And there it was. The root of the problem.
Because of work, Preston had to leave Sunday morning without a proper goodbye to Abigail or his usual trip to the club.
He thought about waking her and taking her right there on the floor, but she looked so peaceful, and she needed the rest, so instead, he worshipped her entire body.
He’d kissed her lips. He’d nuzzled into the crook of her neck. He’d sucked on her nipples. He’d spread her thighs and ran his nose across her clit in a deep languid brush so that she’d be with him at all times. Four days had passed, and the smell still lingered on his nose.
It was enough to make him hate his job for having to ride all the way to his office with a hard-on in the backseat of his Porsche with Kenneth in front.
If only Elliott had been there. He sure would’ve had a lot to say on the matter. Probably an ill joke like most of what came from his mouth.
Preston leaned back in his chair. The envelope laid open on his lap as he read his slave’s fantasies.
He wasn’t surprised to read she was into orgies because many women were—just as some were also into forced-play. There was nothing wrong with that because it was consensual. None of these women, however, desired actual rape.
In fact, Preston had been with a woman long ago who was a rape victim. If he closed his eyes, he could remember what she looked like back then.
Frail limbs. Bruised mind. Dirty clothes. She was the walking definition of destroyed.
He’d found her dumpster diving in the back of Ambrosia.
The woman was so petrified of him she’d shivered at his approach. It took everything inside her to trust Preston. That was what had gotten her raped in the first place. Trust. Trusting the wrong people. To this day, Preston didn’t know what he’d done to earn the woman’s trust but when he told her to go with him, she followed out of fear and stayed out of trust.
It took a year for her to seem better. It took two years for her to walk the streets of New York City without fright the men around her would do to her what was done many times before.
Preston knew she’d seen him as her Guardian Angel. She’d always called him her Dark Angel. She’d known from the beginning he wasn’t normal, yet she’d gone with him anyway.
Though he tried to hide what he really was from her, she’d figured it out soon enough. One day, she came to him and asked him to perform a scene with her. In the three years they’d known each other he hadn’t touched her. It wasn’t because she wasn’t attractive or because there was no chemistry between them.
Preston thought it wasn’t his place to lust after her or act upon such lust. Having been raped, sex was probably the furthest thing from the woman’s mind. But then, out of nowhere, she’d offered him a scene. A scene where she took her power back. A scene where the word no and stop meant what it was supposed to mean.
When they performed the scene, Preston fucked her because she wanted to be fucked, not because she had no choice. Not because her noes weren’t loud enough. Not because she was a walking tease. Not because she was weak. That was the last time Preston ever saw her as a victim and started seeing her as the survivor she was.
There was a thin line between BDSM and physical abuse just as there was for rape and rape-fantasies. The thin line being consent.
When a man couldn’t take no for an answer, when a man was too insecure, he blamed all his problems on a woman, when a man couldn’t control his urges, that was when the line was crossed.
Preston did everything in his power to see the men who had violated her behind bars. As a farewell gift to the person she was, he’d given her, in a gift box with a giant fucking bow, her abusers’ sentences: life in prison without parole.
Where his previous slave did scenes solely to please him, Abigail proceeded for her enjoyment.
Preston scratched his jaw in consideration. His fingers grazed the five o’clock shadow that’d grown.
What was Abigail doing now? Was she flirting with other men? Would she take them to her house and have them fuck all her holes like in her fantasies?
After she asked Kenneth to drop her off at Grand Street—and the audacity behind such an act still stunned him. Kenneth was Preston’s driver, not Abigail’s the slave, the whore, the slut. Of course, Kenneth didn’t follow her request and took her home as he’d been told.
He did, however, call Preston to let him know of his slave’s outings. They’d agreed to two days, two nights. He wouldn’t break their deal by having her followed.
Why would he if she meant nothing but a hole to be filled?
Abigail might be mischievous when he wasn’t around but that didn’t mean she was different than his other submissives. If she had made the disgraceful gesture she made when she left his house in front of him, she’d have a broken middle finger. And if she would’ve said what she wrote under additional comments/questions aloud, she’d be icing her jaw.
Either Preston hadn’t done enough to tame her, or Abigail Bennett was a true masochist.
Fear. Suffering. Powerlessness. Humiliation.
It suggested nothing less.
She was a masochist in bed but was she a masochist in the outside world? It was pure curiosity. He didn’t mind if she wasn’t. In fact, he loved she was financially stable and wasn’t with him for his riches like past submissives had been.
Preston hoped she was because what he had planned for her would suit a masochist, not a sulky young adult who needed to be disciplined.
Thinking gave him a headache. He needed a break from everything, and he knew just the man to call for a getaway.
Without deliberation, he picked up his phone and dialed a number he knew he’d regret later. The person on the other line answered on the first ring.
“What are you doing tonight?” Preston went straight to the point.
Elliott let out a whistle. “I’ve only gotten this type of call once. Who’s ruffled your feathers, my mighty king?”
Feathers? Someone ruffled his life.
“Just answer the question, El.”
