Page 118 of House of Cards

I hear the click of chips, and I’m not sure if it’s the dealer paying out my winnings or taking my lost wager.

I have zero fucks to give.

I’m on the brink of coming.

I grab Smith’s wrist, widening my eyes in alarm, desperately trying to signal him to slow down. As deliciously taboo as this is, coming in public was never on my bucket list.

This isn’t me. I don’t do shit like this.

The thought sends hot, vicious shame through my veins…but not enough to stop me grinding my hips against Mr. Control Freak’s fingers.

“No!” I whisper in a panic. “Please!”

But Smith just turns away, sliding the chips I won off the betting area for me, and slowly placing his own bet. I’m guessing he does this often, because the dealer doesn’t even look in my direction as she deals the cards, leaving my area empty.

Oh, God, he’s going to make me come.

Right here.

Right fucking now.

My body tenses. I slump forward, ramming my arms down on the edge of the table and leaning in as if I’ve never been so fascinated by a game of blackjack in my life. I tip my hips forward, grinding my clit and pussy against Smith’s fingers as he effortlessly strokes me to orgasm while playing a casual hand of blackjack.

My eyes squeeze shut. My jaw clamps closed. I viciously press my thumbs into my temples like I have a headache.

I don’t know how I manage not to whine and moan as Smith cups my pussy and gives me a hard squeeze before slipping his middle finger inside, annihilating me with a few quick pumps.

What the hell is wrong with me? I should claw his hand away, slapping the smug grin off his face. Instead, I’m sitting here, letting him stroke me into a desperate, humiliating frenzy.

But the worst part?

There’s some a twisted part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.

The same part that finally gives in and loses control.

Dizziness washes over me as I fight not to lose myself to this orgasm and yell or scream or moan. Lips clamped closed, I claw desperately on to reality, dimly watching as Smith loses his bet on a double-down gone wrong.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“Win some, lose some,” Smith says, not even bothering to sound alarmed. He turns to look at me. I swear there’s a gleeful lilt to his words when he asks, “Are you feeling okay? Should we go?”

“No. And yes—” I swallow hard “—we should go.”

But as I move forward on the chair, about to stand, I realize there’s a massive wet spot on the back of my dress.

Crap.

My cheeks flare with heat. Smith turns his head a little to the side, giving me a sidelong glance as he flicks his hand toward the heap of chips in front of us.

He twists to face me, and then leans in, murmuring into my ear, “Did I make your legs go weak, kitten?”

“You fucking wish,” I mutter back.

He breathes into my ear, making my pussy clench and my dress even wetter. “Then another hand.”

“One was plenty.” I push through my embarrassment and whisper a furious, “My backside’ssoaked.”

Smith stands, strips off his suit jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders. “Why didn’t tell me you were getting so cold?” he says. “Come. Let’s get something warm in you.”

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