Preston had tried hard to show Abigail she wasn’t different. He’d tried so hard to show her she held no place in his house. He’d tried so hard not to care about her. He’d tried so fucking hard that he fell for her, and worse, he’d married her.
He was a man who believed love was an overly used catchphrase, an advertising ploy to get men to buy jewelry for gold diggers. And yet believing these theories, he spent close to a million dollars on a ring that meant nothing to him or his wife.
She wasn’t just a seraph with ethereal wings, but a siren who’d ensnared him with her enchanting pussy. Not quite the mythology the late Mr. Trice had read to his son when he was a child. But now Preston knew sirens were real, and just as his father had warned him about them, Preston would do the same for his son one day.
In so many ways Master Trice wanted to punish his whore. In so many ways he wanted to please her and make her come. Above all, he wanted to inflict fear in her, push her limits but never break her trust.
The dark, vintage chest in the corner of the room gave Master Trice the perfect idea to satisfy both his and her cravings. He knelt to its size and unlocked the heavy padlock. Placing it on the floor, he opened the lid and removed the tools he needed to play.
There was a knock on the door.
He smiled.
“Always so eager,” he said to no one but referred to one person in particular.
He sat on the velvet chair in the middle of the room and told his whore to crawl in.
Abigail crawled to the corner of the room and knelt just as he’d taught her that very first day. Her thighs were parted, her eyes kept down as she waited for her master to command her next move.
She was a sight to be seen. Throughout their honeymoon, Abigail’s focus had been on the scenery around her—the beautiful beaches and the rich culture of Santorini. He needn’t look at the scenery, his focus had been on Abigail and only on her.
She was more beautiful than any city, more powerful than any country. She was a planet herself—gray eyes as a thunderous sky, brown hair as dark as soil with streaks of gold as if the sun itself had run its fingers through it, and a glorious smile that warmed the skin.
Everything a man needed to survive, Abigail Bennett offered. And at the moment, Master Trice was a very dehydrated man.
“Stand. Walk to me,” he said to his whore who wasted not a second obliging.
Her naked breasts hitched with every anxious step she took as she stood in front of him. Her skin erupted in goosebumps when Master Trice raised her foot to rest atop his upper thigh. He brought his hand to the back of her calf and ran his fingers up and down the vibrant bruises. They would take weeks to heal.
He spread her knee to the side and kissed the inside of her moist thigh. He breathed heavily between her folds and licked his lips just so the tip of his tongue teased her clitoris. He rested his cheek against her opened thigh and ran his nose up and down her folds but never increased the pressure.
Master Trice wanted his whore to beg.
“Master…please,” she said breathlessly, rotating her pelvis into his face. “Kiss me.”
“Here?” he asked, kissing her pubic bone.
“No.” Abigail shook her head.
“Here, then?” He kissed the inside of her thigh again.
“Not there, either.”
“Then where, whore? Where do you want my lips to touch you?” he asked, his eyes boring into a gray sky.
Abigail pointed to a spot above her belly button.
He smirked. His whore was too smart to fall for his mind tricks.
“So, you don’t want me to kiss you here?” he asked with a condescending tone as his parched lips sucked on her clitoris.
Abigail almost lost her balance at the intensity of his mouth on her. He hooked two fingers inside her and stroked her walls with expert ease. She writhed and moved her hips every which way, swallowing moans of pleasure as Master Trice took his time giving her what she so desperately needed.
He didn’t stop until she came, needing her to be as calm as calm could be for their pending scene. Because if Abigail moved the wrong way, he’d burn her alive. Though the threat excited them both, it wasn’t his end goal to go to prison for premeditated murder.
“Master…” she moaned. “May I come?”
“You may.”
Master Trice bit her swollen clitoris and raised his eyes to watch Abigail come apart. This was his favorite part of their homemade movies—when the pleasure he gave her was too much for her to handle and when her luxurious sounds escaped her parted lips.
Master Trice slapped his hand hard on her clitoris.
“Don’t forget to use your manners,” he reprimanded, his lips wet with her orgasm.
“Thank you, Master Trice.”
“You’re welcome, whore. Follow me.”
He rose from the chair and took her to a rectangular table with restraints on the wrists and ankles. Abigail got on top of the table as her master ordered. He locked the cuffs onto her wrists and did the same to her ankles, leaving her belly up with her arms by her sides. He made sure her hair was braided and tossed behind her.
Master Trice turned off the lights and strode leisurely along the perimeter of the dark playroom. One by one he lit the candles on the gold candelabras that hung from the crimson walls. He took a bottle of mousse and sprayed a line of foam along her shins, to her stomach, and around her breasts.
“Trust me?” he asked Abigail.
“Always,” she replied with true sincerity.
Using the same lighter he used to light the candles in the candelabras, he brought it close to the foam on her shin and flickered the flint wheel.
“Holy shit,” Abigail breathed the words as she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.
