“I trust you,” she accepted his promise fearlessly.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked, scrutinizing her outfit. Her gray sneakers touched at the toes as she followed his gaze self-consciously.
His brown eyes scanned her camo leggings and oversized t-shirt, lingering a little too long on her unlined bra.
“Grab a sweater,” he judged.
“Yes, Sir.”
* * *
Ambrosia attracted the evening crowd with a classic laïkó that depicted the diverse cultures of a modern Greece. Hydrangeas poured from mustard planters, daring to touch the sidewalk that vibrated with onlookers. Mediterranean blue tables decorated the cobblestone sidewalk with Greek key tablecloths.
Inside, the taverna overflowed with the loud chatters of customers. A large gallery of the most exclusive islands of the Mediterranean Sea hung on white paneling. Enamored by the scenery, Abigail missed Preston’s conversation with the maître d’ and the blonde woman who appeared from behind the kitchen.
It was when Preston’s name was said with a thick accent, that Abigail tuned in attention.
A ray of sunshine painted Preston’s face as he willingly went into the woman’s outstretched arms. A string of Greek soon followed their warm embrace. His voice went an octave higher than ever before, and his usual commanding posture changed to a much more relaxed one. Their exchange became passionate and demonstrative with hand gestures and laughter. If for a moment, Abigail wondered if the two were arguing, but the smiles on their faces told otherwise.
A Greek God through and through, she thought as her panties turned to mush the more he spoke to the blonde. As her mind slipped to sinful thoughts, their attention turned to her.
“Irina this is Abigail,” Preston introduced.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” she said.
Irina kissed both of Abigail’s cheeks. “Good to meet you, too. Come with me. I take you to a hush place.”
The woman guided them through a hallway at the end of the restaurant that opened to a quaint patio. On the cobblestone stood a wooden pergola intertwined with green leaves and twinkling lights. Below it was a squared table with two chairs and planters of pink and red hydrangeas.
“Wow,” Abigail said in awe.
“Sit, sit,” Irina rushed.
“Ladies first,” Preston said all chivalrously and fake. Abigail rolled her eyes when he pulled the chair for her.
“Sakis!” Soon after Irina’s shout, a young man came running out of the taverna with a bottle of chilled wine. He filled their glasses with the amber liquid and rushed back inside, almost tripping on his feet.
Preston and Irina chuckled. “I train him. The usual for you and the lady?” she asked.
Preston nodded.
Irina went on her way, leaving behind the sound of music and twinkling lights.
“You speak Greek,” Abigail stated as she reached for her glass. The sweet taste danced on her tongue before going down her throat.
He too reached for his glass. “So do you. If you speak English, you’re speaking some sort of Greek.”
She huffed, highly doubting what he’d said. “I didn’t understand a thing you said to her.”
He leaned forward. His elbows touched the tablecloth and his eyes glistened with mischief. “I’ll have to teach you.”
Her mind instantly flew down the gutter. Images of her in a schoolgirl’s uniform. Of Preston wearing his usual suit, except this time he replaced his briefcase with a ruler. Suddenly, the breezy night turned summer hot.
“I’ll be sure to misbehave.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
They exchanged a knowing smile.
“Trice isn’t Greek, is it?”
“No. I believe it’s English. It’s my mother’s maiden name.”
“Is your mom a feminist?” she asked, curious to know why he held his mother’s last name and not his father’s.
He shrugged. “It wasn’t a matter of equality. She’s the only child. My grandfather wanted to keep the Trice name alive, so when my father, a poor immigrant, asked for his daughter’s hand, he agreed as long as they used the Trice last name if they ever had a boy.”
“I bet it wasn’t that easy.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“What was your father’s last name?”
“Dimitriou.”
“Preston Dimitriou.” She allowed the words to roll on her tongue. “Has a nice ring to it. Have you ever thought of changing it?”
“No,” his answer was short, almost as if he didn’t want to talk about this any longer than necessary to be talked about. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “It was only his name he gave up, not his son. Dimitriou is my middle name, so he still managed to put it in there.”
“Willful like his son.”
“Excuse me, Ma’am, would you like more wine?” Sakis asked, startling her. “Oh, I am sorry, Ma’am.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” she tried to appease him. “I would love more wine.”
As he poured the wine, his hand began to rattle. Abigail held her breath until the wine was safely standing upright on his arm.
“Is it your first day?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“I think you’re rocking it, Sakis.” He gave her a shy smile that tinted his light cheeks. “Your food will be out soon.” Then he disappeared, rushing back into the restaurant as fast as he’d come out.
From the distance, she caught as Sakis picked up a tray of food and swung it up above his head. She was sure he’d have the crowd shouting Opa! any minute.
A sigh of relief left her lips when he made it safely to the customer’s table.
“Sakis, do you find him attractive?”
“Excuse me?”
“I see the way you look at him. Is it not one of your fantasies to be fucked in every hole at the same time?”
She looked around her, thankful no ears were in sight. “Yes, it is.”
