Page 37 of House of Cards

She shakes as she yanks her towel back over her tits, clambering out of the armchair as soon as I’ve backed up enough to give her room.

Another knock, this one a little louder than the last. I watch her as I take a few steps back, and she returns a defiant stare for all of two seconds before dropping her head.

Christ, how can one brief glimpse of submission make my balls ache like this?

I grab my cock through the towel, and she happens to glance up and see me. Her blush becomes crimson and she hurriedly turns her back.

I adjust my glasses as I open the door. The concierge’s eyes don’t even flicker at seeing me in my towel, or Zoey in hers. If he notices the bandage on my chest, or my hard on, he doesn’t react to either as he wheels the food trolley outside and closes the door behind him.

He’s seen much worse.

Said bandage seems to be holding up, so I fetch clean clothes from my closet and unpack a robe from Zoey’s things.

“What would he have done if I told him I’m being held against my will?” Zoey asks, sounding genuinely curious. Her not making a scene tells me she already knows the answer, but I humor her anyway.

“He’d have asked if you were stressed, and sent up a masseuse.”

She cuts off mid-snort when I toss a red silk robe at her. “This is for the massage?” she asks dryly.

The holes the fork left in my chest ache as I stare across the room at her.

“Your job is to obey, not ask questions.”

“Of course. I’m such a silly little sex slut,” she mutters sarcastically.

“That’s what you wear when you’re…seeing a client.” Why do I have to force the words out?

I should be glad that we have some fresh meat to add to our assets, but the thought of Zoey within ten feet of some of our morediscerningclients makes me want to pick up a fork of my own and stab them a couple hundred times. Which makes even less sense, because I love our clients. At least… I love their money.

They’reincrediblygenerous.

I lay out the suit as Zoey gathers up the robe and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?”

She stops walking, casting an annoyed glance at me over her shoulder. “To disrobe. And then re-robe.”

“My girls are only shy if the client wants them to be.”

Slowly, Zoey turns and lets her towel drop to the floor. I don’t bother keeping my eyes averted. If there’s something Zoey will have to get used to in the coming days, it’s strangers looking at her naked body.

Not just looking, but doing ungodly things to it.

Judging from how pink her cheeks go when that towel hits the floor, modesty is something we’ll need to work on. Her shame gives me a hard-on that makes me briefly reconsider stripping in front of her.

After all, I want her cowed, not terrified.

But she stares at me with such fierce determination that it feels like I’d be losing a game of chicken. So I loosen my towel and dry my crotch as her cheeks turn from pink to red. She grabs the hem of her emerald green panties, but at the last moment, turns her back before pulling them down her legs.

I suppress a smirk as I pull on a pair of clean boxers, openly studying her curves as she slides the red silk robe around her shoulders and ties it at the waist.

When she faces me again, I already have my suit pants on. She makes a show of staring at my bare chest, her eyes flicking to the band-aid on my pec.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, blinking her big hazel eyes at me. I swear there’s even a touch of concern in them.

“Barely.”

Her face goes slack. “I’ll have to fork you harder next time.”

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