There was a sudden knock on the door and with the turn of the knob, Mrs. Bessette came right in, not waiting for a reply.
She strode toward her husband with her hips slowly swaying from side to side, hoping to seduce not only her husband. Everything was done to a tee—her hair, her makeup, even the figure-hugging dress she wore. She watched Preston from the corner of her eye as she wrapped her arms around Jean-Pierre’s neck.
Beatrice asked, “Mon amour, are you ready to go?”
He twisted his neck to kiss his wife’s arm. “I have a meeting with potential interior designers for the hotel.”
“Move it. Surely they won’t mind.”
“I’ve rescheduled it twice due to your impromptu visits.” His eyes went to Preston as a smile spread his lips. “Peut-être, our American architect would like to join you on my behalf.”
“Peut-être.” Beatrice kissed her husband’s temple. Her eyes didn’t stray from Preston’s as her tongue darted into Jean-Pierre’s ear. She grazed her teeth along the lobe.
Preston watched on, never breaking eye contact with Mrs. Bessette as she continued her crude gestures on her husband’s neck—all the while, wishing Preston was at the receiving end of her nauseating affection. If Jean-Pierre was able to put aside his needs by granting his wife carte blanche, then he had to be willing to do the same for Abigail.
He stood and fastened the two buttons on his suit. His throat was cleared with a deep rasp. “Forgive me but we will need to meet another time. I have something urgent to take care of.”
Mr. Bessette shot Preston a wink as he walked toward the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nights on the weekend were a ritual Abigail followed to a tittle. At eight, she ran herself a lukewarm bath and stayed under the water until it turned cold. She pat dried her body slowly and walked to Preston’s side of the closet in search of a shirt that smelled just as he did.
Around nine thirty, she made her way to the kitchen and pulled out a pint of ice cream from the freezer. She uncovered the lid and took a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into her mouth.
“Hmm,” Abigail moaned at the sweet taste of chocolate with caramel brownie bites.
With Mr. Grey following her every move, Abigail settled on the living room couch. After skipping through a handful of channels, she gave up searching for something interesting to watch. Channel surfing was a nightmare on the weekends, so what was the point of even trying?
Having found nothing to occupy her mind, Abigail flipped on her favorite movie about two lovers who after five years, had found their way back to each other and whose love had grown stronger than ever before.
If their love could survive years apart, an arranged marriage, and kidnappers, then hers and Preston’s would survive weeks apart and broken trust.
The idyll thought, as juvenile and fairytale-like as it was, brought a smile to her lips. And with the idyll thought in mind, Abigail became weary with sleep and fell into a deep slumber.
Hours later, she woke to the hissing sound of Mr. Grey. With her eyes shut from sleep, she searched for him on the couch but couldn’t find him. She rubbed at her eyes and allowed herself to adjust to the night. He was nowhere in sight. She figured he was playing with one of his many toys.
As per her ritual, she turned off the TV, wrapped her arms around her cold shoulders, and sauntered to her empty bedroom where she would lay in bed and make a wish.
She’d taken part in this ritual with the desired outcome that Preston would come home. Almost two weeks later and he still wasn’t home.
Halfway to her bedroom, Abigail detoured to the balcony. Today, she’d wish upon a star, not an empty room.
She inhaled the cool autumn night. It caressed her cheeks and pushed back her hair with a cool breeze that chilled her shoulders. She gazed at the black sky. The longer she looked at it, the lonelier it became. It was as if it mirrored her emotions.
Somewhere on the horizon, something shone with glistening hope. Squinting her eyelids, Abigail followed the glow of a quivering star.
Was a star not the panacea for a long-lost dream, a hopeful wish?
As Abigail closed her eyes and wished for Preston to come home, she heard Mr. Grey’s hiss again. What trouble had he gotten himself into now?
She hoped none. Preston would have a fit if Mr. Grey broke any of his things.
