Traded for Love

by Michelle Hughes

  At the counter, the tattooed cashier—when not steeped in her own novel—rung up and chatted with customers. Beside her, a barista brewed cappuccino and served fresh-baked scones.

  Coffee called my name. Surely a burst of caffeine would pull me out of my sour mood.

  A short wait brought me to the front of the line where I ordered a caramel, vanilla iced coffee. I took a long gulp before I even paid for the thing and immediately felt better.

  I glanced over the signs on each shelf, looking for the romance sign. Since there wasn't one in sight, I assumed it must be upstairs. I took the spiral staircase to the second floor.

  Before me was the perfect reading spot. Three plush recliners faced each other in front of a window. A curtain kept the light from flooding the room. The best part was the quiet and its emptiness.

  The romance section was so extensive that I'd gotten through half of my latte before I sat down with a contemporary volume from one of my favorite Indie authors.

  As long as the beginning didn't bore me to death, chances were good that I'd take the book home. I thumbed through the first few pages. As I read the description of the story's biker hero, I bit my straw flat against my lip. I could visualize him with perfect clarity, a stunning man in leather gear and amazing eyes.

  I didn't hear the footsteps of the man coming around the corner, or hear him sit down in the recliner to my right.

  He cleared his throat. I barely noticed.

  When he closed his hardback book loudly, I almost jumped out of my skin. “Do you mind?” he snapped.

  My gaze drifted up … and the world stopped. The clock ticked a little slower.

  Looking at me through thick, black frames were a pair of piercing, hazel-blue eyes. Everything about him, from his fair skin to the warm honey color of his hair, took my breath away. His hunter-green, V-neck sweater clung to him, hinting at what I could only have dreamed was beneath it. He worked out; that was plainly obvious. If he ever denied it, his raised pectorals and pronounced biceps would betray him.

  I had no idea how a man so striking could have sat down beside me without me noticing.

  He pursed his lips and arched his eyebrows while I babbled something incoherent.

  “Your straw,” he noted, eyeing at me over the top of his glasses.

  “Straw?” I popped it out from between my teeth and shut my mouth, which was agape with school-girl admiration.

  “You were chewing on it so loud that I couldn't concentrate.” He opened his book again.

  “Oh. S—sorry. I didn't see—hear—I was involved … ” I pointed to my book stupidly.

  “Clearly.” There was a hint of smart-assed arrogance in that single syllable, made in a tone which should have repulsed me but intrigued me instead. “By the way, your coffee is gone. It's safe to say you can put the cup down.” He punctuated the statement with a smile.

  That mouth. It made me want to lick my lips … and then lick his lips.

  I was caught off guard. Somehow this stranger had thrown my body into sexual overdrive. I hadn't felt that way since …

  Oh. Right. I'm married. Calm down, Emily. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  “Do I have something on my face?” he asked, sweeping his hand over his cheek.

  “Huh? No—I mean—you got it.” I gave him what felt like the goofiest grin I'd ever produced, yet there I was, doing it so hard that my mouth hurt.

  He smiled in silent reply and I was sure if my teeth weren't there to stop it from happening, I'd have been drooling all over my shirt like an idiot.

  I wondered if he knew how much he affected me. Could he possibly know that he made me in tingle in places I'd forgotten existed, that he'd awakened something in me that should never have been there to begin with?

  “I don't think I've seen you in here before.” He turned a page in his book.

  “It's my first time.” I looked back at my book, even though my attention was wholly on him.

  “And do you like it? Do you see yourself coming back?”

  I peeked at him quickly. His eyes were glued to the page open in front of him. “Yes. I'll probably come back.” The silence was awkward between us. I felt obligated to converse with him, though I knew it was largely a fabricated sentiment. In reality, I could have kept quiet.

  “I see.” He turned another page. In my peripheral vision, he rested his cheek on his hand. “What are you reading?”

  “A romance.”

  He smiled down at his book. “Cute.”

  I was incensed by the derision in his voice. “Cute?” Preparing to retort with a biting, witty remark, I checked out the cover of his book. “The Art of Intimacy,” I recited. “Having intimacy issues?”

  That'll teach you, I thought.

  He quirked a brow. “No, in fact, I used to date the author in college. I was seeing if her theories about intimacy had changed. It turns out they haven't. I was just reading a little about the importance of stimulating each part of the body, and not just the erogenous zones. Would you like to hear some of it?”

  My cheeks turned scalding hot. “N—no!”

  He grinned. “Why not? It's just sex. You mean to tell me you can handle it when it's dressed in leather and riding a Harley, but not when it's presented to you, naked and without the frills?” He clicked his tongue and tipped his chin. “Sounds to me like you're the one with intimacy issues.”

  “What? How dare you!” I shut my romance novel and stood up. “You don't even know me!”

  I found his self-satisfied smirk equal parts irritating and arousing.

  “True,” he answered.

  Clumsily, I gathered my things together in my arms and made for the staircase. He'd ruined this place for me. I never wanted to come back.

  He didn't trouble himself to watch as I walked away—not that I noticed. Okay, I noticed. Of course I did!

