Page 34 of Mr. Strategic

“I love you,” I gasped, and the gut-deep roar of satisfaction he made rumbled in my chest.

“I want you to keep my cum in here. Tip your ass up.”

He licked up my thigh, filling his mouth with his sticky warm cum, and he spat it back in my waiting pussy.

Then he held my hips firmly and circled my clit again, nipping and biting in his eager possession.

“Keep my seed inside. I want you to be full, swollen, engorged with my baby.”

“I love you,” I said, and it was true, had always been true. . . and every time I said it he groaned, licked me longer, loved me harder. . .

Epilogue (2 years later)

“Sweetheart, I’m home!” Michael called out.

“We’re in here!” I cried as Charlotte lurched to her feet and took off toward her daddy.

I had been worried about Michael’s dangerous psychopathy toward me, his sudden passion for breeding me.

What would happen when the breeding kink produced a baby?

But Michael’s cocky pride in his own creative power, his confidence in his own abilities, extended to the much-loved baby in my belly, and when she emerged tiny and pink and hairless, he was impressed instantly of her many perfections, and had remained firmly convinced of them ever since.

His single-minded ruthless devotion would be focused on protecting and viciously defending her against anyone who could ever do her harm, and that sent a warm glow through me.

Michael swung Charlotte up in the air, catching her time and time again as she squealed in glee, and finally kissing her affectionately on the cheek.

Then he turned to me.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked. “It smells wonderful.”

As always, his golden-blonde hair was styled to perfection, swept back with a neat, short cut. His tie lay in geometric perfection, his collar points laid perfectly even.

He was Dr. Michael Carrington, world-renowned surgeon, and the hospital couldn’t accept that he was anything but a god.

Dr. Ben-David had made a full recovery. And moved far away. Alix had quit her job, too. But Reuben was lost to her forever.

And so was my husband.

“Meatloaf,” I said, pulling my beautiful pink-checked curtains closed as I finished the stitching on my pink satin seat cushions.

“Like them?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said promptly. “Whatever you want.”

Most things had gone back to normal. Except for the house. Gone was the sterile, white perfection Michael had chosen. Except for his sitting room, the rest of the house was colorful, warm, and filled with every fussy, adorable decoration my heart desired.

His strong fingers cupped my face and he bent to kiss me.

Because I was a good sweet, wife, I opened my mouth to him, allowing the possessive strength of his kiss to overpower me.

My husband tightened his fingers for a brief, heated moment in my hair, then let me go to put Charlotte in her chair for supper.

Once she was securely in, he strode over to me.

“I love you,” he growled, his strong arms surrounding me as I pulled the meatloaf from the oven. “I love our home. I love our baby. I love ourlife.”

“Of course,” I said, snuggling back into his arms. “And I love being your peace.”