“Of course. Who broke his heart?”
He smiled as his mouth found her neck very appetizing. “What makes you think someone broke his heart?”
She turned in his arms and raised an eyebrow. “No man gets that drunk over a lost football game. That is a broken heart kind of drunk.”
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” he suggested.
She followed behind him. “Oh, I see. You won’t break the bro code.”
“There’s no bro code. It isn’t any of our business. If you’re concerned about him, don’t be. He isn’t as weak as we all think he is.”
Under the warmth of the sheets, Abigail whispered. “Is he like us?”
“Elliott is anything and everything as long as it has a hole. I’m not really sure what he is. This lifestyle is all a ploy for him to have orgies and fuck whenever he has the urge. He’s not like us, though. You and I are one of a kind.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
It had been weeks since the calendar marked the end of winter and welcomed the resurrection of wildflowers.
Residents exchanged their winter coats for brightly patterned garments and short-sleeved wear. A new wave of tourists crowded the sidewalks of the city, turning into a nuisance for residents who simply wanted a peaceful stroll down Central Park.
No longer sooted in snow, the Angel of the Waters stood proudly above the Bethesda Fountain overlooking the lake and blessing the water below her feet. People gathered around it, resting on the ring of the fountain as children ran around the perimeter of the circle. Couples posed for photographs with cheerful smiles and prolonged kisses as if never wanting the memory to be forgotten.
Their romantic exchanges reminded Abigail of the last time she’d seen Preston. Despite herself, her eyes turned glassy.
With both playing major roles in their jobs, they rarely saw each other on weekdays. As much as they’d tried to meet for lunch every now and then, it never happened. Either Abigail was too busy or one of Preston’s meetings had run too long.
Preston was as much a workaholic as she was, so the only time they talked over the phone was after ten at night and by then the two were too tired to have a productive conversation. The only time they had to themselves was the weekend when they spent it fucking like deprived rabbits, hurting the other physically, emotionally, and mentally.
The promise of the weekend made the long weekdays bearable.
If only Friday would come sooner.
Her body yearned to be filled.
Her skin asked to be bruised.
Her mind begged to be possessed.
“Here you go,” Mike said, handing Abigail a cup of warm brew.
“My ovaries and I thank you,” Abigail said, welcoming the taste of cocoa and melted marshmallows.
Mike settled on the empty space next to her and followed her contemplating gaze.
He shook his head. “You become such a needy mess when you’re on your period.”
“I do not,” she lied. “And I am not on my period.” Her tracking app had reminded her this morning a new cycle was to begin in approximately three days.
Mike rolled his eyes. “Either way, you’ll see your boyfriend tomorrow. No need to cry over him.”
“I’m not crying and he’s not my—” she stopped herself.
Boyfriend?
Was that what Preston had become?
The word sounded juvenile.
As much as she’d be comfortable referring to him as the man she was dating, she admitted Preston was slowly turning into something more, something that surpassed the boyfriend noun.
Abigail took a deep breath. She released the air through her nose as she waited for the all too familiar punch in her heart, but the loud thud never followed.
What surprised her most was how the realization of more with Preston didn’t scare her. In fact, during the past weeks, she floated on the promise of seeing him every weekend.
“Has he not asked?” Mike asked, genuinely curious.
“If you must know, no, he hasn’t asked, and before you say anything, I do not care for him to ask.” She looked at him as she sipped her cocoa with a mischievous smile. “He said he loved me.”
Mike all but jumped out of the bench.
“Wait. Rewind. He said he loved you?”
Abigail nodded.
“How? When?”
She shushed him. “Don’t be so loud. A couple of weeks ago.”
“And you’re just telling me now?”
Abigail shrugged. “You’ve been super busy with the wedding, and I needed time to process the words myself.”
“Wedding planning is a pain in my ass. I need distractions.”
She swallowed the rest of her hot cocoa before letting a floodgate of lies come out of her mouth. She hated the deceit and dishonesty most, especially when it came to Mike who’d always been honest with her. But this life she lived didn’t just involve her, it was also about Preston, and he too had a reputation to uphold. Although she knew he could care less about what people thought, it wasn’t her place to out him.
Abigail told Mike a fabricated story where Lauren did not exist, and masochists and sadists were as imaginary as unicorns and mermaids. She did, however, confess her true feelings about the whole I love you and more situation.
“At first I was shocked. I didn’t know what he meant when he said he wanted more, but I trust him to know my limits. I told him I wasn’t ready to say I loved him, but that I do feel the same.”
“Oh, my God. Poor guy. You know, a lot of people see I love you as a determining step in their relationship. Props to Preston for staying with you after saying you needed more time.”
“Preston is fine. He understands I wasn’t ready. Like I said, just because I didn’t say the words, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel the same.”
“Well, are you ready now?”
It must have been the fresh spring air or maybe it was the cocktail of hormones and loneliness brewing in her ovaries that made Abigail Bennett certain of her feelings toward Preston.
“I am,” she said definitely. “I’m ready to tell him.”
“Okay, so call him,” Mike dared.
