Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2)

by Paula Dickson

  The excessive amount of food that was laid on the kitchen table stunned her beyond belief. She’d never seen this much food in her life. It was true what they said about Greek hospitality—it was enormously generous.

  Yiayia handed her a slice of spanakopita and encouraged her to take a bite. The chopped spinach and feta cheese didn’t settle gracefully in her stomach.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like the feta?” the woman who’d handed her the cup asked. Suddenly, all fourteen eyes turned to Abigail.

  Abigail took another bite and hummed.

  “Hmm, so good,” she swallowed every spinach, feta, onion, and scallop on a closed throat. Whenever the contents threatened to come up, she swallowed it down with a gulp of water.

  She enjoyed the food. The spanakopita was delicious, but her nerves didn’t allow any food to settle. Jesus, she needed to get those nerves in check. Maybe she could ask Preston to scare them away so that they wouldn’t ever think about coming back.

  “Preston, say you don’t cook.” It wasn’t a question. Judgment laced Yiayia’s voice.

  Preston said that? The little snitch.

  Her cheeks turned extremely red. “Well, sometimes I cook. Not all the time. We mostly eat out.”

  All the women shook their heads in disapproval and tsked.

  “I teach Judith to cook everything—moussaka, bread, baklava, hummus, gyro, potatoes, everything in family book.”

  Demetra followed by saying, “That’s why you faint, you don’t cook. How husband survive if wife don’t cook? Oh, I pray for you and Preston every day.”

  Yiayia removed a plastic container from the cupboard and scooped food inside it.

  She handed it to Abigail.

  “You take this. Lots of food to feed him. Keep him fat and healthy, you too.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you.” She pointed to the refrigerator. “I’ll leave it here for now.”

  On the window above the sink, the one that overlooked the cobalt sea, there was a black and white picture of a family with two small children. Abigail stepped closer to examine the photograph and took it in her hand.

  The father looked like a replicated imagine of Preston. The same dark eyes, dark hair, tall figure, the same jawline, even the same smile. This had to be Preston’s father, Giorgio. Abigail had never seen a picture of him until today.

  It must have been painful for Mrs. Trice and Elizabeth to be around Preston after Giorgio’s death. An unreasonable urge to fly to Preston surged through her bones. She wanted to drop everything and go to him, touch him, kiss him, make sure he was alive—skin and bones, heart still beating.

  Abigail turned her gray eyes to the shirtless little boy who stood proudly in front of his father and mother. He showcased a toothless smile while his arm slung over his sister. She couldn’t help a giggle. Whitey tighties? Oh, she’d tease him about this forever.

  “What church you go to?” Yiayia asked.

  “Is this Preston’s father?” Abigail inquired, pointing a finger at the man in the picture.

  “Yes. So, you don’t go to church?” Yiayia was old but tenacious and quick on her feet much like her grandson.

  Had Preston felt like this when he first met Mrs. Sinclair? Abigail was sure Yiayia and her mother were in a race to outdo each other.

  With the sweetest smile, Abigail answered, “I go to the same church Preston goes to.”

  Yiayia raised her hands to God and the Saints, and with a big smile on her face praised them.

  Abigail’s body suddenly felt warm and tingly. She could feel dark, brown eyes boring into the back of her neck, lasering where her collar belonged. She turned around to catch Preston resting a hip against the entryway of the kitchen. She exhaled a heavy breath and went to him.

  “Please, don’t ever leave me alone in this house again,” she whispered in his ear.

  Preston said something to the women in Greek that had them all laughing and looking as innocent as puppies.

  “I told Yiayia I go to the same church you go to.”

  “Of course, you do. That’s where we met,” Preston said with a twist on his lips. “Come help me set the table.”

  “Are you sure you’re allowed to help? I mean, isn’t it a woman’s job to cook and serve the men?” Abigail grabbed a bowl of food and took it outside.

  “I see my family has triggered your feminism,” Preston noted.

