Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2)

by Paula Dickson

  He looked at Abigail and smiled. “Unless they want to be physically and mentally hurt. Anyway, when I found out the number of people who were dominants and sadists, yet carried normal lives, this hatred developed for Calista. She took something from me that wasn’t hers to take, and it wasn’t until I met you that I thought I’d never get that chance again.

  “It took years and many therapy sessions, but eventually, I began to chip away at her words. I wasn’t mentally ill. I wasn’t on my way to becoming a serial killer. I am just a man who enjoys kinky sex with like-minded women. I promised myself that if I ever found a woman who understood me, who accepted every aspect of me, and loved me for who I was…” Preston cleared his throat. “I promised myself if I ever found you, I’d never let you go. I’d collar you so you’d always be my slave and I’d marry you, so you’d be legally bounded to spend the rest of your life with me. I’d never give up on us as naively as I did before.”

  He raised Abigail’s quivering chin and looked her deep in her gray eyes. “Abigail, I promise you I will be the best father to our children. I will never ever abandon them or you.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Our children?”

  He smiled. “It is my biggest fantasy to have children with you.”

  “Oh, Preston. I had no idea…” her voice was but a quivering whisper.

  Tears flooded down Abigail’s red cheeks. She removed her chin from Preston’s hold and sprinted to the bathroom. He quickly followed behind her but couldn’t reach her fast enough. It was too late. She’d locked the door.

  “Abigail?” he knocked lightly on the door.

  “I’m sorry, Preston. I’m so, so sorry,” she repeated the words over and over again.

  “Don’t be sorry, Angel. It happened so long ago. I am fine now. Can you open the door, please?” He rattled the handle.

  “I’m so sorry,” she hiccupped almost as if she was drowning in an ocean of tears.

  He pounded on the door and shouted, “Abigail, open the fucking door or I swear to God, I’ll kick it down!”

  Mrs. Sinclair burst through the bedroom door. “What is going on? I told you not to wake her. You need to go, Preston. Now!”

  “I am not going anywhere unless it is to my house with my wife. You need to stay the hell out of our business.”

  Mr. Bennett followed behind his wife. Catching his breath, he said to her, “Melissa, let’s leave them alone. This is between Abby and Preston. Don’t get in their way.”

  She scuffed. “My house, my business.” She turned to Preston. “My daughter, my business.”

  Mr. Bennett gently wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and guided her out of the bedroom.

  “Angel.” Preston tried again. His voice was soothing and calm. When he went for the handle, the door opened swiftly. She must have unlocked it during the exchange with her parents. Abigail rested on the floor crying hysterically and shaking. Her arms wrapped around her stomach.

  Preston lowered to her level. “What’s wrong, Abigail? Tell me what’s wrong so that I can fix it.”

  “You can’t fix this, Preston. It’s too late. I’m sorry. I swear, I had no idea.”

  He was so confused. “You had no idea about what? That I have a daughter? It’s fine. I’m fine and the girl’s fine too. You and I, we’re going to build a family together. One of our own and we’ll be the greatest parents. I promise. Let’s get you home, okay?”

  “Okay,” she gasped.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mr. Grey pushed open the bedroom door with the tilt of his head. At the foot of the bed, he lowered his body and prepared for a majestic jump. Landing effortlessly, he followed his master’s scent. Stepping over the mound of pillows, he nuzzled his way into the crook of Abigail’s neck and let out a satisfied purr. What a pleasant way to be woken up—second to waking next to Preston.

  Abigail stretched out her legs and lazily extended her fingers over Mr. Grey’s head. She stroked his fur for a while, needing to muster up enough strength to get out of bed. She inhaled deeply through her nose and held onto the duvet as a wave of vertigo tried to overtake her. Exhaling the same breath, she managed to get her feet under her to stand. Considering she hadn’t been able to get out of bed for the past two days, this was an improvement.

  Staggering into the bathroom, she didn’t bother to flip the light switch. Her eyes were kept at a squint as she brushed her teeth and washed her face of the tears she’d poured. The woman reflected in the mirror was brittle and weak. This wasn’t the woman Melissa Sinclair had raised. This wasn’t Abigail Bennett, much less Master Trice’s resilient whore.

  She needed to get out of this tower and get her life back. She needed to work, keep her mind from wandering to places it had no business inhabiting. But how could she make Preston understand? How could she reason with someone who was so unreasonable?

  Since Monday evening, he’d been adamant about looking after her. Way too adamant if you asked her. He hadn’t given her any room to breathe, time to think, or be alone. Although she appreciated his help on those ghastly days, his kindness had made her feel guilty for what she’d done. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eye without bursting into tears, without seeing a future he’d so desperately wanted for fifteen years. The same future she’d so desperately avoided ever since she was sexually active.

  She’d always been careful.

  She’d always practiced safe sex.

  What failed? What had gone so terribly wrong?

