Page 9 of Mr. Strategic
Our whole house was like that. Just the way Michael wanted it. Sterile, cold, minimalist, big open windows that looked out over the dark expanse of the golf course and made me shiver not knowing what was out there.
“I’m ready to unwind now,” Michael said, giving me a little push toward the sitting room.
I knew what that meant. On evenings when Michael wasn’t working late at the hospital, or at meetings (or fucking other women, I reminded myself bitterly), he liked to sit in the big, cold sitting room with a glass of whiskey and have me jerk him off or suck his cock.
Automatically, I went over to the sideboard to get him a glass of whiskey, my fingers playing nervously with the fine crystal of the decanter.
Michael leaned back in his chair, his eyes on me as I poured a couple inches of the gleaming golden liquid into a glass. His hands were steady on the leather arms. Not twitching or tapping. Cold, unemotional, efficient. Like always.
Something like a lick of flame flickered around my collar, seemed to race down my arms and swirl around my wrist, each finger heating with anger and wickedness.
He was so emotionless.
While I feltraginginside with emotion. And suddenly I wanted it outside me, too.
My fingers extended and I gave the glass a littlepushoff the sideboard, watching as it shattered onto the floor.
“Oops,” I said, feeling the raw anger twist in my gut. “I guess it fell.”
I bent to clean it up, to hide the way my hand was trembling.
“Leave it.”
Something in his voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I turned around nervously.
“I’m just getting a dust pan.”
“I said leave it.”
There was something in his voice that made fear trickle down my spine, my heartbeat fluttering like a frightened rabbit.
“Fill another glass and come here.”
I obeyed, the whiskey splashing on the wood of the sideboard as my hands trembled.
What was he going to do?
Avoiding the shattered shards, I walked carefully around them and stood in front of my husband.
There was one, singular finger on his hand moving now, tapping up and down on the sleek arm of the chair.
“Get my cock out.”
I obeyed him, as I always did, the sound of my knees hitting the floor loud in the silence of our quiet white living room.
My eyes were locked on that finger, though, the way I could see the flex of muscle in his wrist as it tapped up and down with a heavy staccato thump.
His cock was already hard, and it sprung out thickly in my face as I drew it from his scrubs.
Michael was big, very big, but I had done this so many times that I automatically relaxed my jaw as I settled between his thighs.
When we had first gotten together, his size had frightened and intimidated me, and I had to fight the panic every time his engorged cock slid past my tongue.
But now I could do it better.
The blood pounded in my veins today, but I still knelt obediently there, his long limbs arranged on either side of me, my throat forced to reject the gag reflex as I slid his cock in and out of my mouth.
My tongue worked underneath the head of his big cock, then moved to tease the big pulsating vein thumping along his shaft, all things I knew he liked, and it only took a few moments for him to let out a long, steady breath.