Master Trice watched as the fire Prometheus had stolen from the Gods kindled Abigail’s body. Tiny flames danced along the foam and craned around her nipples, dying down before coming back up again. His entire body sent streams of blood to his groin, and he became painfully erect. When the alcohol in the mousse evaporated, he wiped the mousse off with a fire blanket. He removed the restraints from her ankles, pushed down his pants, and entered Abigail’s enchanting pussy.
With brisk fingers, he unlocked the cuffs on her wrists, intertwining his fingers with hers as he pushed deeper inside her. Her whole body was warm, and when he captured her lips with his, they seared hot with fire.
Abigail moaned successively, her hips rose and fell rapidly with every thrust. Mater Trice placed a hand under her ass and tilted her hips. His breathing accelerated, feeling his semen travel up his shaft as his body got ready to orgasm.
Closing his eyes, he let the pleasure take him, felt how Abigail’s pussy clenched around him, and milked every drop of his orgasm.
He kissed her forehead.
“You did good,” Preston praised.
“I have a great master,” she said, a dancing smile lined her lips.
“Wrap your legs around me.” He picked her up and took her to the bathroom.
With their bodies half submerged under warm water, Preston cleaned his whore, his woman, his soulmate. He let the soapy water slide down her spine and circle the bruises on her back, being careful not to apply any pressure.
“Did you like what we did?” he asked, kissing her on the shoulder.
Abigail turned her body to face him. She ran her fingers along his jaw, smiling at the tickling sensation of his morning stubble.
“You need to shave,” she said, kissing his chin. “I always like what we do. This one, though, scared the shit out of me. I want to do it again.”
“You’re such a pain slut.”
“And you’re…” She thought of a comeback but failed. “Amazingly good at making me one.”
Preston chuckled and looked at his wife, at her plump lips, at her dancing eyes, at the light freckles on her cheeks and along her nose. He wanted to paint her, have her image in every corner of their home so that even when s
he wasn’t with him, she’d still be around.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said in utter awe.
Her cheeks tinged pink, and she covered her face.
“I’m serious, Abigail. You’re gorgeous. There isn’t one thing I’d change about you. Not one single thing.”
She raised an eyebrow and narrowed her eyes. “Not even my wicked sense of humor?”
He smiled. “Not even your wicked sense of humor.”
“Ah-ha!” She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “So, you do think I have a wicked sense of humor. I knew it!”
Preston splashed her with water. It was a childish move, but he didn’t care.
“Nice comeback.” Abigail stuck out her tongue and jumped out of the tub before Preston could grab her.
Preston drained the bathtub while Abigail wrapped a towel around her body and combed her hair. When he got to her side, he kissed the top of her head and asked what she wanted to do today.
“Oh, let’s watch the Princess Bride,” she said it so gleefully he couldn’t deny her even though he knew this meant he’d spend the rest of the day marathoning the movie.
“We’ll have to pass by the store to get chocolate ice cream.”
“How did you know I wanted chocolate ice cream?”
“I—”
“And don’t say, ‘I’m Greek.’”
“I was going to say that every time you’re on your period you watch the Princess Bride and eat a pint of chocolate ice cream. That’s how I know.”
“Well, you’re wrong because I’m not on my period. In fact, I ha…”
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows furrowed. Preston saw as she mentally calculated something. He saw surprise, pain, fear, sorrow, fear, fear. He felt no sexual arousal by her emotions because the pain and the fear, the surprise and the sorrow weren’t consensual. Whatever she’d just figured out, she didn’t want.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice etched with concern.
She smiled, although her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“No, nothing’s wrong. Let’s get ready and go to the store before it gets dark outside.”
Preston agreed.
As he rubbed Abigail’s body with aloe vera, tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks.
CHAPTER TEN
Abigail was up before her alarm went off. She threw the white bed sheets on the floor and rushed to the bathroom. With her face above the toilet, she released the ice cream she’d eaten yesterday. Her insides felt like they’d been wrung, and the worst heartburn threatened to burn her esophagus.
Heaving and with sweat above her eyebrows, she rested her cheek against the side of the toilet. As the cold porcelain chilled her damp skin, she attempted to breathe without wheezing or gagging.
Confident her stomach wouldn’t betray her again, Abigail stood on weak legs and brushed her teeth. She washed her face of the river of tears that trickled down her cheeks and pulled her hair back into a low ponytail.
She couldn’t go to work today.
The staff at Sinclair Press loved to gossip and wouldn’t spare an ounce of it, not even for the boss’s daughter.
“You’re up early,” Preston acknowledged from the bathroom door.
Abigail hesitated at the sound of his voice. Of all days, she wished he’d left without saying a word. She didn’t need any extra attention on her today, especially not from Preston. Taking a quick breath, she turned to him. His shoulder rested against the door frame, his arms were crossed, and his legs locked at the ankles. And although she felt no reason to smile, his presence alone tweaked her lips.
Preston looked handsome in his navy-blue pants and silver tie. He hadn’t put on his jacket yet, so Abigail’s eyes wandered to the ridges of his muscles and the outline of his abs. She scoured him for a bit longer before responding.
“You scared me,” she said, releasing a deep breath. “Mom just called. There’s an emergency at Sinclair Press. One of our writers wants to leave to another house,” the lie slipped off her tongue like butter on a summer day.
