Collared (Masters of Desires)

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?”

“Not as much as I used to.” A salacious brunette kept his weekend traveling at bay.

Preston scratched his chin as he watched her take the steps to the jet with a certain sway to her hips. The woman was insatiable.

Not wasting another second, he ran after her. His front slammed into her back as they came to a complete stop at the top of the stairs. Abigail playfully pushed back, rocking her ass on the dent of his pants.

“Good evening, Mr. Trice,” Angela greeted. She turned to Abigail. “Miss Bennett, welcome.”

The couple shook hands with the captain and stewardesses who’d accompany them on their seven-hour voyage over the North Atlantic Ocean. Preston gave Abigail a quick tour of the plane, showing her the kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom in the back.

“Is this okay?” he asked as they walked into the bedroom. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek as she inspected the small space. Preston pulled his hair back. “You can always rest on the lounge chairs in the front cabin. It’s more spacious there.”

“This is good. Thank you for thinking of me.” Abigail rose on her toes and kissed his lips tenderly. She looked deep into his brown eyes and took a profound breath. “Preston I—”

“Global 5500 ready for takeoff. Please be seated and fasten your seatbelts,” the captain notified over the speakers.

“We should go,” she said, walking out of the room.

Preston caught her before she made it to the hallway. “What were you going to say?” He searched her eyes.

She shook her head as if wanting to say more but stopping herself. “Nothing. I’m just glad I’m here with you.”

Preston wondered what she was hiding—what she was afraid to say. He could easily make her say whatever it was she was going to say, but the words needed to come from her. He wasn’t going to force them. Not now.

So, he followed her to their seats and helped buckle her seatbelt around her waist, all while she looked out the small window, avoiding his gaze.

He touched the bridge of his nose as he released an exhausted sigh. As much as he’d love to pry Abigail’s mind as one picks olives out of a jar, he had roughly six hours to get the last few details of the Bessette project in order.

Apart from the pictures sent to Preston by Mrs. Bessette, who appeared to have taken the project from her husband’s busy hands, he hadn’t seen much of the desecrated hotel that rested on a twelve-acre lot in Le Champs-Elysees.

Preston had a multitude of goals and three days to accomplish them all, so he quickly emerged himself into work.

For the next four hours, he sent emails to his Parisian contractors and building inspectors to meet him at Hotel Bessette as soon as he landed. He needed to bulldozer the rundown building and get all the permits approved by the city to start the reconstruction process. Most importantly, Jean-Pierre needed to approve the latest model and blueprints of the soon-to-be-constructed Hotel Bessette.

“May I offer you some water, Sir?” Angela asked, offering Preston a cold glass of water.

He received it gratefully.

Digging into the inside pocket of his pants, he produced a small bottle of pills. Three tablets fell into his palm as he angled the bottle. He reached for the water and swallowed the pills in one gulp.

If only he could dominate his migraines as easily as he did Abigail.

They were getting unpredictable and out of control, appearing at all times during the day and night. The intensity of them couldn’t be normal, neither could their frequency. Had Dr. Campbell gotten the scans wrong? Was Preston going to end up as his father?

“Airplane headache?” she asked.

He nodded, not needing conversation or prying eyes. At his short answer, Angela retreated to the flight attendant’s cabin.

Preston pulled up his inbox and quickly sent Dr. Campbell an email, asking for an immediate appointment as soon as he came back from his trip. He closed the laptop and turned to Abigail, needing some relief.

He rendered himself speechless at the beautiful woman beside him.

Her forehead rested on the window.

Her eyes were closed in repose.

Her lips slightly parted as she took small intakes of air.

There was something beautiful about her silence that made him miss her voice. Her moans. Her screams. Her cries.

He watched her for minutes or was it hours? He couldn’t tell. Time ceased to exist when Abigail Bennett was his muse. His inspiration for the next torture she’d endure.

He unbuckled her seatbelt, placed his hand behind her head, and pulled her hair back. Hard.

Abigail awoke with a gasp.

Her eyes widened as she searched for the source of pleasure. Her pupils dilated when they landed on Master Trice. She released a soft moan that begged him to pull harder.

The sweet image made his heart feel full like everything he’d done, every mistake he’d made, had led up to this moment. Where he sat next to a woman who had no desire to change him. A woman who accepted him, not for who he could be, but for every part of who he was.

A woman like this Preston wouldn’t let go.

Not this one. Not again.

He knew just the steps to follow to be legally bounded to Abigail Bennett for the rest of their lives.

This time, he’d make sure she’d read the fine print.