Page 32 of Mr. Strategic

I turned and headed for the exit, but Michael’s voice stopped me.

“If you leave, Dr. Ben-David will die. If you want him to live, you’ll come back to me. Be my loving wife again.”

“How dare you!” I hissed. “You cannot be serious. You are a doctor! You took an oath to heal and protect your patients! You can’t tell me you would seriously let himdieto blackmail me!”

But I knew even as I said it that Michael Carrington would.

“I’d kill him myself if I thought it would bring you back,” Michael said, holding the scalpel over Reuben’s chest.

“So what’s it going to be, Lavender? Is it the steady hand of Dr. Carrington cutting him open? Or your jealous husband’s vicious butchery?”

I was trapped and I knew it.

Reuben was a good man. He had helped me. I couldn’t let him die if I could prevent it.

“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Ifyou can even save him.”

He grinned at me again.

“Oh, I can save him. If I want something, I don’t stop until I get it.”

“Just do it then,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach as he administered the anesthesia.

The minutes, the hours, ticked on.

In a fever dream, I watched my husband perform the surgery. I didn’t know what kind it was. But I knew it was the kind of surgery only a very talented doctor could do.

I knew the true astonishing depth of his frightening, uncanny talent, and the psychopathic arrogance that backed it up.

Was I even conscious as the hours ticked on, Michael’s face like a granite god, his bloody hands like sorcerer’s tools.

And then suddenly it was over and Michael was peeling off his bloody gloves and letting them slide from his fingers into the trash can.

“He’ll live.”

I almost swooned, but I turned obediently and followed him.

His heavy hand descended on my neck as we walked down the dark hallways, my husband steering me down a dark corner where he savagely kicked a door open, and then we were in a dark, gray-walled stairwell.

Pulling me into the shadows, Michael roughly tore my pants down, ripping at my panties as he covered my mouth with his.

“I want you back, Lavender. Idemandit.”

His hands were greedy, possessive, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer, pulling me up higher, forcing my legs around his waist, and I groaned as his cock speared into my channel with the aggressive power of a conqueror.

“Create a baby with me. I was wrong to think I didn’t want one before. I crave this creative process with you. I’m going to fill you with seed and we’re going to be happy together.”

“But you’re a psychopath,” I said, struggling in his arm.

“You’ll calm me down. I swear it. I swear to God.”

The raw, uncanny sounds that burst from his mouth as he thrust in and out of me were things I had never heard before, his thumb moving between our bodies to rub on my slippery clit, dragging an orgasm out of me, embarrassingly fast at first, then slow and reluctant next, then finally a third one so hard I saw stars cluster in my vision as I clutched my husband’s bloody jacket and he finally unloaded in me, pumping pulse after pulse of hot cum inside.

I was so weak and trembly he had to carry me to the car, do up my seatbelt.

Cum seeped through my panties, trickled down from my aching pussy.

And he didn’t drive like he used to—jerking the stick shift roughly, his eyes constantly darting to me, one hand clutching my pants like he thought I’d throw myself out the door.