  Then he spoke, stopping me in my tracks. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, my ass!” I'd hoped I'd said it loud enough for him to hear.

  I went directly home.

  As I sat in the living room with my new book open—and neglected—in my lap, I thought about how much of a presumptuous jerk he'd been. I never wanted to see him again.

  How could such belittling statements come out of such a gorgeous face? Even though they were sharp, I could have watched his lips wrap around those words repeatedly. I found myself wondering if his skin was as soft and smooth as it had looked, and whether his arms were as strong as they appeared.

  The tingle returned, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my chair.

  Before I knew it, my hand had crept between my legs. Through the two layers of fabric there, I felt a hint of wetness.

  God damn it.

  “Emily!” Jack's voice snapped me out of my trance. His hand hovered in front of my face as if he'd snapped it to get my attention.

  “Jack,” I mumbled. “Sorry.”

  “What's wrong with you?” He stood up and folded his arms over his chest.

  “I was … just thinking.”

  “About what?” His eyes threatened to burn holes in my face.

  “Nothing important.” I closed my book. “What time is it?” I pulled out my phone. Eight!?

  “Late. Dinner's ready.” He held out a hand for mine.

  “Sorry.” I put my hand in his and was surprised by the lack of warmth in the way he helped me out of the easy chair. As soon as I was on my feet, he let go of me and went for the door. “Jack.”

  He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “What?” His jaw clenched.

  His sharp reply was like a memory-erasing spell. As soon as I'd gotten his attention, I forgot why I'd tried to in the first place. I licked my chapped lips. “Can I have a kiss?” I wanted him to be happy with me again. I wanted—no I needed—some tenderness, especially after he'd been so rough with me.

  He arched a brow. “A kiss?” His tone was sour, as if he couldn't believe I had the gall to ask for something every wife needed from her h
usband.

  “I … guess you don't have to if you don't want to.” My eyes teared up. I fought the rush, by God I fought as hard as I could not to cry.

  Though I could hardly summon the courage to look at him, when I did, I saw that his expression had softened a little.

  “Come here.” He opened his arms for me.

  I gladly stepped into the embrace. He tipped my chin up. “Someone's a little horny, isn't she?”

  Those words stabbed me to the heart. He thought I was horny, that all I needed was a good, deep dicking, as if that was all I ever needed from him.

  He pressed his lips to mine hard. Behind them, I could feel the flat of his teeth. His hand ran down my collarbone to my tits. As much as they ached to be touched, every part of me knew this was wrong. All I wanted was to know he loved me. Somehow, this time, his hands on me wasn't right. It wasn't love. It felt like something else entirely.

  He thumbed my nipple through my shirt.

  I pulled my lips back from his a little bit. “No, Jack,” I whispered.

  Then he did something that sickened me further.

  He laughed.

  He laughed at me.

  And instead of stepping away, took one of my breasts in his hand and began to knead it.

  “Jack, please,” I mumbled.

  “You little minx,” he growled out, pushing me toward the chair again. “Saying no just makes me want you more.”

  I stumbled back into the easy chair and my skull connected with the wooden top of the chair's backrest. Yelping in pain, I dropped my head to the side. He lowered down and straddled my lap.

  “What my girl needs is to come nice and hard, isn't it?” He grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the cushions on either side of my head.

  I didn't want it. I didn't. I drew a lungful of breath, and with my eyes squeezed closed, I screamed, “No! Stop, Jack!”

  Gasping for breath, I squirmed under him until I could wrench my hands free.

  When I opened my eyes, he was looking down at me. All the sexual fire had drained from his face. He must have finally realized what he was doing.

  “What's wrong with you?” There was so much venom in his voice, and not a hint of love.

  I didn't answer.

  “I just asked you a question!” he said, gripping my shoulders in his hands and shaking me. “Answer me!”

  Those tears I'd been holding back came fast, and the sobs followed close on their heels.

  He growled and got up. Raking his fingers through his hair, he paced across the room. “What is it with you, Emily? Don't want to please me anymore? Is that it?”

  “I—it's not that,” I stammered. “I just don't want … sex.”

  “What the hell are you good for, then? What kind of slave doesn't want to please her master?” He turned his back on me.

  I buried my face in my hands. “I'm sorry. All I wanted was a kiss.”

  “You know what, Emily? That's your problem. All you think about is yourself.” His footsteps thundered out of the room and the door slammed behind him.

  I cried and trembled as the ghost of his touch scalded my skin. My entire body hurt.

  Curling up on the chaise lounge by the window, I willed myself to calm down.

  All I could think of was the stranger in the bookstore, how he'd said I had intimacy issues.

  The stranger had been right, only I was just beginning to realize it wasn't me who had intimacy issues … it was Jack.

  Chastity

  (Jack)

  I stormed back to our bedroom and slammed the door.

  Still angry, I drove my fist against the wall.

  She'd never said no to me, not like that.

  It was becoming painfully evident to me that she was going to be more resistant in future. I had no idea how to placate her. She'd once been so easy to mold, to seduce. My words used to make her melt; they used to make her knees shake.

  Yet, I felt foolish for misplacing my regard for her. “What are you good for?” was definitely not the right thing to say.

