Page 232 of House of Cards

But it does, because it washimholding the knife.Himso confidently guiding that sharp edge over my skin.

Terrifying in his calm. In his mastery.

I’m not turned on. I don’t feelhorny.

I feel like I’m about to go in for surgery, and the anesthetic just kicked in.

When Smith’s cock appears, I give up trying to rationalize anything anymore. I just want him inside me.

Stretching me, like I know he will.

Filling me to the brim.

But he doesn’t push into me like I want him to. Because I have to earn it through pain and suffering, apparently.

Why else would he be teasing me like this? Making me drool for his dick.

And as much as I just want to reach for him, to take the situation into my own hands, quite fucking literally, I know I can’t.

This is his moment.

I knew it the second I stepped inside this room. How carefully he’d staged it. All the little details. The excitement, the anticipation.

It’s almost like this is some kind of fantasy he’s been desperate to play out in real life.

How can I interfere with something so precious?

So I just lie here like a lovesick puppy, watching him stroke his cock an inch from my pussy, and pretend I’m happy that he isn’t fucking me with it instead.

My hands clench tighter in the plastic as I struggle not to reach for him, not to stick my hand between my legs and get myself off just to end the torture.

Smith’s eyes flick up to mine.

My back arches at the malevolent hunger I see in them.

It’s like he wants to eat me alive.

And for some fucked up reason, my mind thinks that’s the best way to go.

“Do you feel dizzy? Numb? Nauseous?”

He rattles out the questions like it’s an interrogation. I shake my head for each one.

“You’re still okay?” he prompts again.

I smile. “Better than okay.”

Smith’s hands circle my waist, and my breath catches as I’m suddenly airborne, floating, flying. He positions me on his lap at the edge of the bed, my back to his chest, both of us facing the stand mirror. The plastic sheeting crinkles under him as he tucks my feet between his legs, my knees flush against my chest. The cuts on my thigh burn like fire as the skin stretches, and I have to clamp my lips closed to muffle the gasp of pain.

My mind flickers back to the day he chased me through his hotel suite at the Devil’s Luck. When I bit him and he used his own blood to paint my pussy before he went down on me, devouring me.

Now I get why he was so turned on.

It was the blood.

He takes off his glasses, folds them up, puts them down on the bed behind us. When he faces forward again, there’s a hard set to his mouth that sends a frightful tremor through my body.

“Spread your legs,” he rasps against my ear, eyes locked on mine in the reflection just a few feet from where we sit.

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