Preston. Yiayia was the closest family he had of his dad and because Athens carried so many heartbreaking memories, Abigail wanted tonight to be the first memory to come to mind whenever he thought of the city.
Although it had taken her twenty minutes to get the shade of her complexion just right, it’d be worth it.
Abigail was pleased with the modest woman who stood before her. Her chocolate strands were scooped close to her nape in a braided bun. Her cheeks were tinted bronze with the natural hue of the Greek sun and her lips were colored a pastel pink. Her peach dress flowed down to her ankles and wrapped at her elbows. She gave herself one last look before going to the living room in search of her husband.
Preston stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out into the twinkling city. He looked like a model from a magazine posing for a casual/contemporary ad. He wore a black shirt and an equally dark bomber jacket. His dark jeans hugged his legs, accentuating and defining every last muscle.
Abigail went to him. Her body was metal and his presence magnetic.
She planted a kiss on the side of his neck, loving how his skin exploded into miniature bumps under her lips. In the reflection of the window, she saw his eyes close as he inhaled a breath and twisted his neck, allowing her to kiss him deeper, more, more.
She barely ever got a chance to kiss him and hold him and touch him and fuck him. It was always Master Trice in control. Master Trice doing this to whore, pushing her this way and that way, telling her this and that, hitting her here and there.
Abigail loved every minute Master Trice spent with whore, but she cherished the seconds Preston and Abigail built together.
“Are you ready?” she whispered in his ear.
“Yes, the car’s outside. He’s been waiting for fifteen minutes,” Preston said, annoyance rested at the tip of his tongue. His brown eyes swept over her body warily, inspecting her from head to toe.
Abigail blushed. “Sorry about that, I was—”
He shut her words with a tilt of her chin. Pressing his thumbs along her collarbone and cricoid, he began to erase the work she’d spent almost half an hour creating. “Where are they?”
Did he expect her to meet his grandmother with thumbprint bruises wrapped around her neck like an accessorized choker?
Abigail shook her head and stepped back before he undid the entire coverup. She swallowed the knot building in her throat as she attempted to speak, “I covered them. I obviously can’t wear them to your grandma’s house. You do understand that, right?”
He seemed taken aback by her words almost as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. His nose scrunched up and his mouth stood agape for a second before he shook his head of his thoughts.
“Let’s just go,” Preston said, walking to the door and leaving her alone.
Abigail took a breath and exhaled it. He was going to be in a foul mood tonight. Not wanting to be the source of Preston’s anger, but knowing he would punish her regardless, she followed quickly behind him into the backseat of the car. Throughout the drive, his back was pressed firmly against the leather seat and his hands grasped his knees.
Suffice it was to say, they were both nervous about tonight.
Where Preston kept his nerves riled up inside until they ate at him with vicious migraines, Abigail exhaled yet another breath. She looked out the window at the beautiful scenery that attempted to simmer her nerves.
Athens at night was almost as beautiful as it was in the morning. It was hard to say which astonished her most—New York nightlife or Athens. Like Manhattan, Athens was a city under flashing lights. In New York, she heard the blasting honks of cab drivers and the appalling curses of pedestrians. Here she heard the background noise of upbeat Greek music that conducted her feet to move to the contagious rhythm.
Sensing Preston’s jittery knee, she turned her attention from this magical place to her magician of a husband who with a simple look could make her orgasm and turn her body meek with fear.
Sweat had already collected above his dark brows. And she could see the pulse of his heart thudding under his temple. Darn migraines.
Abigail shifted her eyes to the driver. Making sure the man’s attention was on the road, she slipped off the arms of her dress. She whispered Preston’s name and brought his fingers under her breast so that he could feel the tattoo he’d made with his own hands.
Preston visibly relaxed as his fingers traced his initials and fondled her breast. The warm breath that parted his lips seeped into her bones like lukewarm milk. She placed her hand behind his neck and pulled at the ends of his hair.
“Just because I covered them up does not mean I’m trying to erase the things you’ve done to me.” She felt like she’d had this conversation before. Nevertheless, she needed to reassure him. “I’m not trying to hide the fact that I belong to you and only you.”
“I know,” he said as low as she had spoken. “I overreacted and I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s okay.” She squeezed his hand and slipped on her dress. “How about a quick Greek lesson? Teach me something to say to Yiayia?”