“Excuse me?”
“Call him. If you’re as sure as you say you are, call Preston and tell him you love him.”
She laughed hysterically. “He’s not that type of guy, and I am not that type of girl.”
“What does that even mean?”
“We’re not hopeless romantics.” She looked at her phone, noticing the time. “He’s probably on a conference call right now. I won’t interrupt him with nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Mike said, a little too loud for Abigail’s comfort. “The guy has been waiting weeks to hear you say you love him. Trust me, if you call him right now those words won’t be taken as nonsense. He will be relieved.”
At six-thirty in the evening, Preston would still be in his office, typing emails or talking to investors. She wasn’t going to jeopardize his workspace for three little words that needed to be said in person.
“Enough about me. How is wedding planning going with Mom?” Abigail steered the conversation to a very controversial topic, knowing Mike couldn’t give a short response.
And she was right.
Mike spent the remaining hour talking about venues, bands, florists, and cake decorators, not once forgetting to mention what a pain their mother was as a wedding planner. A title who neither groom had given her, but Mrs. Sinclair had claimed herself.
Much after Mike’s rant, Abigail said her goodbye and called it a night. She hopped in a taxi and gave a deep sigh of relief as the driver neared her brownstone.
“Have a great night,” she said to the driver, coming to a complete halt as she faced her home.
The handsome man waiting at the top of the steps had her heart racing.
She breathed in his masculine scent as her hungry eyes examined his toned body. He wore his classic suit, only this time there was no tie and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.
“Hi,” she said giddily. “What are you doing here?”
His lips smashed into hers vigorously. He grabbed her cheeks with both hands, dragging her toward him. Her body turned to jelly under his commanding grip and so she melted further in his arms.
“You came for just a kiss?” she asked breathlessly.
“It’s never just a kiss with you, Angel,” Preston murmured, running his nose against hers.
Abigail ran a hand through his waves, pushing his widow’s peak back. It was so prominent he looked villainous.
Her very sexy villain.
“Do you want to come inside?”
He nodded.
As he crossed the threshold, a loud hiss erupted from Mr. Grey’s mouth.
“Fuck!” Preston shouted as his hand flew to his chest. “What the fuck is that?”
Abigail giggled. She bent down and cuddled Mr. Grey in her arms, kissing his tiny head. “This is Mr. Grey, my cat.”
Preston tried to shake his paw, but Mr. Grey didn’t fall for his commanding eyes as easily as his owner did.
“Not only does your mother hate me, but so does your antagonistic cat.”
“My mother does not hate you, stop thinking and saying that. As for Mr. Grey, he’s not antagonistic, he’s cautious when it comes to strangers.” And that was the truth. She could still remember how timid and unruly he’d been when he first entered her house. Now he was the only male who greeted her every day with shin massages.
Abigail bit her lip as Preston scrutinized her apartment, looking for a place to sit.
Unlike her office, she kept her home tidy, as tidy as her creativity allowed. There were no manuscripts on any empty surfaces or potted plants hanging from the ceiling, so he didn’t have a problem finding a seat.
Mr. Grey slipped from her arms and jumped on the top of the kitchen cabinets, high enough to watch Preston’s every move.
“Would you like a drink?” Abigail asked, slipping off her heels and placing her purse by the side table.
“I’d like for you to come here.” His tone commanded her to walk.
He licked his lips.
His eyes roamed her body just as hers did his.
He made her feel like the only woman in the universe.
Her skin prickled with goosebumps.
Anticipation ran through her veins as she straddled his hips, slowly rocking on his erection. He inched her skirt higher, lazily walking his fingers onto the top of her naked thighs. His hands on her skin ignited a wildfire to surge straight to her northern region.
She closed her eyes and let the tension in her abdomen spring as he unstrapped her bra. His warm breath blew on her nipples, bringing each to attention as he teased one with the tip of his tongue through her shirt.
“Preston...” she moaned his name.
He wasn’t really here.
This must be a dream.
A dream she never wanted to wake up from. To have him here, underneath her, in her home on a Thursday, felt magical.
She gripped his shoulder as his thumb circled her clitoris through her wet panties. A wave of ecstasy surged through her spine as one of his fingers entered her.
Then another.
A whimper escaped her lips as he removed his fingers to unbuckle his belt.
“Are you wearing a cup?” he asked as he fumbled with his zipper.
She shook her head. “What?”
“Take it out.”
“What? No, I’m not on my period.”
He showed his two fingers with a raised brow.
“Oh, no,” Abigail whispered as she climbed off Preston and rushed to the bathroom.
Bon voyage to her time with Master Trice.
Bon voyage to her multiple orgasms.
Bonjour to heating pads, chocolates, a countless marathon of the Princess Bride, and a downpour of unknown anger and sadness.
“Hey,” Preston said, leaning on the bathroom door. “What’s wrong?”
“I got my period. I wasn’t supposed to get it today,” Abigail said, not quite understanding her body.