“Tell me more about this fantasy of yours.”
“Now?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. There’s no one around. No one will hear your rotten mind.”
Her fingers rested on her lap, interlacing with one another. It’d been months since she first wrote her fantasy on a piece of paper for Master Trice to read. She’d been raunchy in her response, writing the words with the intent to provoke him.
“Am I still allowed to be with other men?” she asked, her voice low.
“Why wouldn’t you be?”
“I thought with you wanting more and saying—”
He interrupted her. “Other than my feelings toward you, nothing has changed.”
Abigail was satisfied with his response. The uncertainty of their sex life possibly changing because of his declaration was a mass of fear holding her back from confessing her own feelings toward him.
Now she knew Master Trice remained, she found herself capable of letting go.
“Are—are you fucking other women?”
He looked her straight in the eye as he said, “The only other woman I have fucked since I’ve been with you has been Lauren. Now she’s gone.”
She swallowed air, not knowing what to reply but pleased with his answer.
CHAPTER FORTY
Preston’s finger hovered over the computer mouse as his eyes keenly examined the screen.
An overwhelming abundance of attractive men of all races, ethnicities, and ages filled the screen. He filtered the group by location, bringing his total down to a couple hundred. The hundred decreased by the tens as he filtered it once more by interest.
The potential candidates stared back at him with their promising smiles and toned bodies. Preston didn’t let their physical appearance deter him from his ulterior motive.
He had a goal set in mind, and he was going to make sure it was achieved by the end of the night. The sooner he achieved it, the sooner Abigail’s desires would be met and neatly tucked away.
He itched for th
e day when her only desire was to be collared by Master Trice and fully loved by Preston. However, he understood certain fulfillments needed to be met before the ceremonies took place.
Like Abigail, he too had fantasies that consisted of threesomes and orgies. He’d gotten them all out of his system in his twenties and early thirties, all but one. Now it was her turn, and if her desire was to be fucked by three men while Preston watched then so be it.
Although many thought differently, her wish was ultimately his command. Her desires would not go unheeded under his domination.
One last thorough search was all it took to narrow the list down to a handful of participants.
He sent each an email requesting their most recent criminal and medical records, including their STD results and a non-disclosure agreement to be read and signed as soon as possible. Strangers need not know of the salacious fantasies hidden behind Preston Trice and Abigail Bennett’s bedroom door.
Releasing an exhausting sigh, Preston rubbed his forehead, feeling an all too familiar throb behind his left eye. His thumbs drew circles on either side of his temples just as Abigail had taught him.
Ready to shut his computer and head straight to bed, where his slave awaited in peaceful repose, a notification on his alarm system halted the alluring promise of a good night’s sleep.
MOTION IN THE PARKING LOT
He opened the notification to a live recording of Elliott getting out of his car. His unsteady pace followed him to the elevator as he pushed a button that would take him straight to Preston’s home.
This was just what he needed. Yet another headache, another nuisance preventing direct access to a much-needed sleep.
With a hurried tap on the floor, Preston waited for Elliott to ride up the elevator.
The pleasure of seeing his friend’s face as he hit the basement button was too amusing for him to miss.
He didn’t know what Elliott was doing in his home, much less how he’d gotten the code for his apartment.
Preston rolled his eyes. It must have been his mother.
The woman had no filter. She was told not to say anything, and she heard, “Feel free to tell everyone.”
Not only did Aunt Sam, Elliott’s mother, know about Abigail, but so did Yiayia and she was all the way in Greece.
She hadn’t stopped calling since the day Mother met Abigail, asking the most intrusive questions. Preston had swallowed the need to hang up on her, reminding himself she was miles away and, as every Yiayia, she knew best for his life. And so, he stayed on the phone, for hours on end, just as she’d done when he was a little boy and begged for mythological stories.
By the end of their conversation, Preston had agreed to take Abigail to Greece for the women to meet. He hadn’t known how it happened, or how he’d make such a thing happen. All he knew was if he didn’t keep his word, he’d hear about it until her death, and likely after it, too.
The bright red number above the elevator read eighty-six.
Preston counted down the seconds until the doors opened.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Jesus,” Preston said as the pungent scent of alcohol greeted him before his friend did.
Elliott laid on the elevator floor. His tie was loose around the nape. His white shirt was wrinkled, and his cheeks were flushed, smeared with recent tears. He made a frail attempt at standing but failed.
Preston’s chest tightened as he stepped into the elevator and gathered Elliott from the floor. The idea of sending him home was long forgotten. He’d seen him fucked up before, but never to the alcohol poisoning state.
“What the fuck happened?” he asked, guiding his friend to the couch.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Elliott pushed him away and sauntered into the kitchen. His gait was unsteady as he reached for the half-opened bottle of wine resting on the counter. Preston saw it fly before his eyes, turning the kitchen floor crimson with shards.
“Fuck!” He rushed to his friend before he stepped on the broken glass. “What the fuck, man? Go sit down before I strap you to the chair.”