Preston smiled, showing perfect white teeth. He scooted her legs and placed them on top of his thighs. His fingers trailed a blazing fire on her shins. Neither one was wearing underwear. It’d be so easy to straddle his lap and fuck him.
“Repeat after me…” he muttered a Greek phrase, eliciting a cackle from the driver.
“
This shouldn’t be a joke to you.”
A string of Greek separated his lips once again.
Abigail crossed her arms, raising her chin defiantly. “What was that?”
“I said, be glad you’re not wearing your collar. That smart mouth of yours is bound to get you in trouble and when it does, I’ll take great pleasure in pulling out your teeth.”
“That’s too sadistic even for you,” she said with a laugh that shook her body.
Preston gripped her by both cheeks, opening her mandible with his thumb and index finger. With furious fingers, he pulled at her top tooth. Abigail felt it wiggle under his hand.
“Okay,” she muffled, exhausted by the threat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t ever taunt me, Abigail. You have no idea what I’m capable of.” He pulled at her tooth once again.
The driver informed from the front seat they were at Yiayia’s house. And that was Abigail’s saving grace.
Preston let go of her jaw and shrugged both shoulders back. He brushed invisible lint off his jacket and turned to Abigail with a smile that resembled the crescent moon outside. It was a smile that chilled her blood. He could be so callous and so sweet within a tick of a second.
“Are you ready to meet my crazy Greek family?” he asked as if the last minute hadn’t just happened.
Abigail worked her jaw before she spoke.
“Greek family?” she asked. “I thought we were only meeting Yiayia.”
“We are but Yiayia has other kids. My dad’s sisters and brothers. They’re here, too, and my cousins.”
“Prest…” She could already feel her anxiety seeping through her nerves.
“Please, stop getting uncomfortable, Abigail. I can’t handle that tonight, too.” With those words, he opened the car door and stepped out.
He couldn’t handle what? What was it that he couldn’t handle? Her nerves? Her discomfort? The fact he’d grow an erection throughout the entire night? The more she thought about getting “uncomfortable” and he not being able to “handle it”, the angrier she became.
With the sole of her heel, she pushed open the passenger door and slipped outside. She walked ahead of him, not caring she hadn’t a clue as to where she was going but she’d figure it out. The air was just right tonight, not too hot, not too cold.
Abigail started on the squared steps that lead to a two-story yellow house. Just as she was about to knock on the front door, Preston called behind her.
A smug smile spread his lips. “That’s the wrong house, Angel.”
Fuck!
She dug her nails into her palms and let out a breath. With an equally smug smile, she said, “I know. I was just admiring the red door.”
He couldn’t hold back a laugh. As much as she wanted to be mad at him, she simply couldn’t. How could she when his laughs were adorable and yet so rare?
She skipped the steps and went to his side. Preston wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “Let’s go now.”
Interlocking his fingers with hers, he followed the same path Abigail had followed, walked on the same squared tiles she had skipped, and knocked on the same red door Abigail had been about to knock on.
“I hate you,” she murmured under her breath.
CHAPTER SIX
The door opened to reveal a woman wearing a black dress that looked more like a religious habit than a casual outfit. It covered her small stature all the way down to her ankles and arms. Her white hair was scooped behind a dark scarf. The wrinkles that lined her thin lips magnified when she saw Preston.
A series of Greek words left her lips. It sounded like an admonishment rather than a warm welcome. Nevertheless, Preston curved his spine to fit her petite size and gave his grandmother a strong hug. It was a hug that spoke of the past, spoke of distant love, spoke of mourning and resurrection.
Within the first minute of the grandson and grandmother interaction, Abigail’s eyes began to flow with tears. If only she had a camera with her, she’d capture the moment forever.
Her heart melted when she noticed Preston’s eyes had turned a shade of pink. She’d never seen him this vulnerable, this helpless to emotional pain. She wanted to join in on their warm embrace but knew better than to interrupt the overdue reunion.
Preston whispered something to Yiayia that made her laugh a sweet laugh. One that showed her toothless smile and had her shoving him hard on the shoulder. And then Yiayia turned her attention to Abigail.
“Hello,” Yiayia said with a thick Greek accent.
“Kalispera,” Abigail attempted her best at saying “good evening” in Greek.
Yiayia smiled and welcomed her into her arms. She smelled of sweet incense and homemade food.
