Abigail was completely and utterly enthralled by this man.
She adored him, and every passing day only deepened her love for him. She couldn’t begin to comprehend how she could be this lucky. How everything she had once dreamt of became reality—tangible. Him. The love Abigail had for Preston stretched beyond all measures. It flowed effortlessly like autumn leaves dancing in the wind.
A chime came from the bed. With a reluctant grunt, Preston stood to answer it.
“The driver’s here with our bags,” he said as he pulled up his shorts.
“Will I wake up the whole house if I shower?” Abigail asked, feeling a streak of blood slide down her leg.
“I think you’ll be fine. Yiayia is a deep sleeper.” He leaned down to peck her lips. “I’ll meet you in the shower.”
Abigail shrugged on Preston’s shirt and snuck on her tiptoes to the bathroom. She reached into the shower and turned the faucet on. As she waited for the water to warm up, she reached for a piece of toilet paper and pressed it onto the back of her thigh. The paper changed to crimson as soon as it met her skin.
She let out a curse as a drop of blood stained the tiled floor. Passing her hand under the spray, she noticed the water hadn’t changed temperatures. Abigail quickly removed her shirt and secured it onto her thigh before cleaning the blood from the bathroom floor.
“Do you want to clean my feet while you’re down there, too?”
Abigail quickly squared her shoulders at Preston’s smart remark and reached for her toiletries.
“I’d be happy to clean more than just your feet, Mr. Trice.”
He gave a small smile as he began to undress. “Why aren’t you in the shower?”
“The water’s still cold…”
“It takes a while for the heater to kick in.” He gave a loud smack to the cylinder-shaped device next to the toilet.
“You need to build Yiayia a new house.”
“You think I haven’t tried?” He shrugged and got into the shower. “I gave up trying to change her ways a long time ago.”
Abigail followed behind him. She shivered as the cool water grazed her naked shoulders and fell down her spine. Preston opened his arms and cocooned her into his warmth. She accepted his embrace with a tender nuzzle, loving the way her head fit perfectly under his chin. She took in a deep breath and dropped her shoulders in relief as the water began to warm.
Preston reached over the top of her head for the body wash. He shook the bottle and squeezed the soap into his hand. Placing the bottle back, he clasped his hands together and lathered it onto Abigail’s body. He spread it meticulously into every crevice and around every curve. He admired her body with every minute it took to clean her wounds.
Preston asked, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Do you mean the dreadful long flight or breakfast with Yiayia?”
“Neither.”
Her brows furrowed. “What’s tomorrow then?”
“You’re moving in.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It wasn’t the warmth of the sun stretching its arms through the curtains that opened Abigail’s eyes. It wasn’t her husband caning her ass that had her heart speeding to the thousandths. It was the blaring, ear-splitting sound of a honk that woke her from what used to be a serene slumber.
Abigail stomped her feet and hands on the mattress furiously. She brought a pillow over her head and grunted loudly.
“Take me back to Santorini, Chronos!” she cried out to the mythological God of time.
The plane had landed in Manhattan yesterday evening and Preston had agreed to spend the weekend in her townhouse to help her pack. She would sort out her things, throw away “useless junk”—Preston’s words, not hers—and the rest she’d donate to charity.
It seemed like the perfect plan at the time, and it worked for the most part. As soon as their feet touched U.S soil, they passed by the store to buy boxes and tape. When they got home, they took a shower, fucked, showered again, and went straight to bed.
Today she woke up swearing she’d get things done. She was more than ready to move out of Snow White’s house and into Rapunzel’s tower. Far, far away from rowdy pedestrians and horny taxi drivers.
“Okay, okay,” Abigail said to herself as she flopped belly up on the bed. She threw her hands in the air in surrender. “I’m up!”
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you,” Preston said as he strode into the room.