  In the blink of a second, Abigail quickly retraced months back to the day she tried on her bridesmaid’s dress. It was on that day she had an appointment for her shot with Dr. Mitchell but then she’d bumped into Preston in the hospital. And he’d looked so scared, that she’d forgotten what she’d been there for. All she had known at that moment was that Preston needed her. Almost as much as she needed him now, but she’d never admit that. She didn’t deserve his sympathy—that much she knew.

  Determined to move on, her thoughts shifted to presenting herself in a better light. She opened the drawer under the sink vanity and took out a petite makeup bag. She dabbed concealer under her eyes and applied a coat of mascara on her lashes. With her cheeks tinted a blush pink and her hair curled at the ends, she sauntered into the closet. She dressed in a pleated dress and slipped into a pair of black pumps.

  Abigail stepped out of the bedroom ready to get her life back on track. She had already missed a week of work due to an unexpected honeymoon, and Monday and Tuesday due to an unexpected pregnancy. She wasn’t going to miss a third day.

  In the kitchen, she found Preston. He sat by the island with a cup of coffee in his hand. His legs were crossed at the knees, and his eyes intently skimmed through one of his many architectural magazines.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerily.

  “Good morning. You’re out of bed.”

  “I am. I’m feeling much more like myself today.”

  Set on showing him she felt better, Abigail traded her typical cup of coffee for a bowl of oatmeal. Opening the pantry door, she searched for the container of oats. Setting it on the counter, she felt Preston’s eyes on her, observing her every move. She made her way to the fridge where she took out a bottle of water and fresh fruit.

  “No coffee?” Preston asked. A hint of a smile grazed his lips as Abigail set the time on the microwave for forty-five seconds.

  “Not today. I woke up with an appetite.”

  Ignoring his judgmental gaze, she picked up a butter knife and sliced three strawberries. At the beeping of the microwave, she placed the bowl on the counter, added in the fruit, and a dash of cinnamon. She brought a spoon up to her mouth and gave it a blow before taking a bite.

  “Who the fuck eats this shit?” she said, sliding the front of her teeth across the top of her tongue.

  Preston placed his cup of coffee on the island and strolled toward her. He wound his arms around her waist and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. He whispered in her ear, “Would you like me
to make you a proper bowl?”

  Giving him a side eyeroll, she bit her tongue for any snarky comment. She needed him in a good mood if she was going to attempt to reason going back to work.

  Preston pulled out a drawer from the island and placed a small pot on the stove. He took a carton of milk out from the fridge and measured a cup into it. He set the heat on medium, waiting for the milk to come to a boil before adding in the oats. Placing the stove on low heat, he allowed the aroma to escape and flood the kitchen. She took in the smell and let out a deep sigh. Although Abigail had only considered oatmeal as a replacement for her coffee, she was almost glad hers had come out so terribly.

  Preston turned the stove off and used a ladle to fill her bowl. He added in a cup of fresh fruit and almonds. Sliding his decadent creation over to her, he handed her a spoon. If she was judging solely on looks, his meal would warrant a solid ten. She brought the spoonful closer to her lips and inhaled as she devoured the first bite.

  “Why are you all dressed up?” he asked.

  Abigail cleared her throat and licked her lips. “I was thinking maybe I could go back to work today.”

  “No.” He turned and began cleaning his mess.

  Abigail sighed. She pushed the bowl of oatmeal aside, not hungry all of the sudden. “Preston it’s been two days. I’m fine. I’m healthy.”

  “You haven’t gotten out of bed in two out of two days. The answer is no.”

  “Yes, and today is the third day, and look, I’m walking. I’m standing,” she tried to reason.

  “The answer is no. End of discussion.” With those final words, he strode out of the kitchen.

  Her knuckles turned white as she let out a frustrated groan that welled tears in her eyes. She made an attempt to calm herself and reached for the oatmeal. If she was going to come up with a plan to escape Rapunzel’s tower, she needed to do it on a full stomach.

  After minutes of mopping around the apartment and doing nothing but people-watch strangers living a life she hadn’t been able to live in two days, she lost all patience.

  With determined steps, she walked down the hall and knocked on Preston’s office door. She didn’t wait for him to dismiss her and quickly pushed open the door.

  The sound of Greece greeted her like a summer breeze that warmed her skin. She closed her eyes, remembering fun memories, exciting moments, and wicked sex. Life had been so simple a week ago. Today, Greece seemed so far away.

  “Go back to bed, Abigail,” Preston said.

  Abigail took his words as invitation enough. She crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her as she sauntered into his office. The last time she’d been here, he’d fucked her against the wall and had made her patch up the red streaks of blood she’d left behind.

  Had he gotten professional help to repaint her amateur paint job? Curious to find an answer, she strolled to the wall. Her finger hovered above the white paint. If she closed her eyes, she could feel him thrusting inside her, running his pierced head down her slit as he ordered her not to come.

  “I’m busy,” Preston’s harsh voice made her shoulders jump in alert.

  Lucky him for being busy. She, on the other hand, had nothing to do.

  “Do you remember fucking me against this wall?”

  “You’re being a bother,” he said.

  Abigail turned to him.

