Page 225 of House of Cards

Smith’s hand tangles in my hair, yanks my head back, forcing me to look up at him. The sudden pain makes me gasp and causes an aching heat to pool in my core.

“Enough,” he growls.

His dilated pupils turn his eyes black. I can see the pulse hammering in his throat.

“Lie back.”

I do, but apparently not correctly, because his hands are suddenly on me, roughly dragging me to the center of the bed where he positions me exactly how he wants me. Limbs straight, slightly spread…

…like a corpse on an autopsy table.

Sweet Jesus.

The plastic is cold and slick against my bare skin, and I can’t help but squirm.

His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise. The thought that I’ll see those marks tomorrow sends another pulse between my legs.

I expect him to grab restraints next, to tie me spreadeagled like he’s threatened to do before. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, looking down at me like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Ropes? Blindfold?” I ask, my voice sounding so small and pitiful in this large room.

Smith shakes his head slowly. “Unnecessary.” The words hang between us, ominous.

I reach for the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist in a grip that’s just shy of painful.

“We’re not fucking tonight.” His voice is strained, like he doesn’t like the words anymore than I do. But it’s obvious through the sweatpants that he’s not hard, and he hasn’t touched me except to position me, so…

I glance at the first aid kit nearby. “Then what?—”

“You said you wanted to stay in my world, but you have no idea where I live.”

I want to make light of this situation, if only for my own sanity, but it feels like snapping the tension would only end in me plunging to my death. So I stay quiet, keep my eyes on him, and wait for the non-fucking to begin.

“There’s no light here,” he murmurs. “No air.”

He releases my wrists, and grazes a knuckle down my cheek, along my jaw.

“Just the darkness, and the…” he stops, frowning hard like he can’t think of the word. Then his face clears, and his eyes unfocus.

“And the pain.”

He turns to the nightstand, opening a small leather case I hadn’t noticed before. The way he handles it—reverent, hesitant—makes my stomach tighten.

When he turns back to me, he’s holding a knife, terrifying in its plainness.

No fancy handle, no logos.

Just a piece of sharpened metal with a single purpose.

His expression is neutral, but the slight tremor in his hand is anything but indifferent.

My breath hitches. “Smith...”

“Did you forget your safeword?” he murmurs, his eyes latched to the blade like it’s hypnotized him.

I push up onto my elbows before I can rein myself in.

Every instinct screams at me to run. To get as far away from this man and that blade as possible. But there’s something in his eyes that roots me to the spot.

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