Collared (Masters of Desires)

The clock read 11:29 am.

At 11:30 am, Preston closed his laptop, rolled up the blueprints on his desk, and went out the door.

He took a detour to the main foyer and informed Jacqueline of the rescheduled meetings for today.

“They will now take place Monday morning,” he said. “Make it happen.”

Ignoring her shocked expression at seeing him leave early for the first time in the three years she’d worked for him, he called for the elevator.

His feet shifted after the first second of waiting.

Deciding he’d get where he needed to be faster, he turned toward the stairs. Trotting down the steps, he pulled out his phone and called for Kenneth to bring the car. He couldn’t waste another precious minute waiting.

“Where to, Sir?” Kenneth asked from the driver’s seat.

“Sinclair Press.”

He raised a meaningful eyebrow, his stoic expression replaced with interest.

“You have something to say, Ken?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then do what you were hired to do.”

With a keen nod, he eased into traffic.

Preston rested his head on the headrest, feeling an ounce of stress leave his body. It had been difficult to work with one eye on the computer, while the other was glued to the clock. He’d been anxious for the clock to hit 11:30 am. Now that it had, he just wanted to get to his destination already. To his dismay, when he opened his eyes, he was on the same street he’d been minutes ago.

Did this city not know who he was? He had places to go and a very special girl to see.

His fingers combed his hair back as his foot began to bounce on the floor mat. The acceleration of his heartbeat only adding to his anticipation.

He didn’t know what had gotten into him.

Actually, he did know, and it wasn’t a what as much as it was a who.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this eager to see Abigail.

Although his thoughts were filled with recent memories of her, his heart felt hollow.

When he’d seen her at the bistro, he hadn’t the chance to touch her as he liked to touch her. He hadn’t the chance to kiss her as he wanted to kiss her or hurt her as she liked to be hurt.

He longed for the days when he had her all to himself.

It seemed like lately, all he did was share her—with her family, his family, Lauren, and the men she slept with during the week. Albeit, Preston made sure to extort her body as much as humanly possible. Now all was left of her to do during the week was recoup so she could offer a fresh canvas to fulfill her master’s desires.

And that was why today was so very special.

He’d have Abigail all afternoon to hurt and to love until Lauren showed up in the evening.

He’d hurt her as he’d never hurt her before, hoping she’d feel his love by the use of his actions instead of his words because she wasn’t ready to hear them. And after it was all over, he’d cradle her in his arms and cocoon her in his warmth.

It was but a few months back when he’d made a promise to himself not to fall for the siren who’d enchanted him before she even spoke a word to him. He never held a chance keeping the promise.

As much as he tried to remind himself she was no different than his other submissives, she refused to let him lie to himself. She pushed and pushed, and fucking pushed until she reached into his chest and ripped out his heart. Now he doubted he’d ever get it back.

Kenneth parked on the curbside of Sinclair Press. The silver lettering glittered against the burgundy brick with the afternoon sun. Through the black rims on the windows, Preston could see Abigail rapidly typing on the keyboard. Her eyes didn’t strain from the computer screen. Her hair was tamed, pulled back in a low ponytail.

He opened the door of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk. Adjusting his suit jacket, he took the final step and pushed open the door into the reception area of the publishing house.

“Good afternoon, Sir. How may I help you?” the blonde receptionist asked. Preston ignored her ravenous eyes as they swept over his body.

“I’m here to see Miss Abigail Bennett.”

“May I ask for your name, Sir?”

“Preston Trice.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let her PA know you’re here.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she said in a sultry voice.

Preston dismissed her sexual undertone.

It amazed him how Melissa Sinclair was pleased with the hiring of a woman who’d blatantly offend a visitor with her flirtatious manner. Had a man done that to a woman, he was sure he’d get an earful. Yet for unbeknownst reasons, a woman was allowed to flirt with a man who didn’t want to be flirted with and it was all in good fun.

The double standards needed to change, but Melissa would not bring upon such a revolution. He hoped Abigail would someday, however.

Knowing the misandrist was somewhere in the building, Preston took a seat on the couch. He skimmed through the magazines on the coffee table, aware of the eyes on him. The last time he’d been here, no one but Abigail was in the building. He’d had free reign to roam around the house as he pleased.

Today, everyone was around.

He made sure not to make a scene and patiently waited for her PA to appear even if his ego urged him to bypass such wait.

A skinny man with more hair than body, obstructed his sight. He introduced himself as Abigail’s assistant.

“Sir, I do not have you on today’s schedule. However, Miss Bennett can see you Tuesday afternoon.”

Preston reserved the need to laugh. Ha! Who did this boy think he was talking to? He hadn’t just irritated him. He’d broken the last nerves Preston had been holding on to.

Fuck it.

He ignored every word that came out of the imbecile’s lips and walked past him and right into Abigail’s office.

“Yes, I’ll send you the revised copy now and—” she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes dancing over him with crazed lust. “I’ll call you later.”

“Miss Bennett, I apologize for the intrusion. Security is on its way,” her PA said.

“It’s okay, Linc. Don’t worry about it.” She smiled at him. “Leave us.”

A fucking smile? He thought Abigail was smarter than to sleep with men in her workplace. He’d been wrong.