  With their heads bowed and their eyes closed, the family prayed to The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit to bless this gathering, this food, and for a safe trip back home for Preston and Abigail.

  Then they were passing food this way and that way, under her eyes and under her nose and even into her mouth. Abigail served herself what in her eyes was a reasonable amount of food, but Yiayia did not think so. In fact, Yiayia found herself offended by Abigail’s content on her plate, lack thereof, rather.

  “Abigail,” Preston said as he brought his chair close to hers. “Are you not going to eat anymore?”

  Abigail smiled at Yiayia who watched her intently.

  “I am as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey. If I eat any more food, I’ll explode. I’m not kidding.”

  Abigail turned to her left side and tried to make conversation with Preston’s second cousin, Eleni, who sat next to her.

  By the time Abigail and Eleni found some common ground, the ambiance of the night had sparked with traditional Greek music.

  Eleni forgot about her chat with Abigail and ran to the empty space in front of the table. She did not wait for anyone to join her. With a luminous smile that could illuminate an entire island, she stood in the middle of the patio. She clapped her hands, placed them behind her back, and moved her feet.

  Her husband, Vasilis, joined her and their toddler daughter, too. Soon, almost everyone was on the dance floor, kicking their feet forward and stepping back.

  Abigail laughed a laugh that rose from her stomach and tickled her toes. It cheered the night when Preston got in her line of vision.

  “You dance?” she mouthed, raising an amused brow.

  “I’m Greek,” he shrugged conceitedly.

  She rolled her eyes playfully.

  Preston Trice loved showing off.

  He started almost every sentence with, “I’m Greek” or “I’m an architect.” He should really start his conversations with, “I’m Preston, a pompous ass and pompous snitch.”

  Abigail saw as his feet moved in her direction. Closer and closer they shifted toward her. She knew what he was doing, but she waited until he got to where she was. After all, he had made her wait twenty-five years to have him.

  “Join me,” he said with a smiling glint in his brown eyes. He didn’t give Abigail any time to retort. Not that she would. She had never seen him this enthusiastic about something as simple as dancing.

  “How does it go?” she asked him, standing by his side with her hands behind her back.

  “We start slow and separate. Then when the rhythm increases, we join and go faster. Like this.”

  Abigail followed Preston’s steps just as she had done throughout their honeymoon and just as she would for the rest of her life. She kicked her left foot, stepped forward. Then her right foot stepped back. They joined hands to each other’s shoulder and stepped to the side, crossed their feet. They made a circle and shouted, “Opa!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Preston’s weakness for his grandmother was undeniable and it showed every time he gave into her outlandish requests.

  When Yiayia asked him to sleep over in his childhood bedroom, there had been no hesitation in his reply.

  Not a pause to think about their unpacked bags sitting at their now empty hotel room.

  Not a minute to consult with Abigail.

  Not a moment of second guessing.

  Just a plain, “Νaί”

  Now Abigail stood at the foot of a twin-size bed, thinking how in the world was she and her six-foot-three husband going to fit there.

  “There’s no way
we’ll fit,” she said as Preston walked to her side.

  “We won’t,” he corrected.

  A silly smile played on her lips.

  This meant she’d be sleeping on the floor.

  “I’m going to call the bellhop. Is there anything you need packed from the hotel that isn’t in your suitcase?”

  “No, just my toiletries. They should all be in the bathroom.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement and walked out of the room with his phone already by his ear.

  Letting out a sigh, Abigail collapsed onto the mustard comforter that covered the tiny mattress.

  She felt conflicted.

  On the one hand, she wanted to be selfish and have Preston all to herself. Tomorrow, she’d have to share him with New York, so tonight was all she had.

  On the other, she wanted Preston to spend as much time as he could with Yiayia. Who knew when he’d see her again?

  When Yiayia opened the door to her home, Abigail saw a side of Preston he often hid. It was the same side that managed to build a place in his heart for Damario and Irina. Although he wasn’t overly expressive with his emotions, Preston cared deeply for his loved ones.