“Kenneth can take you,” Preston offered, following Abigail to the closet.
“It’s fine. Mom is sending Carl.”
Abigail reached for a pair of jeans and a white tee.
“You’re wearing jeans to work?”
“Yeah, it’s, um, casual Monday. Shouldn’t you get going soon? You’re going to be late.”
He stepped toward her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he rested his chin on top of her head and inhaled a breath. Abigail melted in his arms and leaned into him. The amount of comfort she felt in Preston’s arms couldn’t be put into words. It was her blanket on a frigid, winter day.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked playfully.
“No. I’d never want to get rid of you,” she half lied.
She was anxious for him to leave. The longer he stayed, the more questions he’d ask, which meant more lies. Fibbing never sat well with her much less when it was directed at her master. Before today, she had never lied to Preston, and every lie since, created a crevice in her heart. She was afraid if the conversation kept going, it’d get past the point of no return.
She tilted her head up and met his lips with an overdue good morning kiss. It was meant to be a quick, light peck but she lingered a bit longer. Leaning higher onto the tips of her toes, she pushed his hair back and traced his widow’s peak with her finger. Kissing him sweetly on the forehead, a tear escaped from her left eye and traveled down her cheek.
“I love you, Preston Trice. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I love you, Angel.”
Preston’s pants beeped. He reached inside his pocket and took out his phone.
“Kenneth’s here,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want him to take you?” Abigail shook her head. “I’ll see you for dinner, then.”
“Okay,” she said as Preston kissed her one last time and went out the door.
Abigail dressed in a hurry. She shimmied into her casual jeans and shrugged on an oversized T-shirt. She didn’t bother with heels or a purse, or even with a cup of coffee. With her phone in one hand and her wallet in the other, she jumped into the elevator.
She closed her eyes and counted to one hundred. By the time she got to ninety, the elevator doors opened. She waited in the underground parking garage for her nausea and nerves to die down.
When she was sure she wouldn’t throw up, she walked to the sidewalk and hailed a cab.
“Madison Avenue, please.”
Abigail rolled down the window and rested her head against the sill. A gust of autumn wind parted her bangs and cloaked her with warmth. It was the kind of warmth only New York could offer. The kind that absorbed into every pore of her body and left her feeling so overwhelmed by the lives of others, she forgot about her own.
She watched as cars flew by in a rush. As the lives of strangers unraveled on the streets, she couldn’t help but notice a mother cradling her child close. The woman gave the baby all her love and affection. Was Abigail built for motherhood? Was she capable of giving a child all of her life, put her needs and wants on the back burner for those of a selfish seven-pound infant?
“Could you take me to East 62nd Street instead, please,” Abigail asked, needing to see the only person who knew her better than she did herself.
“Sure thing, Miss.”
As the car made a sharp turn, her mind traveled back to her trip to the grocery store. When Preston was paying for a pint of ice cream, she’d snuck into the bathroom and taken a pregnancy test. As soon as the stick revealed the two dreaded lines, Abigail quickly threw it in the trash.
She’d washed her hands and seen her life flash before her eyes. She had always known what she wanted out of life and had put herself out there to achieve that. To think everything she had dreamt of could come to a full stop for a child felt wrong. To leave Preston in the dark also felt wrong but this was something she just couldn’t get herself to share with him.
She’d given him everything, every ounce of herself.
A child was something she was never willing to give, nor did she want to.
How could she have let this happen?
Was she so blinded by love that her wants had been neglected in the process?
Abigail was conflicted in the worst way possible. Her mind raced faster than it ever had before. Just as her thoughts and fears began to consume her, a voice interrupted them.
“We’re here, Miss,” the taxi driver seeped through her haze. She handed him fifty dollars and slipped out of the car.
Abigail knocked on the door of the massive townhouse that took up most of Fifth and Madison. Mrs. Davidson opened the door with a bright smile that illuminated Abigail’s gloomy day.
“Good morning, Ms. Bennett,” Mrs. Davidson greeted. “Oops, I mean Mrs. Bennett. Your mother told me all about the beautiful ceremony you had with your husband. You must bring him here soon. I’d love to meet the man who stole your heart.”
Abigail attempted a smile, but it came out forced. “I’ll try my best, Mrs. Davidson. Is Mom still around?”
“She’s in the kitchen. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Oh, there’s no need. I can find her on my own.”
Abigail strode to the kitchen, her heart hanging in her chest. She didn’t know what she was truly there to do. She just felt she needed to be there.
She turned the corner and stood to see the elegant Melissa Sinclair.
Dressed in her classic pantsuit and stilettos, she sat by the window and sipped on a cup of coffee. Her phone was in her hand, ready to answer unread emails. The woman never took a break, always putting her personal life on hold for work. With an empty nest, she had allowed herself to become completely consumed by work and when work wasn’t enough, she obsessed over her children.
“Mom,” Abigail called out. Her voice trembled as much as her shoulders did.
Mrs. Sinclair’s shoulders jumped.
“Jesus, Abigail, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”
Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2) Page 7
