by Shelly Pratt
SALVAGE
HER HEART
© Copyright 2014 Shelly Pratt
www.shellypratt.net
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KINDLE EDITION
© Copyright 2014
Author
The right of Shelly Pratt to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,
copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions
of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Originally published in February 2014 as an e-book
Editing by Emily Dawson
Proofreading by Allyson from Black Firefly Productions www.blackfirefly.com
Quote by Courtney E. Martin – www.courtneyemartin.com
Contents
D e d i c a t i o n
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
D e d i c a t i o n
To Kimie, who taught me that the absence of expression doesn’t mean it is not in existence. Thank you for loving my father and family the way you do. I love you, too.
Prologue
ALEX
If women tell you they don’t like power, they’re fucking lying. They do like it, and do you know how I know this? They’ve all become a little too obsessed with books and movies that make masochistic males out to be the good guys. So, as I tell you my side of the story remember that I’m the good guy. Well, at the very least, I’m good-looking.
People say I’m arrogant and rude, which is laughable when that is what has drawn them to me in the first place. I would prefer to think of myself as a confident, self-assured man who knows what he wants. And I most definitely knew what I wanted when it came to Evie.
That girl wasn’t like the others, which is probably why I took the whole game to another level and had to put a ring on her finger. I wanted her as my property. She needed to be mine to do what I wanted with; mine to control. She was a challenge. I can see it in her eyes as she’s gagging on my cock. Now, don’t go and get all soft on me. You think she really doesn’t want this? Bullshit. She’s a great actress, the theatrics all being part of the game. It makes it more exciting for me and her if she puts up a little resistance.
Do you know what I like best about Evie? Her mouth. She’s got these luscious lips that are full and plump. I’m preferable to her painting them with a red, glossy lipstick because it gets me off to see the bright stain around my cock as she gives me head. Like the clothes she wears and the way she acts, I control everything down to her make-up. Don’t judge. I told you, I like control.
It’s been a long day; I’ve had conferences with clients and dinner with business partners. We’ve only just returned to our apartment in the city but my night is far from over. There will always be more work; it’s the nature of the beast. I didn’t get to being CEO of my own company by slacking off. Labouring jobs are for losers. Sure, I had a privileged upbringing and was born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth, but I still believe in good work ethics. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and if I want to continue on my path of wealth and success then I’m damn well going to put my work before absolutely everything.
First things first, though. Despite the lateness of the evening, I wanted a little release. I wanted those red lips on my cock, sucking me until my balls cease to ache with need. I’m not going to stop until I’ve squirted my seed into her throat and made her swallow the whole damn lot.
Nights like these I prefer to sit in my leather chair; the one facing out of the panorama glass windows that afford views over the Brisbane River. The lights of the Story Bridge twinkle back at me and the water looks dark, murky and mysterious under the night sky. I bought this apartment as a wedding gift for Evie, but for the most part I don’t think she likes it. Ungrateful springs to mind, although it could just be the company. I’m seriously laughing as I tell you that, because to be honest, I don’t give a fuck whether she likes me or not. She’s mine and that’s all that matters.
While downing my fifth scotch for the evening, I beckon her to me. She says nothing, but she knows what I want. Forget the elephant in the room; it’s a bit hard to hide my bulging erection that I’ve freed from my pants. Most people would be worried about getting their four-hundred-dollar trousers dirty. Not me. That kind of money is pocket change in my world. Despite her eagerness to oblige me, there is a reason behind her willingness to please. I mean come on, if you haven’t figured it out already you’re not as smart as I thought you were. Okay, I’ll spell it out for you anyway. I get a little rough. Not all the time, but if you don’t give me what I want, well, let’s just say there are consequences.
‘On your knees.’
There was no need for the command but fuck, I love the sound of my own voice. It’s rich, deep, commanding and powerful. It speaks of a man who has always gotten what he wants. Evie is no exception. I wanted her then and I want her now. She obliges me by sliding to her knees, her silk stockings slippery on the tiles. She grabs my knees to steady herself before leaning forward to take me in her mouth, all the while not making eye contact with me. I let her get away with it for the minute, but my patience has limits.
Her mouth is hot and wet. It is utter delight as her lips start to move back and forth over my shaft, messily leaving behind her lipstick. As she goes to work on me, I down the last of my drink before taking her carefully done braid in my grasp. Evie is definitely in my league as far as looks go. She’s got long, blonde hair that has never seen the inside of a salon. All the streaks and highlights are from time spent outdoors. Sometimes she likes to challenge me on my rule of her keeping it natural. I think her opposing opinions are merely to rile me up so that I put her in her place. Yes, I do think she secretly likes me smacking her arse. It may belittle her at the time but you can rest assured it makes her think twice before raising the subject again. I refuse to have my wife look like some fake, tarted-up bimbo. I want her looking natural—well, except for the red mouth. The bright lipstick stays.
