Page 31 of House of Cards

Before I have time to blink, there’s a muscular arm wrapped around my throat, my back pressed to concrete stomach and steel thighs.

My pulse surges with anger, fear, outrage.

He’s so close,tooclose, and everything in my body wants to fight him off, even as my mind screams that it won’t matter.

He’s too strong.

There’s just too much of him.

But if the past few days have taught me anything, it’s that even when the odds are most definitely not in my favor, I’m still going to push all my chips over the table and whisper, “All in.”

“Let go!” I shout, stomping with my feet. If he feels my heel grinding into his shoe, he doesn’t mention it. I try to elbow him and end up getting another round of funny elbow. What is it with this guy? You’d swear his stomach was carved out of wood.

And speaking of wood…

I freeze up when I realize the thing poking into my lower back can’t possibly be a French loaf.

“Trying to be clever only works if you’ve thought through every eventuality,” he murmurs into my ear.

“You’re right.” I try to laugh, but it’s wheezy and ineffectual with the tight grip he has on my neck. “Should’ve taken into account what a fucking pervert you are.”

Smith tightens his arm, and I instinctively grab him to pull him away. He uses his free hand to cup one of my tits. “I take time out of my day to come feed you, and this is the thanks I get?”

I swear I can feel his cock getting harder. I arch my back, trying to move my ass away from his rigid shaft, and he lets out a dark chuckle as if he knows exactly what’s making me so damn uncomfortable.

“Let’s discuss better ways for you to show gratitude.”

Since I’ve already pissed him off, I don’t even hesitate to make the situation worse. With a yell of frustration mingled with fury, I curl my hand into a fist and slam it backward into his crotch.

There should be a public service announcement about movies, and how wrong they are.

He doesn’t go down like a felled tree.

Oh, no.

In fact, he barely loosens his grip on my throat. But thank God for my assumption that he was going to end up on the floor, writhing in pain, because I surge forward, fully expecting my blow to have ended him.

I’m just strong enough to pull out of his grip, but he’s right behind me when I dart out of the bathroom and head for the hotel room’s door. I dodge the food cart, but it catches on my hip and sends me whirling around.

His hand snatches my throat, swallowing my neck, thumb pressing hard against the pulse hammering out of control beneath his fingers.

I squeak in surprise, hand flying to his.

“Fight as hard as you want, kitten. It won’t make a difference.”

Clawing at him is useless, as he so bluntly pointed out, so instead I hunt around blindly on the food cart with one hand, trying to pry his fingers off me with the other.

Then I find a fork.

Which I stab into his chest.

He lets out a surprised grunt, staring down at the steel prongs protruding from his pec. Red blooms on his white dress shirt when he plucks out the fork. As he tosses it over his shoulder, I grab the domed plate cover and slam it into the side of his head.

He flinches, but that hand stays wrapped around my throat.

I yell as I grab a handful of food and smear it over his face, nearly knocking his glasses off. He rips them off, glaring at me through a mask of gooey egg yolk. Then he grabs a handful of food and slaps it over my face. I spit out a mouthful of hollandaise sauce from an eggs Benedict I’m pretty sure I didn’t order, gaping at him as he rams me into the wall beside the hotel room door.

“You stabbed me,” he grates out.