Traded for Love Read online

  TRADED FOR LOVE

  Copyright 2015 Michelle Hughes and Dahlia Salvatore

  First Edition

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of these publications may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover and Formatting by ShoutLines Design

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Letter to the Reader

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  This book is dedicated to all the readers of the Jack series.

  Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

  Dear readers,

  Dahlia here! I can't tell you how excited I am to give you this book. I was inspired from the moment I picked up Bought for Love, to write this continuation of Jack and Emily's story. I have received an unprecedented amount of support, love and questions from all of you. I can't tell you how much of a crazy ride this has been. I needed every single one of my wonderful cheerleaders and betas, and you have all been so fantastic and without your support, I couldn't have finished Traded. This book has put me through the ringer. Both Michelle and I are ecstatic that this book has been finished. It is personally the longest book I've ever written.

  I honestly could not have done this without any of you, and I expecially couldn't have done it without Michelle being there to coach me and help me through the process. Thank you, Michelle! You've been an invaluable asset while I added onto the world you lovingly crafted in book one.

  I know not all of you will love this book. Some of you may have mixed feelings or even hate it. If you intend on flaming it, please keep in mind that I did everything I could to do right by the characters according to who they are and what each went through in book one. This is the first time I've ever picked up a story from someone else's world and tried to add on to it. I'm not Michelle, but I did have her stamp of approval on everything. She loved it, and I hope you will love it, too.

  So, again, thank you; thank you; thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

  Knowing Jack

  (Emily)

  You don’t know Jack. If you ever want to find out the truth, write me back.

  -Julia

  I stared down at my laptop screen, as I'd done every day for a week. What could she have meant? I didn't know my own husband? Since when? And who was this Julia person, the mere mention of whose name made Jack fly into a rage?

  Deciding it was better to answer the message than to let it sit, I typed out a short response.

  Julia,

  I don't know who you are, and I'm pretty sure you don't know who I am. Kindly lose my email address and next time you decide to meddle in someone else's relationship, do it elsewhere.

  I didn't bother signing it before I hit send. Salutations weren't required when it came to jokers like her. Still, her words burned into my retinas. I couldn't stop staring at them.

  Three days later the pictures came in the mail.

  Jack was gone, and I was alone. It was late when I opened the brown paper envelope.

  The first picture scared me. Jack was standing naked behind a woman who was bent over a metal table. Her wrists were cuffed behind her back. There was a ball-gag in her mouth and she had several red welts over her ass.

  This has to be a mistake, I thought.

  But the more I stared at the man's face, the less I could deny that it was Jack.

  My stomach turned somersaults, then began twisting into knots. Fortunately, I'd lit a fire that night. I was too sickened by what I'd seen to enjoy the gas-fueled blaze crawling pleasantly over the fake logs in the stone hearth in front of me.

  Impassioned, and averting my eyes from the rest of the stack, I hurled it into the hungry flames. Bile crept up my esophagus and I pressed my hand over my mouth to suppress my urge to vomit.

  My eyes turned to the envelope. All it said was From: Julia, To: Emily.

  I threw the package into the fire with the pictures and watched as the fire ate the paper.

  Lies, I thought. Those have to be old. Jack loves me. He would never … never … Hell, I couldn't even finish the thought. It was too much to even think of.

  I'd dismissed it, but another envelope arrived two weeks later. This time a red heart had been drawn on the lower right-hand corner of the package. This one immediately went into the trash. I didn't even open it.

  I didn't want to see. I didn't want to feel the rush of sick doubt and worry about the sanctity and safety of my marriage.

  Six months passed. The frequency of the packages I received slowed to a trickle. Julia must have finally figured out that I wasn't looking at the pictures or reading anything she had to say. Even though I'd never met her, the idea of her festered in my head like a disease. The mere formation of the letters that made up her name incensed me.

  My life changed soon after that six-month mark. Things changed, and I could no longer turn a blind eye to the situation.

  One night, as I sat up surfing on my laptop, I heard Katherine start crying in the nursery. I knew the nanny, Donna, had gone home for the night, so I went in to calm the baby myself.

  I was surprised to see Jack standing there, looking down into the dark-wood crib. He had a strange look on his face, as if he was deep in thought. The baby was looking up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her pudgy little hands reaching up for him. He showed no signs of wanting to answer her pleas.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, approaching the crib.

  “Hm?” He shifted his attention to me, and the faraway look in his eye dissipated. “I'm fine.”

  “She probably wants her bottle. Could you make it for me?” I asked as I put Katherine over my shoulder and patted her back. He didn't smile, just watched me soothe her. The silence became too much for me, and the way his eyes bored into mine made me uncomfortable. “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just thinking about how motherhood becomes you.” His mouth kicked up in a smile. “You're the picture-perfect wife, you know that?”

