Page 11 of Mr. Strategic

“Let’s take a trip next month. We can go anywhere you like.”

I was even more startled, and I felt his eyes on me, glinting out of the shadows, so I knew I was expected to say something.

“OK.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Oh. . . I don’t know. Maybe somewhere down the coast for the weekend.”

“Not the coast,” Michael said savagely. “I’m talking something bigger.”

“Oh,” I said, bending down to my needlework again.

Even though it was dark, there was a perfect circle of light around my chair, the vibrant colors coming alive under my fingers.

Something about cross-stitching had always relaxed me, and I placed another neat little stitch as my husband leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long low breath of smoke in the air.

I felt his eyes on me but I didn’t look at him. Thank god for the cross-stitching.

Usually during the evenings I sat next to him, was eager for any contact, any attention.

But now with the anger pulsing through me, I couldn’t have cared less.

“Come fuck me.”

My heart began to pound. He mustfeelmy quiet defiance, and he wasn’t going to stop until he got my submission.

And I would obey. But that was all he’d get—bare, reluctant submission.

I laid my work down neatly.

When Michael wanted something, he expected it right then.

So I slid out of my chair and stood in front of him.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and looked at me for a moment, then pulled me down onto his lap, spreading my legs in the long skirt across his thighs.

“I love you,” he said, both hands on my hips, stretching his fingers to span around each hip bone. They dug into the soft skin of my back.

He wrapped one hand around the back of my throat and pulled me down for a kiss, his mouth hard on mine. I felt the nip of his teeth on my full bottom lip.

It was so sore from pleasuring him that I had to suppress a moan of pain.

His tongue plunged inside my mouth, but I didn’t respond. My cheeks flared with heat, but my heart felt cold and dead.

“You know that, right?” my husband repeated as he broke off. His hands spanned my cheeks, forcing me to look at him. “You’re the only one I care about. They don’t mean anything to me. You’re the one I love.”

His hands were tight, his palms resting on my throat and I was sure he’d know how my heart pounded there.

When I didn’t say anything immediately, he dug his fingers in deeper. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t look away.

“What do you have to say to me?”

“Yes,” I replied promptly. “I love you, too.”

His eyes searched mine, and I tried to force my breath to slow down, keep my heartbeat from fluttering underneath his fingers.

He must have been satisfied by what he saw because I felt his fingers reach down to his scrubs and yank the cord.