Page 88 of House of Cards

And, Jesus, it had felt so good.

Sofucking good, I’d almost managed to forget that the man who’d burned down my diner had found me. Had gotten close enough to touch me. Maybe not with his own hands, but did it matter? A Colombian necktie is a Colombian necktie. Might as well have been Elonzo with his hands around my throat, about to fuck his debt out of me before he made sure I could never run away from him again.

Smith opens the bathroom door. A cloud of lavender-scented steam hits my nose, ripping away the nasty thoughts flooding my mind, and making my toes curl against the cool black marble tiles.

What the fuck?

I feel like I’ve stepped through Alice’s looking glass.

This isn’t the same world I was in a second ago. That world didn’t have a fluffy towel placed just-so on the table beside the egg-shaped tub, mountains of bubbles inside said tub.

Smith has transformed his exquisite black-and-gold bathroom into a day spa, and I can’t help but think it’s some kind of trap.

I’m still standing there in shocked silence when I hear him turn to leave.

Something inside me freezes up, and I don’t understand any more than the sudden horror of realizing he’s leaving me alone.

Only my thoughts to keep me company.

I stare at his retreating figure in the mirror’s reflection.

“Wait. Don’t go.”

He glances over his shoulder, pausing halfway out the door. “You’ve earned your privacy.”

I clear my throat, dropping my gaze for a second to find the knot in my silk gown. After he’d marched me out of the maze and into a small dressing room, Smith had barely looked at me long enough to toss this red robe in my direction.

I’d cleaned up as best I could, wiping blood and cum from my face, neck, chest.

Then I’d stared at my haggard reflection in the wide mirror, reading the letters on the collar around my neck over and over like a fucking mantra as I’d fingered that thin strip of leather with its gaudy pendant.

PROPERTY OF THE DEVIL’S DEN

Then Smith had brought me back to his room, and now, here we are, him giving me privacy to enjoy a nice soak in his tub. To say I’m feeling thrown is an understatement.

I turn my back to him, letting the robe slide to the floor.

“You expect me to wash my own back, m’lord?” I ask as I step into the warm water, making a point of not looking at him as I sink into the bubbles.

“Thought we came to an agreement yesterday,” he murmurs from the doorway, voice neutral as always.

I ignore his comment.

A sigh slips out of me as the warm water starts relaxing my muscles in ways I didn’t think possible.

Fabric whisks as he moves closer. He dips his fingers into the water and stirs it, making warm currents swirl against my thighs.

I pop open an eye. He’s watching me, face expressionless.

“You know just what your victims need when you’re done with them. You must have been doing this a while,” I let my hands drift on the surface of the water. Our fingers are only a few inches away from each other, warm currents stirring against my skin whenever he swirls the water.

“A few years.”

“Did you always want to be a sex trafficker when you grew up?”

Not even a hint of a smile. Why is he always so serious?

“You have your debts, I have mine.”

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