  Preston sat behind his desk with three computer screens in his line of sight. His hands moved on their own volition on the sketchbook under his wrist. His eyes swiftly rotated from screen to screen almost as if he wanted to copy every detail from the screen onto the paper. She spent a good five minutes watching the sensual scenery in front of her before getting her head back on track.

  “Am I?’ she asked coyly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bother.”

  Preston released a deep breath and looked at the wall. His dark eyes moved back to hers.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “I was on the edge of coming that night and then you said I couldn’t. God, you were such a denier back then.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. His patience was running thin.

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, please, Preston, don’t deny me again.”

  She walked to him and straddled his lap. She didn’t care if he was on a conference call or video chat with investors. She needed them to work this out today.

  “I’m not sick anymore. Please, let me go back to work. I can’t stand being here all alone.”

  Her fingers found their way into his hair and pulled lightly at the ends. She kissed the side of his neck and pleaded again.

  “Huh, that’s weird. I remember you asking me to leave you alone because I was, what was the word you used? Oh, that’s right, asphyxiating you. All I wanted to do was take care of you, do my job as your husband and master and you pushed me away callously.”

  “Prest, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, Abigail, I don’t know. Now could you please give me some privacy? I have lots of work to catch up on.”

  “I’m sorry, Preston,” she whispered. She found herself saying the words too often to him.

  With her shoulders slumped and her eyes swollen with tears, Abigail made her way into their bedroom. She collapsed on the bed and cried out her pain, her suffering, her deep, deep anguish as she contemplated the outcome of the choice she had made.

  It was one she couldn’t take back. She couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that would now resonate with her for the rest of her life. There was no turning back now and there was certainly no chance she would ever share the events of that day with Preston. She wouldn’t tell him what she’d done. She couldn’t tell him.

  She’d live with the guilt and let it eat her alive because she deserved it. She deserved the perturbing pain that was worse than any physical injury Master Trice could ever inflict on her.

  Abigail picked up her phone and dialed her mother’s number, needing to ask her for a favor. Mrs. Sinclair picked up on the first ring.

  “Good morning, honey. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better.”

  “That’s great to hear. Will you be coming into work today?”

  She let out a deep breath as she wiped away her tears. “Not today. Preston’s kind of against it. He’s a bit on the overreacting side of things, sort of like how Dad gets when there are crumbs on the butter.”

  Her mother laughed. They could go on and on about the inane things that made Mr. Bennett tick like a clock.

  “Have you spoken to Preston, yet?”

  “No.” Abigail gnawed on her trembling lip. “I was calling to ask if you could call the clinic and ask them to send the bill over to your house?”

  “Abigail…”

  She closed her eyes. A quiet tear strode down her cheek and rested at the bow of her upper lip.

  “Please, Mom. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I want it to be over like it never happened.” She needed so much to pretend it never happened.

  “I understand. I’ll call them later today,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Mike has been asking about you. You should give him a call. He’s worried.”

  “Mom!”

  “I didn’t say anything. He’s been coming to the publishing house for your workouts, and you haven’t been here. So, he’s asked Linc about it, and well, you know how Linc is. He’s such a worrywart. He’s asked me about it, and I’ve just told him to call you.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Just as their conversation had ended, Mike’s cheery image appeared on Abigail’s screen. Glad to see a familiar face that wasn’t Preston’s, she picked up the phone.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Been trying to work out with my sister for the past two days now and haven’t heard from her.”

  “I’m sorry! I haven’t been feeling like myself these past few days but I’m better now. Not ready-to-work-out better but ready-to-have-lunch better.”

&nbs
p; “Lunch sounds like a good idea. Want to go to Alfonso’s?”

  Her mouth began to water. “Do you mind picking it up and eating it at my house? I still feel a little queasy and Manhattan in the afternoon will not make me feel any better.”

  Forty minutes later, the siblings sat at the dining room table enjoying an overdue lunch together. With his wedding only a few months ahead, Mike spent the majority of the meal going over the last details of the groom and groom’s tuxedos. Abigail was sure his wedding was going to be the event of the century. A close second to Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s royal wedding. Realizing all the details that went into planning a wedding, she was grateful that Preston had planned theirs.

  “I’m stuffed,” Abigail said, pushing the plate of fettuccini aside.

  “Same. Their portions are too big. Like, who the hell eats this amount of food?” Mike wondered.

  “Dad,” they said in unison and laughed.

  Mike cleaned alfredo off his lips with a napkin. “Niall and I are having a small get-together at the club tonight with some of our closest friends. I’d love for you and Preston to join us. Mom and Dad are not invited, so please don’t extend the invitation.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That was a one-time thing! Plus, it was the grand opening of your club. They needed to be there.”

  He returned her eyeroll. “So, is that a yes?”

  Abigail gnawed on her lip. “I don’t know. Preston has been up my ass lately. He refuses to let me go into work until he knows one hundred percent I feel better. Not sure a nightclub is good for my case.”

  She felt Mike’s questioning gaze. His eyes climbed up and down her features, examining her hair and skin tone. Abigail peered out into the city, afraid that if their eyes met, Mike would come to know the truth.