Elliott gave a suggestive chuckle. “Is that an invitation?”
“That’s an—”
“Are you okay?” He heard Abigail’s groggy voice before he saw her. Her bun was tousled much like her shirt. It rose with her heavy intakes as she tried to catch her breath. Her eyes wandered to the source of noise that had woken her. “What happened?”
“We’re fine, Abigail. Go back to bed,” he dismissed her.
Her eyes caught his as she searched the faintly lighted room for the we in his statement. They widened when she caught Elliott’s silhouette emerging from the shadows.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” She lowered the hem of her shirt as she began to back away, knowing she had intruded on a very private conversation.
“Ah, the famous Abigail Bennett,” Elliott interjected, making his way toward her. “I’ve been hearing lots about you lately. You have my mother looking all over the city for Abigail: The Messiah.” He took a strand of her chocolate hair around his finger as he curled the end. “I’ve always wanted to fuck the Creator.”
Preston pushed him away, standing between Abigail and Elliott. “Keep your impious fantasies to yourself.”
“Ah, so the rumors are true. Master Trice has been thoroughly pussy whipped,” he mocked.
Preston hid a chuckle, seeing nothing wrong with Elliott’s statement. If he needed to be pussy whipped, he couldn’t think of a better pussy than Abigail’s to get the job done.
“I think your friend needs a cold shower,” Abigail suggested. “I’ll clean this up while you help him.”
“I think so, too. Thank you,” Preston said as he planted a kiss on her forehead.
Elliott blew obnoxious kisses in the air the entire way to the bathroom.
He unwrapped Elliott’s arm from around his neck and sat him on the toilet as he turned on the shower. While he waited for the water to change temperatures, he removed the choking hazard that was Elliott’s tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his slacks, letting them drop to his ankles.
Preston rested on the heels of his feet as he untied and slipped off Elliott’s shoes.
He didn’t understand why the man insisted on wearing a suit and tie when he had no job and nowhere to be.
“Mom and Aunt Judy waited for you at the restaurant today. You never showed up,” Elliott began.
“I told Mom I wasn’t going to make it. What did they say?”
He raised his hand, dismissing his question with a roll of his eyes. “The usual comparison.”
The conversation always turned to his “wasted” life whenever Preston wasn’t around. Although it was a conversation that needed to be had between mother and son, it was the judgment behind her words that hurt the most.
Now Aunt Sam knew of Abigail’s existence, he could only imagine what she’d told Elliott.
“I’m sorry,” Preston said guiltily.
Elliott closed his eyes as a tear rolled down the side of his nose. He took a staggering breath. “Lauren came by my place a few weeks ago. She told me what happened.”
Preston nodded his acknowledgment, glad Elliott finally got to the reason for his alcoholism.
“We fucked.”
It was known throughout the club Elliott was enamored by Lauren. It was also a known fact he developed feelings for anything with a hole tight enough to milk his penis. This knowledge gave Preston reason enough not to think much of his friend’s relationship with Lauren.
Elliott swept his hair back. “I asked if she’d take me back. She said she’d think about it.”
That wasn’t a good idea.
An unhealthy complexion formed on Elliott’s face as he returned to a past he’d left long ago.
“Did you know she found someone else already?”
“No.”
“Well, she did. She’s been dragging her new shiny toy around the club. I know we aren’t good for each other. Even I can attest to that, but why give me hope if the thought never crossed her mind? She’s a fucking sadist, that’s what she is. Does it make me an asshole I wish her hell?”
“It makes you human,” Preston said somberly. There had been many times he’d wanted to murder this man. Today, he wanted nothing more than to release his pain.
He sighed, thinking himself selfish and utterly oblivious to how deep and raw Elliott’s feelings for Lauren were, even after years had passed. A vigorous stream swarmed the back of Preston’s neck. The slither was so powerful it made the hairs on his arms stand in attention. Had it been his fault his friend, his brother, had been loving Lauren from afar?
He hated the thought of being the cause of Elliott and Lauren’s foundering relationship. But Elliott acknowledged it himself—they weren’t good for each other.
Lauren had always known what she wanted in a man and Elliott was a little kid in a man’s body. She deserved more than Preston and Elliott.
Preston hoped this new man was it for her much as Abigail was it for Preston. Elliott will find his it someday. He just needed to grow up before it came.
“You have to move on, Elliott. I know it’s hard, but you have to let her go.”
“I know.” He sniffled a tear. “I just want to forget. I want to forget everything, Mom, Aunt Judy, her, especially her. I wish I never met her.” He wiped his tears, pushed his palms against his eyes. “Fuck! I need another drink.”
“You need a shower,” Preston said, pointing a finger in the shower’s direction. “Call me if you need anything.”
He entered the kitchen just as Abigail had finished cleaning up. The shards were gone and the crimson color that had previously stained the floor was no more.
Her back was to him as she washed her hands.
He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Her shoulders jumped in alert.
“Thank you for helping.”
Collared (Masters of Desires Book 1) Page 26