“My apologies?” Abigail repeated his words with a silly smile as she sat upright. He sounded so formal and yet looked so casual with a towel around his hips, his hair wet, his shoulders dripping sensually with beads of water. She licked her lips and tightened her thighs. “I’m your wife, your whore, and slave. There’s no need to be formal.”
She pivoted from the bed with the ease of a ballerina and picked up Preston’s shirt from the hamper before he got a chance to get it himself. She shimmied it on, raised the collar to her nose, and gave it a sniff. His scent was like morning coffee, like a drug she couldn’t shake off the need to have.
Abigail had never been this in love. This crazed on sex. This needy to be with someone every second of every minute and every minute of every day. In her teenage years, she’d sworn never to be one of those girls—the ones that were clingy and didn’t let their boyfriends breathe.
Today, Abigail wanted to be the air Preston breathed. She wanted to consume him just as he consumed her.
“Abigail?”
She shook her thoughts and looked up at his questioning eyes.
“Yes?” she asked, her own eyes mushy with love.
“There’s a house we need to pack. The moving truck will be here any minute.”
“Shit, they’re coming today?”
Preston nodded. “We were supposed to be all packed by today. I never called to reschedule.”
“I told Mike I’d have lunch with him today. Oh, fuck, he’s going to kill me.” She reached for her phone and was just about to send a text to Mike when Preston stopped her.
“Don’t cancel lunch. I can take care of things here.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. Had she heard right? “Really? I haven’t packed a single box.”
“Better. I’ll be able to throw away all the crap you own without you yapping about all the inconsequential reasons as to why you must keep unnecessary shit.”
Yesterday her things were useless junk and today they had been upgraded to crap. Next thing she knew, he’d be throwing her things down the toilet.
“Crap?” Abigail rested both hands on her hips, feigning annoyance. In reality, she loved their bickering and differences. She loved arguing with him, just so he’d put her in her place at night.
“Nothing I have is useless junk or crap, Mister. Everything has a purpose, however weird-looking it might be. Just wait until I move into your squeaky-clean house. That bland penthouse of yours is going to look as colorful as a Matisse painting and those, I have lots of.”
His towel kilt replaced by gray gym shorts, Preston strode toward Abigail like a predator does its prey. His large hands outstretched to capture her neck. She gasped when her hot skin melted against his cold hands. He nuzzled his nose on the side of her neck and bit down on the thin layer of skin where her neck met her collarbone.
She moaned into her locked lips when she felt something warm run down her shoulder. His hands settled on her waist as he hoisted her shirt up and twisted her nipples painfully hard. So hard, Abigail was dripping.
“Prest,” she breathed his name, raised her foot to his ass, and thrust her pelvis forward.
His lips touched hers lightly and deepened with the heavy ball of arousal that had lived inside her for twenty-five years and had just been recently lit.
“We’ll see about that,” Preston whispered into her ear. He stepped aside and shrugged his shirt on, the one Abigail had stolen from him.
Hot, horny, and bothered, she was left naked in her room.
“That wasn’t very
nice!” she shouted to the back of his head.
After a much-needed cold shower, Abigail dressed in her most casual fall attire. She skittered to the living room where she kissed Preston goodbye and went out the door to meet Mike at his favorite Chinese place. Kenneth had her in Chinatown in less than thirty minutes.
Abigail shrieked when she saw Mike from a distance. He was sitting on an iron chair that rested under a large yellow umbrella that resembled the sun. His Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses were a shade of blue, reminding her of the azure Mediterranean Sea.
She tiptoed behind him and covered his sunglasses with her hands—tried to, anyway. Mike was very particular about fingerprints on his very expensive sunglasses.
She shouted loudly in Mike’s ear, “Guess who?”
Her laugh couldn’t be quieted when Mike jumped from his chair in surprise. He wrapped his arms around her back and squeezed her close to his chest.
Mike raised his DGs to rest atop his head and twirled his sister in place.
“You’re so tanned! Greece did you good.”
“Thanks!” Abigail scooted her chair back and took a seat in front of his. She wiggled her eyebrows playfully. “So, tell me, how was it like being the only child for a week?”
