Page 24 of House of Cards

When his thumb brushes my lips, they part as if on instinct.

He slowly drops his head, our mouths less than an inch apart. His warm breath makes my lips tingle because, apparently, they haven’t been paying attention. And when his dark eyes search mine, it feels like he’s cataloging every sign of weakness for when he needs to break me again.

“Welcome to the Devil’s Den, kitten.”

Smith

The Devil’s Den nightclub is a ten-minute drive from the casino. Dark, crowded, and twice as noisy with its massive sound system and pounding music. Precisely why I use the staff entrance to reach my destination.

My phone call with Myles was short.

When he requests an audience at The Den, there’s no negotiating. Even if you’re knuckles-deep in a woman’s pussy.

I handle the financial empire that keeps the Balmont Boys untouchable, cleaning their dirty money through a network only I fully understand.

It makes me valuable, but not untouchable.

When Myles gives orders, I execute them without hesitation.

A haze of cigar smoke and obnoxiously pungent cologne rushes to greet me, cloying in my throat despite the churn of air conditioning as I enter the nest of hedonic decadence that is The Den. These walls soak up the depravity this place thrives on, only to ooze it out again like a hallucinogenic toxin. Red velvet, polished brass, and the constant indistinct murmur of powerful men making million-dollar deals as they slide a hand up the girl on their lap’s skirt—it’s a vibe.

Moving from the clean and clinical staff-only hallway into something so intimate and obscene is a context shift that I thought I was used to by now, but it’s a visceral shock today.

My short time with Zoey ratcheted up my senses a thousand-fold. My dick’s only just settled down to a semi. I was hoping to spend much more time with her, but letting her simmer in her misfortune is almost as cruel as forcing her to come again.

The Den, conveniently nestled beneath our nightclub to ensure discrete entry, is a gentleman’s club whose members can buy anything they want…and we sell it to them with a smile.

There’s no need for a velvet rope here.

The doors only open for men who can pay the obscene membership fee. Access to our Angels only happens after they’re vetted by myself or Richmond.

Even on a weeknight, the cigar lounge has at least forty people milling around. Mostly men, of course, but some have been joined by wives or mistresses. Mostly mistresses, of course.

Cocktail waitresses in tiny red sequined dresses serve champagne or scotch in crystal flutes and tumblers. We’ve trained our staff to focus diligently on their clientele, but at least two of the girls glance up and don’t immediately look away when they spot me. I make a mental note of their names. Troy will chastise them later, however he sees fit.

Several guests greet me as I pass, their eyes lighting up like I’ve pulled a rabbit pulled from a fine velvet hat. I keep my interactions with them brief, trading well-planned pleasantries. Did they close that Hong Kong deal they wouldn’t stop bragging about? Are the kids enjoying their gap year in Spain? Did Martha finally file the divorce papers?

They want to be noticed, appreciated, revered…especially by people like me.

I give them exactly what they’re paying for, and not a red cent more.

Leaving the dimly lit cigar room, I head down a hallway studded with five pairs of doors on both walls. Of each pair, one door leads into a playroom, the second into a gallery.

The two bouncers who supervise this area of The Den glance my way, both nodding before returning to a hushed conversation about baseball.

I swipe my keycard to gain entry to the first gallery on the right.

Myles Balmont lies sprawled on a plush sofa, arms draped on either side of the headrest. The lighting is dim inside here, provided only by the four down lights in the corners of the room. Recliners stand scattered around the room, all facing a floor-to-ceiling window into the play room beyond.

I slip off my jacket and drape it over the back of a recliner. Myles always turns up the heat to unbearable levels. The nape of my neck is already prickling as I pop open the buttons on my cuffs and roll up my sleeves.

When I take a seat beside him, Myles bestows a beatific smile upon me.

“Heard you had quite the evening,” he says in his melodious voice, sighing dramatically. “I always miss the fun stuff.”

Blue eyes study me above a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard as I sit back and kick my legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He used to dye his dark hair when the first gray strands appeared, but lately it seems he’s leaning into the silver fox look.

I tweak my glasses. “Thought you were only due back tomorrow night.”