She reached for the shower handle as she began to remove her clothes. “I need to shower. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head as if she had nothing to apologize for and helped her undress. He unzipped her skirt, let it pool beneath her feet along with her panties and shirt. Her skin turned clammy with vapor and wanton with desire.
“Will you join me?” she begged, still needing him inside her.
“I can’t. I have to leave soon.”
“You don’t have to leave,” she suggested, playing with the buttons of his shirt. “You can always sleep over.”
“I have to leave for France in a couple of hours. I won’t be back until Sunday evening.”
“France?” Her heart frowned at the news. “Is that why you’re here today? To say goodbye?”
“Not quite.” A dangerous smile played on his lips. “I’m here to pick you up.”
“Ha!” Abigail laughed, giving Preston her back as she made her way into the shower.
Before her foot crossed the threshold, her face slapped against the damped glass. His grip hardened around the back of her neck as he parted her legs with his knee.
“Mmm,” she moaned at the sudden assault—at the sound of his belt hitting the floor as he unzipped his pants.
“Show your master some respect.” Preston smacked her ass, bringing her to her tiptoes. As he caressed her cheek, admiring the scorching handprint, the glint of a diamond caught his attention.
He parted her ass cheeks, pleased to see she’d obeyed his command to only remove her plug when necessary. With a forceful jut, he pushed the plug deep inside her, forcing her hands to clasp on either side of the glass.
“Bend over and grab your ankles.”
She followed his command religiously, knowing Preston was no more.
He fastened his belt around her hands and ankles, looping the excess leather as tightly as he could.
Blood instantly rushed to her head, making her feel as if it’d explode the longer she stood upside down. Not only did she find it hard to breathe, but her ass was on display for him to use as he pleased, however many times he desired.
It felt glorious to be this vulnerable before him. To be a sex doll only to be used when he pleased. A slave, only to be hurt when Master Trice was angered.
He pushed three fingers inside her wet pussy, stroking her erogenous zones with adept fingers. Her inner walls began to clench around him, urging him to push deeper. Harder. Faster.
Abigail’s vision blurred through the strands of her hair as she felt a spurt of liquid slide down her inner thighs. She closed her eyes, letting out a loud moan that quivered her shoulders and knees, disrupting her balance.
He removed the belt from her ankles and hands. “Get cleaned. We leave in an hour.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Preston sat on the edge of Abigail’s bed, lamenting the past with an aspiring gaze into the future.
His future currently paced around her cluttered bedroom with a robe wrapped around her body, leaving careless droplets of water on the floor as she rummaged through her closet. She fluttered her big round eyes, letting out a soft groan as she threw piles of clothes into a suitcase.
Preston shook his head disappointedly, taking each piece of clothing and folding them into perfect squares.
If he knew nothing else, he knew Abigail Bennett was a slovenly person. Nevertheless, he loved her with an intense love that shook his heart.
It scared him to the nuts.
It also made his what-ifs from when he was nineteen a reality.
What if he’d made a mistake?
What if he’d marry?
What if he became a husdom?
What if he’d finally make a family?
A clear image of a future with Abigail was very distant. But it was there, and he held onto the promise, as minuscule as it was.
She was, after all, an independent woman who spoke her mind
when her opinion was not needed, nor asked for. She enjoyed her liberty outside their weekend arrangement and followed her passion more than she did her heart. At times, very rarely, she wasn’t afraid to put herself first even if it made her seem selfish.
She wouldn’t want to be tied down to a man for the rest of her life.
No, Abigail Bennett hated romantic clichés, Sunday brunch, and Little League.
But the whore within delved in the pleasure of pleasing her master’s every command. And she’d do it willingly, blindly trusting him to guide her through the ring of fire.
“Do I even have a choice?” Abigail asked, placing both hands on either side of her hips.
Had he ever seen anything as beautiful as she?
No.
He knew it for a fact.
Not even Aphrodite herself was as alluring as Abigail Bennett.
The man who thought love was an advertisement used for jewelry stores was but a distant memory.
She’d irrevocably changed his views on love.
Had he done the same for her?
“You always have a choice. Whether you are whore, slave, or simply Abigail. Whether I am Preston or Master Trice, as long as you’re with me, you will always have a choice.”
Her shoulders deflated as she spoke, “I’d love to go with you. I really would, but I have a job and a pain-in-the-ass boss. When she sees I don’t show up tomorrow, she’ll ask all sorts of intrusive questions I am sure neither of us would want to answer.”
He grabbed her hand and brought her body close to his. “I think I have shown you how well I can handle your mother.”
He touched her uncovered knee, feeling her skin turn to bumps under his touch. He raised her foot to rest on his thigh, peppering kisses up her ankle and calf. He felt her breath catch in her throat as he kissed his way up her thigh, her stomach, her breasts, finally settling on her lips.
“Ready to go?” His voice was pure seduction. It enchanted her all the way to JFK Airport.
* * *
Abigail averted her eyes from the white jet and turned her attention to Preston. “Is this yours?”
He nodded. “Do you not have one?”
She let out a puff of air. “I have money, but I’m not a millionaire. Do you travel that often you need a jet?”
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 27
