Page 119 of House of Cards

“Like your tiny dick?” I hiss.

If there’s a smile lurking just behind the neutral set of his mouth, he’s much too composed to let it show. Or maybe I’m the optimist that thinks she can get blood out of a stone.

I stand, moving awkwardly as I try to figure out if Smith’s jacket is in fact covering up the damp spot on my dress. Then I glance down and realize there’s a dark splotch on the chair where the fabric soaked through. But before I can get embarrassed about that, too, Smith grabs the back of the chair and tips it forward until it rests against the edge of the table.

“Hold our seats,” he tells the dealer, tipping his chair forward as well. The other players are barely even paying any attention, but I wouldn’t have been able to walk away without Smith’s jacket to cover my ass.

Thankfully, I’m not tall, and he is. The suit jacket ends well under my ass, and a few steps later my blush starts receding. Smith leads us straight to the elevator and swipes his keycard.

It opens on a chime, my pulse ramping up as we step inside. He’s so close, I can feel his breath graze the back of my neck.

I spin to face him as he leans over and presses the button for the top floor. The doors are still closing when I bring my hand around in a fast arc.

It’s the hardest slap I’ve ever dealt in my life.

Smith’s head barely moves, but the splash of red that pops up on his skin is satisfying as fuck. He touches the tips of his fingers against his cheek, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You fucking asshole!” I yell hoarsely.

Alarm bells clang in my head when Smith’s face hardens, but I ignore them all.

I’m a woman possessed.

I charge forward, slamming my palms into his chest, trying to shove him back. I’m pretty sure I only succeed because he’s wondering how the hell he let a demon into the elevator with him.

His back hits the wall.

When I lunge at him again, he grabs my wrists, preventing me from giving him another slap, or clawing his eyes out, or whatever the hell I’d been planning.

But he doesn’t say a fucking word.

Not. One. Word.

It’s suddenly too quiet. Too calm.

I can’t tell if he’s planning to ignore my outburst or if he’s just waiting until we’re in his hotel room before he punishes me. I’m too worked up to wait and find out.

“I get it, okay?” My voice is loud, hoarse, strained. “You’re such a big deal around here, you think you can do whatever the fuck you want. But I don’t care what you think Ioweyou. I’m not just one of yourfucktoys!”

His eyes turn to slits, but the fucker has the audacity not to defend himself. The elevator stops, and the doors open, but I’m too riled up to care less.

“Do you think Iwantedto come so hard that I’d leave a fucking wet spot on the seat in the middle of your posh casino?” I tug furiously at my hands, trying to pull them out of his steel grip. But it’s impossible, becausefuck,he’s strong.

His annoyance is gone in an instant. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

“No! Yes! I mean, fuck, it’s…I…I fuckinghateyou, you arrogant, sadistic fuckhead!” I try to slam my fists into his chest, but he just bats my hands away with one sweep of his arm.

“We had a deal! I let your psycho clients do what they want to me, and you’ll let me go. Eventually.” I pause, lick my lips. Lower my voice back to something more reasonable, now thatI’m losing steam. “That was the deal, Smith. Not parading me around like a show pony. Definitely not making me come in public.

“What’s next?” I scoff. “Fucking me on the casino floor?”

He grasps my face in a single hand, squeezing so hard I whimper in pain. Grabbing his wrist, sinking my nails into his flesh, does absolutely nothing.

His fingers clamp over my chin, and I can fucking smell myself on them.

He tilts my face up, forcing me to meet black-tar eyes that stare right into my fucking soul.

“The deal’s changed, Zoey.”