  I feigned humility, though I secretly agreed with him. “If you say so.” I chuckled and bounced the baby in my arms. He started to leave, but stopped in the doorway. He was still smiling. “Are you really okay? Or are you just saying that?” I probed.

  His smile grew to a grin. “Of course. Everything's fine. I'll go make the bottle now.” He disappeared through the doorway and I heard his footsteps going downstairs to the kitchen.

  Katherine calmed and quietened, so I took her to the changing table to get a fresh burping cloth for her feeding. I sat down in the rocking chair and put my feet up, scoffing at a hole in my sock as our daughter gurgled in my lap.

  My thoughts wandered to why Jack was acting so strange. At least it wasn't really a new thing. He'd been that way for months. There were nights he never came to bed. He'd say he was working late in his office, yet I could swear I heard the front door open and shut.

&nbs
p; What I hated most about his behavior was that it included him not being interested in me sexually anymore. Things had dried up and I was beginning to suspect the worst. A man with a libido like Jack's didn't just stop wanting sex, not without something serious happening chemically or physically.

  He reappeared a few minutes later with the bottle. I smiled at him as he brought it over. To be sure it was the right temperature, I tested it on my wrist.

  “Ouch!” I exclaimed with a hiss.

  “What? What happened?”

  “It's scalding hot, Jack! You could have burned the baby's mouth! Didn't you test it?” I scolded as I wiped the hot milk off on the burping cloth. The baby whined at my change of position. “Shh. It's okay, sweetie. Mama just got hurt. Your bottle's coming.” I stood up and put her over my shoulder again.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Well, I can't give her this, can I? I have to make a fresh one and put this one in the fridge.”

  He shot me a glare and my cheeks flushed. I clamped my mouth shut.

  “You know, there was a time you wouldn't dream of talking to me that way,” he said. His jaw flexed and I knew he was clenching his teeth. The anger in his expression might have aroused me in the past. Now that I knew it wouldn't mean a swift, hard spanking, it terrified me instead.

  “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you that way.” My gaze dropped to the carpet. “I'll be right back.” I went down the stairs and into the kitchen. He'd left the stove on with a pot of boiling water going. I turned it off and put Katherine in her high-chair while I made the new bottle.

  Once the milk was just right, I returned to the nursery.

  Jack wasn't there.

  My heart sank.

  I fought the sudden urge to cry. I hadn't asked him to stay, but I'd hoped he would.

  It was like I never saw him anymore.

  The baby and I both suffered from whatever had changed Jack. His love for Katherine had seemed to wane. Initially, he'd seemed enthralled with the idea of having a baby and being a father, but now …

  To both me, and the baby, he'd become distant—and cold.

  (The Next Night)

  I'd been holding back the question for which I craved an answer. I had to know where my value lay—if I still had a place in this mansion he'd brought me to, if I still held a place in his heart.

  We sat in the dining room at the long table draped with a white cloth. I was at one end, watching him. He was at the other, reading an article on his iPad. Nadine served the soup course and he didn't even bother to look up from what he was doing to thank her.

  As she set my bowl down, I smiled up at her. “Thank you, Nadine.”

  “I hope you like it, ma'am,” she said, her face brightening up.

  I dipped my spoon in the Italian wedding soup she'd made and took a bite, keeping my eyes on him. For a few minutes, he sat there absorbed in whatever he was reading.

  “Aren't you hungry?” I asked.

  “Hm?” he hummed, swiping his finger across his screen.

  “I asked if you were hungry or not. You haven't touched your first course. It's Italian wedding, your favorite.” I tried hard to put genuine love and sentiment into my smile, but what did it matter if he couldn't even see it?

  I dropped my spoon, angry at him for being so ignorant. Our lives were passing by right in front of us and he didn't care to give me the smallest bit of respect or attention.

  At the sound of my utensil clattering against the porcelain dish, he turned his eyes slowly up from his device. “Something wrong, honey?”

  I couldn't do anything but frown at the smart-ass way he called me honey. The only way to reign in my anger was to bite the inside of my lower lip. I often steadied myself that way. “I need to ask you something.”

  One of his eyebrows rose, but both his eyelids drooped. “Can it wait?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  He set aside his iPad and adjusted the collar of the dress-shirt he wore underneath his sweater vest. “Ask away then. I'm all ears.”

  I looked him directly in the eye. “What am I to you?”

  “What do you mean?” His lip curled in obvious disgust at my question. “You're my wife.”

  “And what does that word mean to you?” I didn't take my gaze from his.

  He sighed and sat back in his chair. “You're the woman I love. You're the woman I take to bed. You're the mother of my child.” He recited the list casually, as if he'd rehearsed it a hundred times.