Michael gave his sister his most charming smile. “After the stunt you pulled at your wedding, I’ve been upgraded to favorite son.”
“You’re Mom’s only son,” Abigail said in a duh voice.
“Shh, our waiter doesn’t need to know that.”
Abigail wrapped her hands around the glass of water the waiter placed on their table. With her fingers against the glass, her diamond ring appeared twice its size. She hadn’t paid it any attention since Preston placed it on her finger the day of their wedding. Abigail believed her collar held a stronger bond and meaning than any carat ring, which was why she cherished her collar with her life.
Today, however, she tilted her finger to the sun and examined the captivating small diamonds that formed an arc around the accented diamond in the center of the band.
“It’s gorgeous,” Mike said. “I told Niall he better do as well or better than Preston.”
Indeed, it was a beautiful ring, but nothing compared to her collar.
“Thanks,” Abigail said before clearing her throat. She didn’t have the courage to look Mike in his eyes. She didn’t know how to say the words she’d been wanting to say for weeks now. They were right at the tip of her tongue…
“I’m sorry…about the wedding. I had no idea Preston was going to do that. If I’d known, I swear I would’ve asked him to elope and not tell anyone until your wedding with Niall had already passed.”
It felt good to finally say the words aloud.
The apology had been in the back of her throat ever since she figured out she was walking down the aisle of her wedding. Throughout the ceremony, she couldn’t stop thinking about Mike and Niall and how she’d stolen their moment.
If it hadn’t been for Preston’s stern eyes, telling her to focus on him and only him, she would’ve turned to Mike and Niall and apologized right in front of everyone. In all honesty, she probably would’ve fled.
Mike squeezed her fingers. He said softly, “There’s nothing to apologize for. I don’t care if I marry first or whatever. All I care about is that you’re happy. You are happy, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Good. It was a beautiful ceremony. I for one know Mom loved how Preston incorporated his Greek heritage.”
“Huh?”
Mike placed both elbows on the table and scooted forward. “Mom seems to think collaring a woman is a Greek wedding tradition.”
Abigail all but spat her drink of water. Her eyes widened and she couldn’t stop laughing. And then the laughter died down and reality hit her hard in the face.
“Fuck.”
“Oh, you know nothing. I’ve had to shut her up about it a few times when she brags to her friends about how lovely your wedding was.”
“Who told her collaring was a Greek wedding tradition?”
“Get this. Mrs. Fucking Trice!”
“No!” She gasped, hand over her mouth and everything.
“Yes! How does she even know what that is?”
“I have no idea. I’m still wondering how you know what that is.”
“Come on, Abbs. When you told me about you and Preston, I looked a few things up. I need to make sure my sister’s in good hands. Oh, my God, do you think Mrs. Trice and Mr. Trice were in a dominant relationship?” Mike asked as curious as ever.
Abigail shrugged. “Who knows.”
“Where’s Preston, anyway?”
“Home. My home,” she corrected. “He’s helping me pack. We’re trying to have everything moved out of my townhouse and into his penthouse by tomorrow.”
“I thought he was the dominant in the relationship.”
“So does he.” Abigail giggled.
“Have you ever…you know?” Mike said nothing at all, but Abigail knew where he was getting at.
“Have I ever…dominated him? No. Not my cup of tea.”
“Why not?”
She shuddered at the image of Preston being dominated by her. Bustiers and latex weren’t quite her thing. Neither was powerplay or whipping Preston. If she had to snip his thigh with a sharp knife, like he’d done to her nights before, she wouldn’t know where to do it. What if she punctured an artery? What if he bled out before her eyes?
“Being a dominant is a lot of work and responsibility. Mistakes are unacceptable. You literally hold someone’s life in your hands. I already control my writers every day and that in itself is exhausting. When I have sex, I want to be relaxed. I want someone to have full control of my body, and I know Preston will take care of all my needs.”