  It showed in the way he’d welcomed Yiayia’s hospitality without a second thought. In the way he calmly handled his mother’s pestering and loved Beth’s daughters as his own.

  Reminiscing about Preston’s family, overwhelmed Abigail with feelings of missing her own, so she pulled out her phone to send Mike a message but decided to call him instead.

  Mike answered on the third ring. He cleared his throat before letting out a groggy greeting, “Hello?”

  “Hey, whatcha doing?”

  “Sleeping, or at least trying to.”

  Abigail checked her phone. “Isn’t it almost four in the afternoon there?”

  “I work nights. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You’re calling me on your honeymoon,” he said as matter of fact.

  “I just wanted to check in. I miss you. How’s Mr. Grey?”

  “A pain in my ass.”

  She rolled her eyes. Why did everyone think that?

  “Shut up. He is not!”

  “I’m serious, Abbs. I have to keep him in his cage all night while Niall and I are at work, otherwise, he makes a mess out of our place.”

  “Sorry.” She bit her lip. “I think he might suffer from separation anxiety.”

  “I don’t care what he suffers from. All I know is I need new cushions.”

  “I’ll get you as many as you want when I get home.”

  “When is that exactly?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “I’ll text you when I land. Maybe we can meet up for lunch?”

  “I’d love that.”

  The creak of the door alerted Abigail that Preston was making his way into the bedroom.

  “The driver will be here in half an hour with our bags,” he said.

  Abigail nodded as she answered Mike, “I’ll let you go, so you can get some sleep. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Abbs.”

  “Who was that?” Preston asked as he slipped off his shirt.

  “Mike. He says Mr. Grey is being a pain in his ass.”

  “I bet. That’s the first thing you’re getting rid of when you move in.”

  She slapped his naked shoulder. “I will not!”

  Abigail reached for the discarded shirt and looped it around her hands. “When will that be,” she asked.

  “I’ll call the movers once we land. I want you under my supervision as soon as possible.”

  “I’d thought so, too. Then you agreed to sleepover Yiayia’s…”

  He gave her a small smirk as he sat next to her to untie his shoes. “Ah. So, that’s where I went wrong?”

  Abigail turned to face him. “No, not wrong. I understand why you said yes. I just wish you’d spoken to me about it first. I thought the whole reason why we stayed at a hotel was because you didn’t want to sleep over.”

  “If I’d spoken to you first, would you have said no?”

  Abigail thought about the question.

  She wasn’t selfish enough to say no and take that moment away from Yiayia and Preston. The illusion of a choice was all she had wanted.

  “No,” she mumbled.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Seeing as this is our last night, I thought we’d spend it together before we get sucked into endless manuscripts and blueprints.”

  “Are you trying to say you work too much?”

  She turned to him. No smile on her face.

  He suggested, “Sleeping over doesn’t mean we can’t play.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Preston. None of my fantasies involve a twin bed in your grandmother’s house.”

  Reaching into the pocket of his shorts, Preston pulled out a pocketknife. He exposed the blade with a flick of his thumb. “How can you be sure?”

  Her thighs quickly closed, feeling as her clitoris swelled at the sight of the four-inch blade. It continued to surprise Abigail how prepared Preston had been throughout their honeymoon. It seemed as though in all moments, he’d been ready to take her in any place, wanting to leave reminders of her in every crevice of Greece.

  She licked her lips. “Maybe you’ll have to convince me otherwise.”

  He gave a wicked smirk as he stood in front of her. Inching the blade close to her neck, he scraped off the makeup she had used to cover up her bruises.

  Abigail shivered as the cold titanium brushed ever so closely along the thin skin. She realized that as long as the pleasure was inflicted at the hands of Master Trice, the where didn’t matter.

  Her eyes met the floor as she knelt before her master. “I’m ready Master Trice.”