She ushered them inside her home, to a small living room bursting with people of variant generations. They shouted and raised their arms as soon as Preston and Abigail walked in.
The loud greeting immobilized Abigail. She breathed in a big gulp of air and tried to move her feet, but she was stuck—rooted to the floor with no means of escape.
She watched from the corner of the living room as Preston hugged and kissed each person, spoke and saluted them in Greek.
She counted each head.
Twenty in total.
Twenty people in a small, quaint space.
Twenty people cramped into a ten by seven living room.
Twenty people stealing her oxygen…
Don’t make this about yourself, Abigail.
Don’t you dare make it about yourself.
In and out she attempted to breathe.
A woozy Preston walked to her. He caught her just as she was about to faint. His arms were the backbone she needed to stay upright. His lips moved but no sound came out of his mouth. He guided her through a narrow hallway that led to a spacious back patio.
Abigail removed his arms from hers and quickly walked to the railing. With her fingers firmly on the iron rail, she inhaled a breath, closed her eyes, and enjoyed the nightly breeze as it kissed her sweaty cheeks.
Free.
That’s what being outside felt like.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Preston. “There were so many people in that one small space. I-I couldn’t breathe.”
“Don’t apologize. My family is overwhelming. I think we’re eating out here. It’s much better than eating inside.”
He walked to her side but didn’t get too close, giving her the space she needed to breathe.
“I don’t know why this happens to me. It happens randomly, you know. Sometimes I’m in an elevator and I don’t feel like the walls are closing in on me. Other times, I find myself pressing any button just so that the doors would open.”
“I know.” Of course, he did. He knew everything about her. “We’ll move into your house. I don’t want you to freak out every time you come home.”
“What? No. Everything you said about your apartment is true. It’s practical for the both of us to live there instead.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’ll build escalators, so you won’t have to take the stairs.”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course, I can. I’m the owner. I can do anything I want,” he said oh, so arrogantly.
Abigail went to him and clasped her arms around his neck. She nuzzled her nose with his and pecked him lightly on the lips.
“Thank you.”
A trot of footsteps followed behind them. Before she knew it, the whole family had made their way to the ample patio.
“And now they’re here,” Preston mumbled.
Abigail giggled. She’d never seen him this exasperated by his own family. Now she understood why he’d chosen the last day of their honeymoon to meet them.
It took Preston sixty minutes to introduce every member of his family. Each had something to comment, something to add. Some told stories that had nothing to do with Preston, but Abigail tried her best to be interested as he translated. By the time Preston got
to the last person, he was out of breath and Abigail had already forgotten eighteen of the twenty names.
“I have to use the bathroom,” she whispered to Preston.
“It’s down the hall to your left. Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, stay here. I think I can find it on my own.”
She rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.
Inside the house was quiet, empty of the rambunctious chatters of outside. Abigail took a minute to take in the serene atmosphere. The now crowd-less living space appeared commodious. The white and orange floors contrasted with the warm walls that held icons of the Greek Orthodox Church. The beautiful paintings and frescoes judged her all throughout her journey down the hall.
By the time Abigail sat on the toilet, she felt unholy and sinful.
She wiped herself clean and washed her hands. As she splashed cold water on her face, she asked the Lord to cure her mild headache and for her stomach to stop turning with the pungent scent of incense and food.
Was it nerves that had her feeling ill?
Abigail heard the whispered gossips of women from outside the bathroom. She despised not knowing the foreign language. In her anxious mind, they spoke ill of her and judged her for being American.
She pressed both hands on the sink and exhaled a breath. As she inhaled another, vile threatened to rise in her throat. She swallowed it down with a gulp of tap water.
Yiayia and six other women were waiting for Abigail outside the bathroom. They stopped talking when she opened the door. One of the women held a cup with something hot in her hand. She handed it to Abigail.
“You faint.” The woman shook her head disapprovingly. “Too skinny. This, drink every day. Good for the body. Good for the brain. Eh?”
“Oh, um, okay. Thank you.”
Abigail raised the glass and brought it to her lips and under her nose. The smell of mint and olive oil wavered her nausea. The women waited impatiently for her to drink the contents of the glass. All of it. They made sure Abigail didn’t leave behind a single drop.
“You help with food now,” a woman said while another grabbed Abigail by the wrist and took her to the kitchen.
Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2) Page 4