“There’s this new club opening on—”
“Send Kenneth the address.” He hung up. A night of drinking and loud music was what he needed to quiet the thoughts in his head.
Removing a piece of paper from his notebook, he answered Abigail’s questions with a hidden smile on his face. That sass drove him to the edge.
What was he so happy about? And why did he feel the need to hide his smile?
Just as he was filling a new envelope with papers, an altercation outside his office caught his attention.
“He knows I’m coming, Jacqueline.”
“Please, just let me phone you in.”
What in the world?
A second later the door to his office opened.
Oh, Lord.
No.
Not. Now.
“Preston!” Mrs. Trice waltzed into her son’s office with her arms as wide as the smile she carried.
Preston rose his head and met her dark eyes. His mother was wearing a black knee-length dress with leggings to avoid the cold. She wore her checkered jacket and large disk-shaped earrings. Her thick hair was pulled up into a low bun just as his father liked it.
Behind her, Jacqueline, his secretary, looked disheveled. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to look composed. “I apologize Mr. Trice. I tried to stop her.”
Preston let out a heavy breath before raising his hand in dismissal. He stood and walked into his mother’s embrace, kissing both her cheeks.
“Don’t worry about it, Jackie. I know how persistent my mother can be.”
Mrs. Trice rolled her brown eyes and stuck a tongue out to Jacqueline as she left them alone. But nothing her son said or anything Jacqueline did could erase the smile off her face. She was ecstatic.
“Oh, my son! How are you doing this fine day?”
“I’m well, Mother, and you?” Preston guided her to the couch on the left side of his office that overlooked New York.
“What are you doing here?” Preston treaded carefully with his questions. She was the only woman he couldn’t stand to hurt her feelings.
“Can’t a loving mother visit her son without there being a reason behind it?” She shrugged her shoulders innocently.
“A loving mother, yes,” he joked.
“Oh, Preston. Come on!” She twisted her entire body to face her son. “I feel like I’m walking on eggshells here. Tell me! Tell me!”
“About what, Mother?”
“Abigail, of course!”
His heart elevated to his throat. He was sure his mother could see it moving through his collar. Was Preston Trice blushing?
“There’s no Abigail.” The words hurt more than he’d let on to believe.
“Oh, Preston. I’m your mother. I held you in my womb for nine months. I raised you. I can tell when you’re lying.”
He stood, a migraine poking his left eye. “Mother, if you came to my office to talk about nonsense, then please, go see Elizabeth. Unlike her, I have a business to run. I’m busy.”
“Okay, fine. We won’t talk about you-know-who.” She raised her hands in a backup motion. “Tell me about your weekend then.”
“Mother.”
“Oh, that’s right, you spent it with her.” Her giggles were getting on Preston’s nerves.
“Mother, please. That’s enough. Either talk about something else or please, leave.”
He walked to the bathroom in his office and took out three tablets of ibuprofen, swallowing them down with a glass of tap water.
“You should see a doctor.” His mother leaned on the doorframe. “You’ve been having them more frequently than before.”
His knuckles turned white as he gripped the sink with ferocity. Part of the reason why he was getting migraines was her meddling. And his job. And fucking Abigail.
“I’m fine, Mom.” He took a deep breath. “If you promise not to bring the woman’s name up again, then we’ll go have lunch.”
“Okay. But Preston, if this relationship—ah, ah, let me speak. If this relationship turns serious, I expect to meet her.” He tried to stop her from using that word. They weren’t in a relationship. She was his sex toy. Nevertheless, Preston agreed, knowing his mother would never meet Abigail.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Someone was following Abigail.
She didn’t know who it was, and she wasn’t one hundred percent sure she was being watched. But the thin hairs behind her neck stood in alert with every step. It wasn’t due to the weather, although the sun had gone down and the moon was slowly rising, the gusts of wind had stabilized.
She let out a shiver that shook her entire body. The whole thing gave her the heebie-jeebies.
Who would want to follow her, anyway? Her life was not fancy or exciting. Although her mom was well-known for her publishing company, she wasn’t a celebrity. Not many knew of Abigail Bennett, editor of Sinclair Press, daughter to Melissa Sinclair and Michael Bennett, sister of Michael Bennett Jr. She was average with a nice rack but other than that there was nothing special about her. So, who in their right mind would be following her?
Then again it could just be her imagination.
She hadn’t been able to sleep in the last four days, twisting and turning on the sheets because her scars hurt whenever they touched cotton sheets. Now, she was thankful her master had made her sleep on the cold floor. Now, she was thankful for the cold showers.
Was it weird she missed having him around?
His smell.
His voice.
The feeling of his hands on her body, her throat, her wrists. Her life solely depending on no one other than him.
She’d only known him for less than five days, but he’d left scars in her life far deeper than the ones he’d tattooed on her skin. Each slash was a souvenir of the most unforgettable night of her life. If Master Trice didn’t want her anymore because of her loose mouth and disobedient attitude, she’d at least have those as a remembrance.
Stopping by a newsstand, Abigail pretended to look at the New York Times and scandalous magazines with even more scandalous headlines. Maybe the person following her would get closer and she’d be able to tell who he or she was.