When she opened her eyes again, the star had disappeared, and the moon sat alone atop the Empire State. Her wish would come true. She knew it in her heart.
Abigail walked through the open balcony doors in search of the four-legged hooligan.
“Mr. Grey,” she called out, strolling to the sound of his hissing.
A dark silhouette stood unmoving by the elevator. Abigail didn’t need the moon to cast light over the silhouette. She knew who the person was even if they were miles apart. She brought a hand to her chest, felt her heart pound against her palm.
“Preston,” Abigail said, not quite believing her eyes.
She blinked away her groggy sleep, thinking this must be a dream but his image remained. After nine nights, he was finally here. Standing in the middle of the foyer, looking as much the businessman as her dominant master and her sweet, sweet Preston.
“Preston,” she said again, gasping for air.
She wished she could look as poised as he did but she’d fail if she tried. So, she didn’t. She didn’t pretend she hadn’t missed him. She didn’t pretend he was not here. She let her tears fall. She let her feet sprint to him. She let her body collide with his chest and her arms circle his neck.
Abigail wanted to kiss him, taste his lips, and cling to his body, never ever let him go. But she feared rejection, so she settled for an unrequited hug.
“Abigail,” she heard him say. His soft voice was like an angelic melody to her ears.
Preston released a shuttered breath and rested his cheek on top of her head. Ever so slowly, he brought her body closer to his. A drop of saltwater wet her hair and so she hugged him tighter, as tight as her arms allowed. His pain was her pain and right now, Abigail felt like she’d been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.
“You have a goatee,” she acknowledged, tracing the prickly hair along his upper lip and chin. It was heavenly to touch him. To feel reality was so much better than a dream.
He attempted a smile, but it wasn’t sincere.
“The Bessettes suggested I get one. It’s a trend in Paris, I was told.”
Abigail didn’t need to ask which Bessette. She knew the answer to that. She needn’t waste her time with pointless chatter. Right now, she needed to save her marriage. She inhaled a profound breath and gave herself the strength she needed to speak the truth.
“Can we talk?” she dared ask. “Please.”
He shook his head. “Not now. I spent nine hours on a flight, working. I didn’t even get a chance to change my clothes. All I want to do is take a shower and sleep in my bed. We’ll talk later.”
Abigail could tell Preston still needed his space, but he was trying, and she loved him all the more for it.
She nodded, licked her lips, and tasted salt.
“Okay,” she said to his retreating back.
She picked up the empty pint from the living room and threw it in the trashcan next to the refrigerator. In the stainless steel, she saw her awful reflection. Her lips had a chocolate outline and her chin held remnants of brownie bites. She daren’t look at her bird’s nest hair. She hurried to the sink to wipe her mouth and chin. With quick fingers, she brushed her tangled hair.
By the time Abigail went to her bedroom, the lights had been drawn and Preston was whistling a sweet lullaby that always managed to make her fall asleep. Oh, how she’d missed that sound.
A smile touched her lips.
Now the bed didn’t look so large.
Slowly, not wanting to wake him, she tiptoed to the bed and got under the covers. Preston was so close, the closest he’d been to her in nine nights.
Abigail rol
led onto her side and watched the muscles on his back curve to the moonlight. Before she knew it, her fingers were dancing over the elegant ridges.
“Abigail, please.”
“I’ve missed you, Prest.”
Her lips pressed against the smooth layer of skin on the back of his neck. His skin instantly peppered with bumps.
“Stop!” he said harshly, shrugging her off his shoulders as he rose from the bed. His chest moved up and down like the tumultuous waves of the sea. “I’m tired, Abigail. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want you to kiss me. What I want is to sleep. Let me know if I have to do that in another room.”
“I’m so-sorry,” she whispered, rolling onto her side. She scooted the closest she could to the edge of the bed without falling over. She needn’t give him another reason to leave her again.
“I need more time,” he said, trying to ease her worry.