“Are you su—”

“The lady said to leave,” Preston pushed him out with a finger. He locked the door and blinded the glass walls that allowed intruders such as her “PA” to gaze inside her office.

“You’re barging into people’s offices now?”

“Are you fucking him?”

Her brows furrowed. “Who, Linc? He’s a teenager. That’s gross, not to mention extremely unethical.”

“Does that change the fact he’s got a dick between his thighs?”

“Ugh, not this again,” she said, exasperated. “I wouldn’t know if he had a dick or not because I haven’t seen him naked.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Come here,” she said in the most sensual way. Like the shipwrecked sailor he was, he went toward the siren. She wrapped her hand around his silver tie and brought his lips close to hers. “I don’t need to fuck any other man. You’re the only man who’s ever satisfied me.”

“Is that why you’re with me? Because I satisfy your needs?”

“Is that not why you’re with me?”

No, it wasn’t. But he wouldn’t say so because it was better to have her than to not have her at all. And so, for the first time in his life, Preston swallowed his words, tucked them in his pocket, hopelessly hoping she would one day be ready to hear them.

He swept a hair strand behind her ear and kissed her cheek so sweetly, he felt her melt against his caress.

“I’m going to hurt you all day long, Abigail. You’re going to scream so fucking much. You’re going to beg me to stop and I won’t listen. I won’t stop until you cry blood. I won’t stop until you say rainbow.”

He kissed her so slow time stood still. When his tongue swept against hers, he felt the weirdest tickling sensation on his spine. The feeling so prevalent, he never wanted it to ever stop.

He picked her up and placed her on her desk. Pencils and papers fell on the floor but neither cared. Their lips never broke contact, instead, the kiss intensified. It felt like the first time he’d ever been kissed, and he wanted her lips to be the only ones he’d ever kiss again.

To avoid anoxia, they both pulled away. He nuzzled her nose with his, breathing hard against her lips. The familiar glint of fear and lust in her eyes made his cock throb.

“Why?” she asked breathlessly.

“You took something that wasn’t yours to take.”

“I didn’t take anything. I—”

“Shh, it’s too late to return it, Abigail. The damage has already been done. Remember Newton’s Law? This is my reaction to your theft.”

“I trust you.”

“I know you do.” He only wished she’d trust him with her heart, too.

He kissed her forehead. “Are you ready to leave?”

“All I need are five minutes to send a few emails.”

He nodded sagely and scratched his chin. “Every minute wasted is a spank earned.”

“I’ll be sure to take my time.” She winked.

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

She smiled in a way that suggested the pleasure was all hers.

Preston scanned the cluttered space, looking for a seat.

The flower-patterned loveseat in the room was covered in books and papers. Good. He wouldn’t be caught dead sitting on that awful thing, anyway. The wooden coffee table had a similar chaotic feel, filled with magazines and envelopes.

Not having a place to sit, he roamed the nicely sized office freely, or as freely as he could with the mess she had. He shook his head. How did she get any work done?

This was his definition of Hell.

How can such a beautiful woman be this unorganized? If this was what her office looked like he could only imagine what her house was like. He quickly removed the thought from his mind, afraid a migraine would strain his temples.

“Ever thought about cleaning this place? It’s awfully messy.” He picked up an empty beer bottle with tulips inside.

“It’s not messy, it’s Bohemian.”

“It’s not Bohemian, it’s hoarding.”

“It’s not hoarding, it’s…table art,” she shot back.

She not only needed a spanking for speaking back but a lesson on contrasting recyclable items versus decorative art.

Intrigued by her interest in literature, Preston made his way to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, bumping into the rope pots that hung from the ceiling. Jesus fuck! Really? He could hear her giggling behind him. That earned her ten extra spankings.

He thrummed his index finger on the colorful spines of diverse books.

Anne Rice, Nawal El Saadawi, Tiffany Reisz, and Chris Kraus were among the many authors he saw along with a collection of books edited by her. The eclectic taste in books didn’t surprise him a bit. The books that startled him the most were the mythologies written by Edith Hamilton, Hesiod, and Robert Fagles.

He pulled out a copy of Theogony/Works and Days.

“Did you read this?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes only going to him for a second. Her fingers didn’t stop typing.

“What did you think about it?”

“I enjoyed it. I think Prometheus might be one of my favorite Titans. I read a lot of his mythology after taking a class for college. Although it was hard to understand most of the poetry. I found myself reading the dictionary more than the book itself.”

“Prometheus, really? He’s the mythological version of Lucifer.” He went on to say, “And if you were Greek, you’d know the etymology of most words.”

She laughed. “That’s your biased opinion because you’re half-Greek. And Prometheus isn’t Lucifer! He is our creator. He made us out of mud and stood for what he believed in.”

“He didn’t create us. He created men, Angel, not women.”

“Oh, please.” She went on to talk about Pandora and the anti-feminism behind Hesiod’s words. Her opinionated views on mythology turned him on. He sent a silent thanks to Hephaestus for creating such a beautiful creation and to Zeus for ordering him to create women.

“Are you done?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

“Yes,” she said defiantly, her arms crossed.

“Good because it’s time to play.”