I’m not going to give it up easily. I’m going to make her work for it. Hell, I even zone out for a while, taking in the city that is my playground. Living and working in a town that is fast becoming a place that doesn’t sleep is like a drug. The more I immerse myself in it, the more I want to be king of this empire. Slowly but surely I’m putting other companies out of business. Pretty soon I’m going to have
everything I ever dreamed of.
Evie is sucking greedily now. Not because she’s into it, because she’s not. Let’s be honest; she just wants me to give it up so she can get the job over and done with. I know she doesn’t mind me fucking her vanilla, but blowjobs have never been her thing. She tried to pull off me once just as I was about to come. What a mistake. She’s never tried to pull that shit again, although she still gags; the reflex an unbreakable trait. Like now, for example; even in the darkly lit living room I can see her eyes beginning to water as my dick swells against the back of her throat. I’m sure she can taste my pre-cum—the salty, bitter fluid already affording her a taste of what’s to come.
I slide a little lower in my leather seat, thrusting just that little bit more inside of her mouth. She tries to back off, although there’s no escape. Her braid that is wound tightly around my fist is tugged ever so slightly, a reminder that I have control of her head. I’m close and she knows it. I can feel her reposition my dick towards the back corner of her mouth where her molars are so she doesn’t have to taste my semen on her taste buds. If I was any kind of man, which I am, I should be rather insulted by this—which I am. And when I’m insulted, I’m not very forgiving.
When I come, I come hard. And no, it’s not aimed at the back of her mouth like she’d have liked. Pulling her hair makes her wince and she loses some of the suction on my shaft, her lips making sucking and slurping noises as she tries to reposition me back to where she’d like me. Unfortunately for her, she’s too late. Her perfectly positioned tongue is only lapping at the eye of my cock when I blow in her mouth. I’ve got to give her credit for her spunk because she does try to pull away. Unsuccessfully, I might add. My grip on her hair forces her to remain right where she is. I keep her there until I’m licked clean. Getting a blow job is not as good as fucking her pussy, but it sure comes a close second. I never give her the satisfaction of pleasurable sounds coming from my mouth, though, because that would be giving her the green light that she has in some way pleased me. And with the knowledge that she has pleased me would give her power. Power I don’t want her to have.
There may or may not be tears in her eyes tonight. They have no effect on me whatsoever. I dismiss her to bathe before bed while I pour myself a refill of scotch. Twenty-two stories below, people are still walking the boardwalk that runs along the river’s edge. Some are alone, others huddled together like love birds. It’s a sentiment I’m not familiar with. My whole life is lived like a business transaction. I know I like having Evie in my life and I know I like the status of being a married man. But love, well, it’s not for me.
In the beginning I know Evie foolishly thought that it could be that way between us. Like her parents, she was lured into the deception I was selling. Trust me when I say, no one sells lies like I do. I showed them what they wanted to see; revealed the parts of me and my life that would be desirable to a family like theirs. Each and every one of them fell hook, line and sinker. It’s laughable, really, that one family could be so gullible. I’m sure that over the last three years they’ve all tried to think of a way to get out of the Alex Stratford contract, but it will never happen. ‘Over my dead body,’ I say, or, more likely, over theirs.
One
EVIE
I never thought I would be the kind of person who would be rendered helpless, incapable of having the strength to leave a man if the situation wasn’t right, but that’s exactly who I have become. Weak, insignificant and doormat all spring to mind. I loathe my name being used in the same sentence as those descriptions because if I believed that they referred to me, even for a second, there would be no hope left for me. While I am reconciled to the fact that my life is nothing like I had mapped out, there is still some tiny sliver of hope and desperation that keeps me believing that one day I might just vanish and become someone new.
I want to be the kind of person who doesn’t have to live with her husband’s deception; or her parents’, for that matter. Sometimes I feel so suffocated by the eyes that track my every movement that I believe I’m waiting for the impossible. Could I escape on my own? Would someone help me? More importantly, would they believe me or the man who comes searching for me? He’s definitely not the silver-tongued, charismatic soul that he’d have many believe he is.
Would it be as simple as him lining their pockets with unsurpassed wealth so that all my cries for help fall on deaf ears, or would he just spin another line of horse shit? I shiver to think that any attempt at leaving my current life would all be in vain.
The fear of leaving what many would consider a privileged life does not deter me. It only reinforces that when I do finally leave, I had better have it planned right down to the most inconsequential detail so that Alex never, ever finds me. It’s the fear of being caught leaving that makes me think twice.