Abigail nodded, although she doubted he could see it. She didn’t have the strength to speak without bursting like a water balloon.
More time for what?
She feared the answer to the question.
* * *
The next day, Abigail woke up to an empty bed and a nauseated stomach. It hadn’t been a good idea to eat ice cream before bed but nowadays she wasn’t in control of her appetite. Without a cook at home, she ate whatever she found whenever she had the energy to eat.
Abigail rose from the bed with stable footing. She walked to the bathroom, washed her mouth, and brushed the knots from her hair. She would’ve sworn yesterday had been a dream, but the red veins in her sclera told her Preston had truly been here and had left as quickly as he’d rejected her last night.
She hadn’t been able to sleep through the night, afraid her unconscious hands would long for his touch, his warmth, his love. Afraid she’d reach out and nuzzle into the crook of his neck like she’d done numerous times before.
Before wasn’t now, though. And maybe Abigail should’ve known better than to kiss him when she knew he needed his space. Who could blame her? They’d spent too much time longing for each other. She had no more time to spend. He was going to listen to her, whether he liked it or not.
With determined strides, Abigail left the bathroom. She came to a full stop when she saw Preston hunched over the bed tying his shoes.
“You’re here,” surprise lingered in her voice.
“Not for long,” Preston said, stretching his spine as he stood. He was talking to her. That had to be a good sign…or a very sadistic mind trick. “I have to be back at the office.”
“Now?”
He nodded.
“Come on, Preston. It’s seven in the morning. You got home at 4:30 am. That’s barely three hours of sleep. That can’t be healthy.”
She worried for his stability, his health, his tumorous migraines. How many migraines had he had in Paris? How many drinks had he drank? How much had he missed her? Had he missed her at all?
“It’s work.”
She sighed, sensing she wasn’t going to crack through his thick workaholic brain.
“Did you at least eat breakfast?”
He shrugged. “Coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t breakfast.” She scoffed. “Come, I’ll make you something to eat.”
He arched a brow. “You cook now?”
“You left me alone for almost two weeks. I managed.”
“You left me long before that and you know it.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. A sliver of anger cracked his mellow demeanor.
“If you’d just let me explain…”
“No! You don’t get to play the abandoned victim. You don’t get to play hurt.”
She stepped closer to him. He stepped back. If he only knew how much his distance hurt her.
“I get you need your space right now. I get you resent me, borderline hate me. But please, don’t leave again. Let’s talk. Let’s try to fix this. Isn’t that what husbands and wives do?”
“Talk? Now you want to talk? Now you remember I’m your husband? You’re fucking unbelievable, Abigail. There’s no fixing this. This is broken. And you have yourself to thank for that.”
Preston walked out of the bedroom just as he had that night when he told her he’d go to Paris. And just as Abigail had that night, she followed behind him.
“Why?” she asked, trying to keep up with his pace. “Why did you come back? Why are you here if you don’t love me anymore?”
“This is my home, Abigail. And you’re my wife. You and I, we made vows. Unlike you, I meant every word I said. I’m here because I’m trying to honor them even after you’ve given up.”
“You’re right, we did make vows. And you vowed to love me for better or worse. This is my worse, Preston, and you left me…without even letting me say a word. How can you say you’re trying to honor our vows when you’ve already broken them?”
His phone beeped in the front pocket of his jeans. Preston pulled it out and quickly glanced at the screen.
“Kenneth’s here.”
“Tell him to wait.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” She looked at the ceiling as if praying for someone to reason with him. In a whisper, she murmured, “I don’t want to be left wondering if you’ll have a healthy meal or drown your migraines with whiskey.”
“I have to go.”
“No, you don’t. Preston, we need to talk. You need to eat.”
Abigail sensed as Master Trice pressed to make an appearance. The malice hidden within the rings of his irises tore their way through. He had a sadistic look about him. A thought was beginning to consume him. It made her skin crawl as though his gaze was searing through the first layer of it.
