Page 26 of Mr. Strategic

And now we’d never have them.

To distract myself, I wandered about the room, chatting with our friends and neighbors, about all the same old things. None of the new things.

Like that my husband and I were at a stalemate.

Like that I tried to leave him, but hejust wouldn’t let me go.

“Your husband said he needs you,” someone I couldn’t see whispered in my ear as I picked up a crystal glass of sangria. “In the cloak room.”

It sounded like Alix.

“Why?” I asked, but she was gone.

As I always did, I obeyed.

Half-distracted, my mind still on his promise to breed me. Why had Michael Carrington married me in the first place? Why had he picked me out of all the other girls vying for his attention?

I opened the door to the small, out of the way room, and my husband had a woman from the catering company up against the wall of coats.

He met my eyes and I felt the power struggle crackle between us, my husband deliberately holding my gaze as he yanked up the waitress’ skirt and pulled a condom from his back pocket.

I was transfixed, frozen in place as he tore the condom from its packet with his teeth and rolled it down his length.

Then Michael picked the woman up by her hips and positioned himself at her entrance.

She was gasping, trembling with excitement and lust and hope, and there was an audible wet sound as her pussy slurped on his cock.

His hips snapped forward as he thrust inside her, and her arms were around his throat, but he wasn’t looking at her. Only me.

My insides seemed to curl in on themselves, frozen disgust and betrayal coalescing into a simmering rage. Did he want me to leave?

I wouldn’t.

I stood there in the doorway for the whole thing, her head falling back as she moaned and whimpered.

“Take my cock,” he demanded, but she wanted to, her fingers tightening on his broad shoulders.

Of course she wanted to. They always wanted to.

I watched until he unloaded inside her, his eyes never leaving mine, the cold fire blazing from his ice-blue eyes.

Then I had to go back to the table and eat a goddamn roasted duck and scalloped potatoes.

Michael straightened his tie an infinitesimal amount as he finally sat beside me and put an arm lightly on the back of my chair.

He was giving the keynote speech. Wouldn’t do to look less than his best.

There was a waitress serving us food with a wet cunt and the imprint of Michael’s fingers on her hips. And he thought it was OK because he didn’t know her name or give a fuck about her.

As they brought the coffee out and Nicky and Michael were at another table discussing golf with the Mayor, I felt a soft touch on my shoulder.

“Are you doing OK?”

It was Reuben.

“No,” I gasped.

Suddenly I wanted to cry, rage, knock this whole table on the ground andscreamat the top of my lungs.