  With a flick of the blade, Master Trice cut through her dress, exposing her full breasts. He took a step back. Abigail felt as his eyes swept along the curves of her waist, traveling lower and lower, stopping to where her thighs parted. His dark eyes admired her waxed pussy for what felt like hours.

  The masochist inside her fought with the submissive harbored in her. She hated the wait, the long pause before he took her. But it was the depravation carried within the pause that built moisture between her thighs.

  “On your hands and knees.” He whispered in her ear, “Not a sound, whore.”

  Abigail removed the remaining fragments of her dress before sinking onto her hands and knees. Her hair tickled her neck as it fell to her side and curtained her view. She breathed in and out, patiently waiting for Master Trice.

  Parting her legs, he placed a meticulous slit along the fragile skin of her bikini area. The sting sent a shockwave to all her nerves. Abigail bit her lip to restrain a moan. The blade wandered to places where her body begged for its touch. Master Trice was taunting her, wanting the titanium caress to cause a loud curse, a deafening scream, knowing she couldn’t do either.

  His parched mouth sucked the streak of blood that streamed down her inner thighs. She couldn’t help her body as it moved back, wanting his tongue to touch her where she desperately needed. With a swift sway of her hips, she positioned herself right under his tongue.

  Abigail’s body succumbed to the pleasure as her arms gave way. She fell forward. Arching her back, her exhale was halted as the blade met the skin where her ass met her thigh.

  She released a soft yelp.

  The warm sting felt like a sunburn under hot water. Blood traveled down the back of her thigh, settling behind her knee. Master Trice placed his fingers in the warm liquid. Using her body as a naked canvas, he applied strokes of red onto the apples of her cheeks. His fingers felt like a poem on her back as they curved and sketched in a sensual manner.

  Abigail couldn’t take the torture any longer. She knew she wasn’t allowed to speak, but in only a few minutes the driver would arrive with their bags and their scene would come to a halt. A few minutes was
all it took for Yiayia to wander into their bedroom, and neither would be able to release the pressure between their legs.

  She was horny, desperate, and ready for her master to take her—extort all the pleasure out of her body.

  “Please,” she whispered ever so softly.

  Master Trice let out a deep growl as he leaned back and positioned himself close to her entrance. Abigail felt his cock pulse with desire as it entered her in one deliberate motion. Her eyelashes fluttered as her eyes rolled back, ready to receive the pleasure he’d deprived her of.

  He pressed his hand into the back of her head, inching her face closer to the ground. Her body shuddered when her damp cheek pressed against the cool floor. As he stood on his knees, his hands clasped harshly onto her hips. Abigail was sure he’d leave behind a bruise—a reminder of the night he took her in his grandmother’s house.

  Her body was moved back and forth along the length of his cock. Master Trice used her like the whore she was—for his pleasure rather than hers.

  Just when she was about to fall off the precipice of orgasm, his entire body stopped.

  Abigail groaned in frustration.

  Her eyes became glazed with tears.

  Not this again.

  She was taken back to their first night together, when he hadn’t let her come. To the many scenes he’d stopped right before she finished. No way was she going to put up with this again. Not. Today.

  Abigail shifted her body back, taking his cock fully inside her again. She moaned, feeling the all too familiar sensation that built right before she came.

  Master Trice grabbed the back of her head and moved her to face him. He looked deeply into her eyes as he removed every last inch of his cock from her and angrily reinserted it. He repeated the motion over and over, grunting with every thrust. Never breaking eye contact, he leaned forward and slammed his lips with hers. Her orgasm was swallowed with a sole kiss that left her gasping for air.

  Preston clasped his arms around her waist and pulled her upright on her knees. Abigail turned to face him and slid her hands over his chest. She played with the soft curls just below his nipple and felt as his heartbeat slowed its pace. With every rise and fall of his chest, she inched her face closer to nuzzle under his chin. He held her close as they fell back onto the floor.