“You want to talk?” She nodded. “Then follow me,” he said as he stepped into the yawning elevator.
Abigail swallowed a gulp that could be seen traveling down her throat through the thin skin covering her trachea.
He stood in the elevator glaring down at her. He egged her on with his glance, almost as if daring her to proceed.
Her mind told her to step forward, but her limbs froze in place. Heat rose from the tips of her toes to the tips of her ears as she felt the trickle of a sweat bead travel down the nape of her neck.
The doors began to slide as the elevator initiated its departure.
She managed to speak, shouting one audible and desperate word, “Wait!”
He stopped the doors from closing with a firm grasp on each side, giving her one last moment to step into his inevitable trap.
As the elevator made its descent, she told herself everything was going to be fine but the perspiration in the palm of her hands told her otherwise.
55, 54, 53…
She set her focus on the red number above the door as it continued its countdown.
43, 42, 41…
“You wanted to talk, talk,” he demanded without hesitation.
Talk?
She couldn’t talk. How could she when with a simple utter, she’d lose all air?
She was underwater, dragged into the deepest part of the sea by an unforgiving current. She savored every ounce of breath. If she murmured a word, she’d collapse.
30, 29, 28…
Throughout the mental struggle she was enduring, Master Trice watched on and cherished every ounce of her suffering. He watched as her once dry skin turned clammy with sweat. As her once dry eyes turned wet with salty tears.
Her misty eyes hovered above the doors.
20, 19, 18…
His foot began to tap impatiently.
“I—Pre—”
10, 9, 8…
Abigail’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to speak a word, knowing this was her only chance to fix things. But with every attempt, a wave crashed over her. Her head bobbed above water with a loud gasp just to be dragged under once again.
She couldn’t speak.
4, 3, 2…
Almost there.
Her heartbeat came to a slow tempo as
the numbers became smaller and smaller. Unbeknownst to her, Master Trice had other plans in mind.
Reaching a hand forward, he pressed the big red button that read, “Emergency Stop” and brought the elevator to a complete halt.
Right on cue, Abigail’s heart began to hammer within her chest. Faster and faster.
Thump, thump.
Thump, thump.
Desperate for aid, she set her eyes on her master. His lips moved but she was unable to catch a single word. As her vision began to haze, she felt a harsh tug on the back of her head and managed to snap out of her panic attack.
He pushed her front against the coolness of the elevator doors.
“I said kneel. Don’t make me say it again, whore.”
Caught in his trap, she did as Master Trice demanded and knelt on the waxed floor. She brought her eyes down, attentively listening to his next authoritative order.
He snapped his finger and pointed to his shoe.
“Grind on it.”
Her eyes widened.
Grind on it? What the fuck did he mean grind on it? She’d never do such an appalling thing. It was humiliating and degrading to hump his leg like a dog in heat. She might’ve broken his trust, but she would never embarrass herself to that extent. Her eyes closed as she gave a weak shake of her head, knowing no wouldn’t settle well with Master Trice.
“No?” his voice was calm, trustworthy, and soothing.
She shook her head no again.
“Beggars cannot be choosers, whore. Show me how bad you want to talk.” His words were articulate and cogent, purely sardonic. He gripped her chin harshly. “And make it good for Master Trice.”
Her insides crawled as she straddled his foot. The dark hairs on his ankle tickled her inner thighs. She kept her eyes down as she raised her hips and came down on his shoe. He tapped on her chin and ordered her to raise her eyes to his. They stayed connected at all times so that he could see her shame, her humiliation as it turned into carnal desire. With every thrust of her hips, she saw growing arousal in his pupils as his cock thickened and came alive.
Performing humiliating sexual acts was just what Abigail needed to get her mind off of the nightmare she was currently living. So, she angled her clit right on the knot of his shoelaces and gave Master Trice a one-man show.
Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2) Page 14