  “Do you love me?”

  He thumbed at the corner of his bottom lip, then narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. It was one of the attitudes he always assumed when analyzing something or someone deeply. “Why are you asking me this?”

  “Never mind that. Answer the question,” I demanded.

  He stood up from his chair and paced over the marble floor to my chair. He seemed to tower over me. The fact that he hadn't answered my question and the steely reserve with which he looked at me was breaking my resolve.

  Seeing him standing above me like that made my insides melt and my core temperature jump up by a thousand degrees. It was remarkable the effect he had on me, even after the months we'd gone without touching.

  He cupped my chin and looked down at me with half-naked eyes, the eyes of a true dominant Master. “I'm surprised at you, Emily.”

  I swallowed hard as his thumb ran over my lips. “You know, it's been too long since I've enjoyed this mouth.”

  Just like that, I was paralyzed, lost in his blue eyes. I'd been lost like this before, but now he'd caught me at a time when I was most vulnerable. Already, between my legs, my tender nerves were remembering what it felt like to be ravaged, licked, pressed by his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

  He bent his head and my eyelids drifted closed. I couldn't count the number of times he'd cast this spell over me, but I'd always gone willingly along with the magic. Now he was doing it again, seducing me as he had all those months ago, making me a slut for his touch.

  His breath was hot on my lips, but was suddenly gone. The pleasure I expected to feel was replaced by the pain of a slap across the face.

  The sting of my punishment was unexpected, torturous, and delicious. I was breathing hard, my nipples painfully erect and pressing through the satin bra under my blouse. Every part of my body was awake for him, wanting him, waiting for him—brought out of deep sexual hibernation by his answer to my question.

  If he didn't love me, he wouldn't have done what he knew would make me ache for him. The slap was his answer, and all I wanted to do was get on my knees and please him right there in the dining room.

  “Nadine!” he barked. “No more food. You're dismissed!”

  I heard the kitchen's second exit door open and close.

  Nadine was gone and it was just us.

  “Get naked. Now,” he ordered.

  He'd trained me so well that my heart jumped at his command. “Yes, Master,” I said, drunk with lust.

  I stood and pulled off my shirt and pants. The underwear I'd picked for myself were not fancy by any means. They were plain satin, meant more for comfort than coverage or support.

  “Since when does naked mean bra and panties?” he asked, irritation in his voice. “I said get naked!” he shouted.

  I reached behind me and unsnapped my bra, then slid my panties down to my ankles.

  His line of sight moved to the table, then back to me.

  “Bend over your chair,” he instructed.

  “Yes, Master.” I did as he asked, laying stomach down across the seat and sticking my ass out for him. I could feel my warm juices flowing down the inside of my thighs. I was already prepared for him, already ready to become his whore.

  I heard his belt-buckle and my inner masochist wept tears of joy. He's going to spank me, I thought. I secretly hoped he would leave marks, ones I would feel in the morning.

  The feel of leather did come, but not where I expected. He wrapped his belt around the thick
of my thighs and closed the clasp around them. Before I knew it, he'd restrained me to the chair legs.

  I heard the ice in the bucket near my plate rustle.

  “Spread.”

  Trembling with both excitement and fear, I reached behind me and pulled the folds of my pussy apart. My mind was a riot. I expected that he'd be using ice on me.

  “Have you stayed tight for your Master?” he asked.

  A shiver rocked me. “Yes, Sir.”

  “What's that?” He cupped his ear and bent closer. “I can't hear you.”

  “Yes, Sir, I've stayed tight for you.”

  “You haven't been playing with yourself have you?”

  “No, Sir.” I actually was telling the truth. Orgasms didn't come easy, and when I did have them, they weren't through penetration, but through clitoral stimulation in the bathtub or shower.

  “I don't know if I believe you,” he said. I did feel something cold, but it was not ice. Then I remembered that the only thing in the ice bucket had been a long, thin wine bottle. It was the smooth, frigid glass of the wine bottle rubbing against my clit.

  I cried out and squirmed, but there was no way I'd get away. He'd secured me to the heavy chair. I wasn't going anywhere.

  “We'll have to see how easily you take this,” he said. “If it goes in easy, I'll know you're lying.”

  Bracing for untold amounts of pain, I pulled myself apart as wide as I could.

  I heard him spit, then felt the warm wetness trickle over my asshole and around the entrance to my core. Gasping, I curled my toes in anticipation.

  I clenched as the chilled, wet glass pressed over me. Then, without warning, he began inserting it. The circumference couldn't have been too wide, three inches maybe, but it was still a massive stretch for me, especially since nothing had been inside me for months. It took effort for him to get even a small part of the bottle in. I bit my lip against the sting.