“How does it work?”
“The sex?” Mike nodded. “Why, are you and Niall into kinky stuff now? I do know of a very prestigious club you can go to,” Abigail joked.
After ordering a plate of sushi, orange chicken, and spring rolls to share, Michael Bennett got a one-on-one exclusive insight on what it was like to be in a D/s marriage. While Mike took a few notes, Abigail noticed a very handsome blonde walking their way.
She had to have done something right in her life to be given the pleasure of being surrounded by gorgeous men.
“Hi!” Abigail rose from her chair and gave Niall a kiss on the cheek.
“How was Greece?” he asked, always so polite.
“Great! We should definitely go together sometime.” Abigail took a chair from an empty table and offered it to Niall. “Are you going to join us?”
Mike took the plastic kennel Niall brought with him and placed it on the chair while Abigail chitchatted with his fiancé.
“He came to bring you this,” Mike said, opening the small gate. “With all the sex you’ve been having, we thought you’d be in dire need of a new pussy.”
Abigail and Mike did their best hiding their grins, all while Niall’s face blushed a shade of cherry tomato.
Mr. Grey leapt into Abigail’s extended arms.
“Mr. Grey! Did you miss me? Oh, I missed you so, so much. How was he?”
“A real pain in our asses,” Mike muttered. Niall elbowed him at the ribs. “Ow!”
Niall said, “He wasn’t that bad. I don’t think he likes men, though. He was very…catty with us but when we’d take him to Mrs. Sinclair’s house, he was eerily calm.”
Abigail petted Mr. Grey behind the ears. She loved how his tiny head tilted to the side and the deep purr that erupted from his mouth.
“Hmm, do you think he was abused? He was a stray when I found him, and he’s not a fan of Preston, either.”
“Could be,” Niall said as he plopped a roll of sushi into his mouth.
Later that day, Mr. Grey and Abigail arrived at their new home. Abigail’s heart swelled when she saw construction workers placing a “Closed for Construction” sign on the doors that led to the stairs. Her husband was a man of his word a
nd an excellent multitasker.
Following the directions to use the back stairs located at the west side of the building, Abigail climbed up every step enthusiastically, knowing each would get her closer to Preston, to her home.
A sigh of gratitude parted her lips when she walked into the living room and found it empty of boxes. Preston’s white couch now held her plush, colorful pillows and a painting of Matisse’s own Le Bonheur de Vivre hung over his fireplace. A place for Mr. Grey was right by the balcony along with his bowls and toys.
It didn’t feel like she had moved into a home that wasn’t her own. Instead, her style had been morphed with his, complimenting his modernism with her eccentricity.
Thinking her husband deserved a prize for a job well done, she ran to their bedroom. She pushed open the door to find it as dark as night and Preston’s body covered by bedsheets. Lightheaded from her jog, she held onto the knob as the sushi and orange chicken she’d eaten earlier threatened to spew.
CHAPTER NINE
Master Trice wanted to play.
He removed the red box from the closet and placed it on his whore’s nightstand along with the key to unlock it. Being his most romantic self, he left a handwritten note, telling her with as much love and authority to meet him in their playroom when she woke up.
With a cup of steaming coffee in hand, he pushed open the door to his playroom. The room came alive when he stepped over the threshold. He took the scenery in—the canes, chains, ancient apparatuses, the smell of leather and sex and pain and tears and pleasure.
Oh, how he’d missed this room and the fun he’d had with his whore.
Master Trice strode to the wall of whips, paddles, and other flagellations. He ran his fingers over the flogger he’d used the very first scene with Abigail. If he closed his eyes, he could still remember that day and how his anticipation had taken control of the scene.
He remembered the floating box that had wrapped around Abigail’s neck. The tying of her wrists with a yellow rope and how he used a spreader for her ankles as he thrust his cock inside her to the symphony of her screams. She’d done such a beautiful job taking fifty flogs to her back, and yet he hadn’t let her come.
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