Collared (Masters of Desires)

The unmistakable aroma of Paris welcomed Abigail to the City of Lights. The mixture of cigarettes, urine, and exhaust pipes caused her to roll up the window and watch the city from the safety of a scented-proof glass.

She watched as the narrow cobblestone sidewalks rapidly flooded with Parisians and tourists ready for an escapade in the late morning sun. Her toes itched to join the crowd. Her mouth watered to taste the fresh out of the oven croissants the pâtissier placed on the stands. Smoke floated above the baked dough straight into her growling stomach.

If she squinted her eyes just enough, she’d see the Eiffel Tower standing proud on European soil. It commanded the city much as her master commanded her.

Abigail diverted her eyes from Paris and turned to Preston who’d been on the phone since they’d landed.

She had three full days with Paris, only but a few hours with her master. She jumped at the opportunity to initiate a conversation when Preston ended the call.

“What’s that smell?”

He chuckled. “I take it you’ve never been to Paris.”

“Actually,” she said, “I came here when I was five, but that doesn’t really count. I barely remember a thing. Most of my trips were to the States and the Caribbean. I’ve always wanted to explore the history of Europe.” Before Preston got a chance to dial another number, she asked, “Where else have you been to?”

“Too many places to count,” he said. His eyes went back to his phone as his fingers typed hurriedly.

Why was he in such a hurry?

“For work or pleasure?”

“Work,” they said in unison.

She smiled. “Do you ever take a day off?”

He took his eyes off his phone and raised a brow at her. “Do you?”

Her cheeks blushed. No, she didn’t. She could honestly say today was the first time she’d taken a day off since she started working at Sinclair Press. Until recently, she had no desire to play hooky. Now she wished Friday was a part of the weekend.

“Shit,” she said, pulling out her phone.

Speaking of work reminded her she needed to send her mother a message.

[Abigail]

Hi, Mom, sorry for the late notice, believe me, it was late notice for me, too. I’m not going to work today. I’m in France with Preston for the weekend. It’s crazy and spontaneous, I know, but it feels good. It feels right… I’m sorry for missing work. Hope you can understand. Love you!

“You think she already filed a Missing Person’s Report,” he joked, a hint of a smile played on his lips.

“Hey! I thought we agreed to leave the jokes to comedians?”

“I don’t recall such conversation,” Preston used her words against her. They stared at each other through narrowed slits and uplifted lips wanting to burst into megawatt smiles.

Abigail gave in first.

Her laugh echoed around them like an overpowering orchestra that brought tears to her eyes and blanketed her with joy.

She caught a glimpse of the trance she had caused to overcome him. His phone long forgotten, he watched her, enraptured by everything she was. In his dark eyes, she saw an intense longing to overrule all her senses—a longing to command her to give herself to him fully.

Whether for fear or pride, he held himself back.

It wasn’t because he didn’t have the power to command her to do, say, or feel as he said. Preston knew the power he held over Abigail. If he told her to love him, she’d obey. If he commanded her to say the words he yearned to hear, she’d vow them firmly.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t make a sound.

His silence had given her a power she didn’t want. She didn’t want to think of what to say, how to act, or how to feel when she was with him. She wanted him to be in control of all aspects of how she felt.

The fact he was allowing her time, frightened her.

Although his lips halted and his tongue stayed hidden, his eyes chanted loudly. They were a noose that tightened around her neck with every blink. A dare that challenged her to take the risk of love. Where was the girl who’d knocked on a club’s door months ago? Where was the girl willing to do anything for a night of submission?

The words he’d been anticipating were on the tip of her tongue when he cleared his throat. A string of French slipped past his lips as he spoke to the chauffeur. The car came to a stop soon after. It parked on the road next to a building with scaffoldings on the side, covered by a blue tarp. The place looked like it’d collapse any minute.

She wet her lips with her tongue as she moved a strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart felt heavy all of the sudden.

“You speak French?”

“I’m Greek. I speak all the languages.” He opened the door and stepped out. “Je vais te voir bientôt, Ange.”

“Now you’re just showing off.” She pointed out, seeking humor to quiet her thoughts. “You’re leaving right now?”

He nodded. “Julien will take you to the hotel and anywhere else you’d like to go. Don’t leave without him.” With that, he closed the door. He grabbed a hard hat from a box resting on a table outside and spoke to a man holding a clipboard.

Abigail unbuckled her seatbelt and slid to his side of the car. She rolled the window and called after him.

“Please be safe.”

He pointed to his hard hat. “Always am.”

She smiled through glassy eyes as she waved goodbye. Stop it, Abigail. Her hormones were getting the best of her. She was smart enough to differentiate between her own emotions and the fluctuating hormone levels brought upon by her cycle.

He excused himself and looked at his watch. After a profound sigh, he jotted to the car.

“What’s going on?” he asked. His phone rang in his pocket. Was he going to ignore it?

“Are you going to get that?”

“It’s not important.”

“I’m not a needy person. I don’t know what’s overcome me,” she said as he wiped away a tear with his thumb.

“There’s no shame in needing someone.”

She chuckled at his ignorance. She didn’t need someone. She needed him. His lips. His hands. His authority. His wrath. His punishments. No one else would do but him. She’d needed him for years and the thought of losing him, whether to scaffolding mishaps or to her inability to express herself seemed ridiculous.

“I don’t need someone,” Abigail said. “I need you. I want you. Preston I—”

His sun-kissed lips brushed her wet lips softly, long enough to block the outside noise and the horrid stench of the city. She drew him toward her, pulling the hair on the back of his neck that snuck out of his hat. Her tongue pleaded for entrance as it swept along his bottom lip. As his tongue unhurriedly brushed against hers, a release of dopamine gave her a natural high. The feeling so addictive, she never wanted it to end.