Most would be daunted by the task, but when all you have is time, I’m willing to bide it. As demeaning as it is to be someone’s doormat, I’d rather let Alex think that I’m playing by his rules. I’m hoping that the fleeting moments of resilience and resistance on my part are enough to convince him that my role in our marriage is authentic. It’s not, but I’m not about to let him think otherwise.
I often wonder what part my little-girl fantasies had in my predicament. There’s no sense beating myself up about it, but still I wonder. From a young age, I always wanted a financially secure, confident, assertive man to take on the role of my husband when I grew up. I fantasised about the white picket fence, the country club memberships and the international holidays. Alex seemed to fit the bill. At least that’s what he and my parents led me to believe, anyway. What I didn’t realise was that they would have told me anything to get me to marry the man. They would, after all, benefit from the deal.
I try, though, to forge some kind of relationship with them for the time being. I haven’t forgiven them; they don’t even know that I found the contract. I think if they only knew half of the daily torment I had to put up with, they would be mortified that their actions have caused me so much misery. Still, they have to see snippets of the son-in-law whose two-faced monster antics sometimes bleed through to the surface.
As the wife of a manipulator, I try to make Alex see what I think he wants to see. And part of that is to go about life as if I think he’s the greatest gift to mankind. Sometimes I want to tell him what I really think of his ways, but I know acting in the heat of the moment will only be a detriment to the end-game. Instead of haste, I count the measure of my actions so that nothing I do or say will end up costing me my freedom.
You would think that a man of his wealth would have servants on staff to run the household but, of course, their prying eyes would only get in the way of his dominance. Besides, he has me. Trust me when I say that he gets no greater pleasure than seeing me on my hands and knees scrubbing our abode until it shines like a new penny. He’s particular, too. There’s no daggy attire to be worn while carrying out my ‘house-wifely’ duties. I must be impeccably dressed at all times, with a face full of make-up. That aspect, in particular, I hate. I would rather be scrubbed free of the made-up face he makes me wear. I want to pull on scruffy shorts and an old tee and run about in the sunshine.
Instead, life is as he plans it. Running our household and attending his business functions is all I can look forward to. It’s all on his terms. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, is unpredictable or fun. There is no spontaneity—well, unless you count his personal sexual gratification. Sometimes the mere thought of it makes me gag because he reduces the act to something so repulsive and lewd that I no longer think of sex as being something beautiful or loving. Instead, it’s just another way for him to express his hold over me and just how much control he has. He likes to see just how much he can get away with and when I put up any resistance my actions usually result in a black eye or a split lip.
When this happens there is no remorse from him. Ever. His attitude when he sees the marks he’s made on me only result in him telling me to ‘Clean your
self up’, as though I have in some way let him down because I dare present myself to him in a less-than-perfect state. Every time he lays a finger on me I hate him a little more. Sometimes, I want to slap him back, because each time I don’t, he takes a little of my dignity away with him.
His control extends to every facet of my life. A thirty-something fashion stylist is actually on staff to make purchases on my behalf so that I am appropriately dressed for every occasion that Alex wants to show off his ‘trophy wife’. He accommodates her in an apartment suite on a lower floor of our building. He says this is so she can be at his beck and call, however I suspect that there is another reason she is so close. Would I dare suggest he’s screwing her, too? Absolutely not. I’m not that stupid, and it would only make my little slice of hell all the more unbearable. So, like a doll, I let her style me so that my image is exactly what Alex wants it to be.
Alex’s idea of spoiling me is to buy me cooking lessons from renowned chefs for my birthday. This way I can serve him meals of a five-star quality without our dining being public. Even he knows that his controlling behaviour would be frowned upon by other patrons. Instead, he ridicules me over our meal in the privacy of our own home. Well thought out, don’t you think?
Tonight Alex is coming home early, which is unusual since it’s Friday. Normally he would stay back at the office until at least nine o’clock so that he could have drinks with his senior staff. He likes the fact that a group of men sit around smoking Cuban cigars and drinking aged scotch, all the while blowing wind up his arse by telling him how wonderful he is and how much money his company has made this week. But this Friday I have the unfortunate pleasure of it being his thirty-second birthday. Hip, hip, hooray. See? I can be sarcastic.
Before he left for the office this morning, he left a menu he wanted catering for this evening. No, it’s not a party with guests – just the two of us. But that is the way Alex is. Plan, plan, plan. So, after showering and dressing in the clothes he has picked out for me, I grab the list and call for a taxi to take me to the nearest delicatessen. I don’t shop much, as normally Alex has our groceries delivered to the apartment. However, I’m usually allowed out once a week to source special ingredients to prepare his meal.