  I needed her, not for the mere reason of having sex with her. I needed to feel like her master. I needed to own her.

  I'd felt that way ever since I'd met her.

  No, I thought, as I sat on the edge of the bed, it was never love after all. It was always the need to control her.

  She was getting away from me.

  I couldn't help but wonder if the campaign had taken me away from home so much that I'd loosened my tether on her. Granted, we hadn't had much time for sex or roleplaying in the past few months, but I couldn't have guessed that she'd become so disobedient.

  She owed me her loyalty, her unwavering obedience. I'd demanded it when I first met her, and perhaps it was time to remind her just what she agreed to when she signed our marriage license, when she walked into my life with that youth and purity I craved.

  I'd wanted to destroy it.

  Maybe it was done. Maybe there really was nothing pure about her left.

  In my pocket, my phone vibrated. I pulled it out and scoffed at the caller ID, which displayed Julia's code name.

  Instead of answering it, I let it go to voicemail. She didn't leave a voice message.

  Moments later, I received a text message.

  Are we going tonight?

  I wiped the thin sheen of sweat from my forehead. The last thing I wanted to do was fuck Julia. She sickened me in almost every way. She was a means to an end—at best.

  Yes. I'll meet you at your place in three hours.

  Yes, Master.

  Immediately, I deleted the message thread and shoved my phone back in my pocket.

  This party was being thrown for swingers. I usually wasn't into that type of thing, seeing as I didn't like to share. What belonged to me, I possessed entirely. I was no stranger to jealousy, or fits of rage when someone challenged my authority, though I typically kept a calm exterior.

  The only person who could ever ruffle me was Emily, and I often was able to get away from her before my rage spiked. Lately, it was happening more frequently. Being around her incensed me, even when she didn't actively try to upset me.

  Maybe it was what she represented to me: my trophy wife, the mother of my child, obedient slave. I fondly remembered how submissive she'd been in our early relationship. Somehow, in the pit of my stomach, I could feel that those days were over. There was a difference between obedience and submission. Submission was entire; the body, mind and spirit surrendered. Obedience just meant listening. I wanted absolute submission.

  With the way things were between us, her full submission to me wasn't possible.

  The idea of the party excited me. I couldn't wait to get my hands on some unsuspecting fresh meat, to feel her quiver and hear her beg, then to sink my cock into her and listen to her scream while I filled her repeatedly.

  The walls of my bedroom were like those of a prison. Here, I was ruled by my obligations, by the career I'd decided to work up for myself, by Emily and her expectations, by the existence of the little girl who reminded me of my duties.

  Despite the fact that it was my job to be in control, I felt I possessed less of it in my home and at work. I needed someone new to control, and I was ready to go out and find it.

  Three hours later, I left without telling Emily where I was going. It wasn't as though she wanted to talk to me anyway, not after what had happened in this office.

  It didn't occur to me until I sped away from the house in my black Porsche 911 Turbo S that I should have chosen one of my less-conspicuous cars.

  Me? Inconspicuous? I chuckled at the mere idea.

  Julia didn't live far from our house on the Island. I had to cross the bridge, but traffic at night was nothing compared to daytime traffic. My mind wandered as I drove. Seeing Julia was easy in the most elementary sense of the word. Besides being able to make the trip blindfolded, she was always there, even after long periods of neglect.

  I was never sure why she cleaved to me so hard, especially when she m
eant so little to me. I'd chalked it up to her nymphomania and hadn't given it a whole lot of thought. I'd never deemed her worthy of the time it would take to sort out our relationship. She was good for some things, but they were few.

  Can I say I ever felt guilty about using Julia when I had a wife at home? Not really.

  I was probably wrong for that, but oh well.

  What Emily didn't know, wouldn't hurt either of us.

  Fifteen minutes passed before I came to a stop in front of Julia's townhouse. All the windows were dark, except for the ones on either side of the door.

  She peered out the window, and the lights turned off. After stepping out and locking her door, she bounded down the front steps like a dog happy to see its owner.

  Moments like this made me wonder why I couldn't fall in love with her. Julia wasn't a bad looking girl. She'd styled her dirty-blonde hair with a deep part that swagged over her right eye and fell in gentle waves around her heart-shaped face. One of her more striking features was her heterochromia—that is, each of her eyes was a different color. The left was a pale blue, and the right a warm lavender.

  Tonight, she looked particularly fetching in a tight black dress. I'd made sure to get her a gym membership when I found her walking late at night using some old, thrift-store weights. While I didn't love her, I still felt responsible for her well-being. From the looks of the way the fabric fell over her curves, she'd been using the gym facilities often.

  Really, she was every Dom's dream, being that she was obedient to a fault. I'd realized long ago that it was her lack of fight which turned me off. Maybe I was just different from most Doms. I suppose I wanted a slave who would resist.

  Of course, that wouldn't explain why Emily frustrated me. Maybe it's because when I chose her to be my wife, I'd wanted to hide my deviant desires from her. Her innocence and purity had brought those desires out—with a vengeance.

  Julia slid into the passenger's seat. In perfect reverence, she dropped her gaze to the floor and waited to be addressed.