Their foreheads pressed together as he whispered against her lips, “Don’t say it unless you’re ready.” He breathed heavily. “I’ll try to make it back in time for dinner. I’ll text you if anything changes.”

Abigail watched Preston resume conversation with the contractor and walk into the large blue tarp.

Her phone buzzed on her lap.

[Mom]

Would you look at that? My daughter’s finally taking her paid vacation days. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m not mad at all. Have fun. You deserve it! Don’t worry about the edits, I’ve already taken care of them.

[Abigail]

Thank you, Momma. You’re the best!

As the car drove off the construction site, Abigail felt it hard to explore the City of Love without her beloved. Regardless, she followed Preston’s word for the simple fact he told her to.

Not ready to head to an empty hotel room, she asked Julien to stop at the nearest bistro where she ordered a ham and cheese baguette and used the restroom. With Julien waiting in the car, she walked the narrow streets of Paris, snapping pictures of homes overflowing with ivy and quaint boutiques with clothes and accessories that were sure to cost more than her New York City townhome.

As her private chauffeur and tour guide, Julien dropped Abigail off at Château de Versailles. She found herself lost in the ancient halls of the palace. The baroque decorations were over the top aristocrat. The ceilings called her eyes to rise higher and higher until she met angels herself.

Abigail walked into the royal chambers of the late Louis the Great. An intricate bed rested in the center of the room. As she stepped inside, she felt like Midas himself, though it was her eyes that held the power to turn everything they saw into gold.

She imagined herself as a young woman in the eighteenth century quietly strolling the gilded halls of the extravagant palace of Versailles. She’d walk into the bedroom of a very powerful King who’d take her virginity in this very bed. She saw herself shedding piece after piece of her heavy dress until she wore nothing but a virginal chemise. The only lights in the room came from the lighted candles that’d cast shadows of the indecent act behind the closed canopy.

If she’d met Preston years back, she’d have lost her virginity to him instead of Jackson O’Brien. What a wasted day it had been. Unfortunately, she’d remember it forever.

Abigail spent the rest of the day roaming the opulent palace.

With tired legs, she took a seat on a bench overlooking the Jardins du Château de Versailles. As she took a picture of the verdant labyrinths, her phone began to buzz. She rolled her eyes at the caller ID. Melissa Sinclair failed at keeping her lips sealed when it came to either of her children’s lives.

“Bonsoir, what are the two lovebirds doing in the ville de romance, enjoying a ménage à trois, perhaps?”

She wished. “Are those the only words you know in French?”

“It’s more than you can say,” Mike shot back with the truth. He’d always aced his foreign language courses. “Anyway, where have you been? What time is it there anyway?”

“It’s five in the afternoon. Preston had to work, so I’ve been exploring the city on my own.”

“Hold up. What?”

“We’re here for work, not pleasure.”

“Well,” Mike suggested, “I’m sure there’ll be some kind of pleasure.”

She hoped so. The only pleasure she’d gotten thus far had been the opera cake she had for lunch.

There was a pause. “Mom and Dad swear you’re in love. Maybe they should give the news to Preston. I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear the words.”

“Ah, so this is why you called,” she said. Michael Bennett was just as nosey as his mother.

“Not entirely. Niall and I are looking at honeymoon locations and Paris is the City of Love. I’ve heard they aren’t fond of Americans, though.”

“I’ve been traveling with my own personal tour guide who’s translated everything for me, so as far as I know, Parisians are very nice to Americans.”

“Speaking of fondness, you know, Niall and I owe Mom’s sudden approval to Preston. Ever since he came into the family, Mom’s been very fond of Niall.”

She laughed. “Preston handles Mom better than Niall ever did.”

“Niall is a kiss ass when it comes to Mom. Don’t tell him I said so, though.”

Soon after Abigail swore never to tell Niall his fiancé referred to him as a kiss ass, Abigail and Mike said their goodbyes.

Exhausted and ready for a shower, Abigail asked Julien to take her to the hotel.

A young bellhop guided a very tired Abigail through the grandiose lobby of Hotel Elite de Paris. A chandelier in the middle of the room raised her heavy eyes to the never-ending staircase. The entryways and windows were arched with black paneling and navy-blue curtains that popped with their golden tassels.

Everything was luxurious and extravagant.

She’d seen her fair share of high-end hotels, but this one made the five stars she’d stayed at look like one-star motels.

The room Preston had reserved wasn’t much of a room, rather a suite, equipped with a kitchen, living room, and terrace. Enamored by the stunning view from the terrace, she walked toward it. She opened the French doors and stepped outside, letting a gust of spring wind ruffle her bangs.

Their room was high enough to give them privacy but not too high to exclude them from the beauty of Paris. The Eiffel Tower was but meters from her. If she extended her arm, she was sure she’d touch it.

“Er, Madame.” Abigail turned around at the sound of the French voice. The bellman was on the other side of the room with a cart holding their belongings. “Where would you like ze bags?”

“Oh, um. You can put them right there. I’ll sort them out. Merci,” she used one of the only foreign words she knew.

Exhausted, she slipped off her shoes and carried their bags to the master suite. The king-sized bed in the middle of the room was picturesque. Its elaborate detailing on the headboard and footboard reminded her of the King’s chambers in Versailles. The white canopy curtains above the bed reminded her of an earlier thought.

Anxious to get the night started, she looked at her phone for a message from Preston.

[Preston]

I’m sorry, Angel. It looks like I won’t make it to dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.

Abigail had never understood the phrase, “so close, yet so far away” as much as she did at that moment.