Abigail turned casually from side to side, glancing around the streets with the magazine obscuring most of her eyes.
Everyone looked suspicious.
The woman resting below a tree was an undercover detective pretending to be homeless. The father with a camera in his hand wasn’t taking pictures of his children feeding the birds but of her. Tourists were talking and pointing at her, not the Empire State Building a few blocks ahead.
Feeling the stranger watch from afar, Abigail placed the magazine down and turned left on 23rd Street.
New York City was a stalker’s paradise. It was impossible to look out of place in a city filled with pedestrians. It was impossible to notice anyone.
With a hand inside her purse, she felt around for the pepper spray. She gripped it harshly and placed it inside her coat jacket.
Hurrying her steps, she turned into an alley and waited for the stalker to pass. Her pepper spray was ready to damage the eyes of the intruder. As soon as the person passed, Abigail pressed down her thumb and a gush of spray covered the perpetrator’s face.
“Ahhh!” Brown streaks of hair flew in all directions as the person scratched their eyes.
She didn’t know why but she screamed along with the stalker, apologizing for protecting her life.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Abigail, what did you do?” the voice sounded overly familiar. At a closer glance, the black pants and white ruffled blouse looked familiar, too.
“Jesus Christ!” Her hand went to her chest. “Mom! Have you lost your damn mind?”
“My eyes sting! What did—Oh, Lord, Abigail. Pepper spray? Really?”
“Here.” She guided her mother out of the alley and to a bench. Abigail took out the water bottle she always carried in her purse. “Open your eyes.”
“Why would you do such a thing to me?” Her mother cried, her eyes swollen red with water and tears. She looked awful. Not her usual intimidating self at the office but more of a sad clown.
“I don’t know. I panicked. I thought someone was stalking me. You were following me! Why were you following me?”
“Just. Give me a minute, okay?” Mrs. Sinclair asked with a raised hand. Her New York accent came out thicker than usual when she was fluttered.
After a while, her mother spoke. “I wasn’t following you. I was worried. You left work early today. I thought you were sick or something, so I went to your house to see you dressed all fancy walking down the steps. That’s a very short dress, by the way. You’re going to catch a cold.” Abigail rolled her eyes as her mother continued, “I thought you had a date. I wanted to see who he was.”
“First of all, Mike gave me this dress and the coat I have on. Not to mention, I’m wearing boots that cover my knees and half of my thighs, so I think I’m cozy enough. And, oh, my goodness, Momma. You couldn’t just ask me what was wrong? A text would’ve sufficed. We work together. You’re my mother. This whole thing could’ve easily been avoided. I was this close to calling the police. This close!”
“I know. I know. But I thought you didn’t want anyone to know.”
“Assuming your theory was correct, which by the way it isn’t, you thought you’d just ignore my wishes and sneak around?”
Mrs. Sinclair lowered her chin. “Well, now that you say it like that, I can see how this would make me seem unstable.”
Ya think?
Abigail gave a heavy breath. Her shoulders sagged. She should know her mother would do something like this. She always did. She loved to meddle in everything that was her life since she couldn’t do the same for Mike.
Mike was as free as the wind where Abigail was as caged as a bird in her parent’s eyes.
“Don’t you know what today is?”
Mrs. Sinclair gave a sullen pout, ignorant of the event happening today.
“It’s Mike’s club opening!”
“Today’s Mike’s opening?”
“Yes! Isn’t it great?”
Turns out her brother’s news was grand, and he wasn’t exaggerating when he said the space was big, either. Abigail had seen the pictures. She’d seen the cages hanging from the ceiling and the mirrored walls. The club was extravagant in all sense of the word. She couldn’t be prouder of her big brother.
“Oh.”
“You didn’t know?”
“Well, I knew he had been trying to get a liquor license, but I didn’t know it had happened so soon.”
“So soon? Mom, it took him almost two years.”
“I guess I should go home then. Have fun.” Her mother attempted to stand but with her eyes half swollen, she tripped.
“Sit, you can’t walk home on your own. Where is Carl?” Abigail pulled out her phone to call her mother’s driver but stopped. “Wait, you aren’t going?”
“He didn’t invite me. I wouldn’t want to ruin his big night.”
She worried her lip, hating to see her mother’s feelings hurt. “He probably forgot. You know, he’s been very busy with everything.”
“Abigail, you don’t forget to tell your parents about a special event in your life, you intentionally don’t tell them.”
“Did something happen between you two?”
“It’s the new guy he’s dating. He wants to marry him. They’ve only known each other for three months! It’s too soon.”
“What?”
When they went to Alfonso’s for Sunday brunch, all Mike talked about was the club and how excited he was to see his dream come to life. Not once did he mention getting engaged to Niall.
Her heart shrunk. She thought they were closer than that. Then again, she was hiding things from him, too so could she really feel hurt, betrayed? When Mike asked why she was glowing, she’d avoided the topic, saying she’d started a new workout and the conversation steered to them working out at least once a week together.
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 10
