Page 13 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

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.”

She flips her damp hair over her shoulder and goes over to the dressing table, lifting the hair dryer from its hook.

“Leave it,” I tell her.

“You want me to look like I put my finger in a socket?”

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself,” I growl, stalking toward her over the patterned carpet. “You don’t get a say in anything. Until you’re out of the red, this ass belongs to me.”

“Don’t you mean your clients?” Zoey lets out an indignant squeak when I grab the back of her neck and force her head down on the desk.

“Hands on the table.”

“What? No! Let me go!” She struggles furiously until I step closer and grind my dick against her plump ass cheek.

“One more word, and you’ll be choking on my cock.”

She hesitates, and then slaps her palms down on either side of her head. She’s still glaring at me, so hard that I half-expect her to yell at me to do my worst…but I guess she’s catching on that I don’t need the encouragement.

I drag her robe up her back, baring her lower body. I force my gaze to her eyes after drinking in the sight of her naked flesh, relishing the panicked look in them.

This isn’t indulgence. This isn’t for me.

It’s for her.

How else is she going to learn?

Grabbing her ass, I give her cheek another rough squeeze. One side, then the other. Warming the flesh. A courtesy she most certainly doesn’t deserve, but one I give her anyway.

I lean over her, my body molding against hers, so flush that when she shivers, I feel it go through her.

“Let this be your first lesson. The harder you fight, the tighter the leash.” My mouth brushes the shell of her ear as I drop my voice to a low murmur.

“Now count with me.”

She squirms, glaring at me over her shoulder. “You run a casino but you can’t count without help?”

“Ten.” I bring the flat of my hand down on her ass in a resounding slap.

“Have you tried using your fingers?”

“Ten.”

She winces at the next slap, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re not seriously going to spank me whenever I?—”

“Ten.” I don’t hold back on the next one. She cuts off with a shocked gasp, but her glare returns instantly.

“If this is what gets your motor running, then you’re in serious need of a shrink.” She lets out another gasp as my hand connects with her ass, and it’s more satisfying than the hot sting on my palm.

Christ, why does her defiance feel so addictive? I struggle to keep an even tone as I grate out, “Keep going, kitten. I’ve got all day.”

“Okay! Fuck! Ten! Although technically it should already be seven?—”

“Nine.”

“Nine!”

I give her another eight hard slaps, my dick growing harder the more desperate her voice becomes.

“One!” she yelps on the last one, reaching behind her to rub her red cheeks. “Feel better now, asshole?”

More than she’ll ever know. “Do you?”

“Positively fucking radiant.”

I adjust my glasses, catching her eyes in the mirror as I raise my hand. “Positively fucking radiant, what ?”

Her eyes flicker nervously from my reflection’s eyes to my hand as she tries to figure out the magic spell that’ll make me stop spanking her. She gets there quickly, but I swear I can see her defiance take control.

“Positively fucking radiant, you sick fuck.”

That earns her another round of spanks I don’t bother telling her to count. I only stop when she splutters out a desperate, “Okay, sorry!”

I release her, step back. Watch as she scrapes herself together. She’s shaking, tears clinging to her lashes. Her half-choked whimpers caught between fury and shock.

Then there’s that flicker of panicked confusion she doesn’t seem to know what to do with, but she drowns it almost instantly with a scowl.

“Want to try that again?”

Her voice is strained. “Positively fucking radiant… my lord ?”

Unusual, but I quite like the sound of it.

“I’ll allow it.”

My eyes slide down to her ass, taking in the red splotches on her creamy skin. I could have kept going… but I need her to trust me. At least, for now.

Once I hand her over to one of my clients, there’s no such thing as trust or boundaries. She’ll be fending for herself. And I’m the only person she’ll be able to turn to for consolation.

There’s a sudden tightness in my chest. The thought of someone else touching makes me want to break something. Preferably them.

I force the thought out as fast as it came in.

She’d just an asset.

One I’m excited to see blossom.

When the Balmont Boys first started handing out girls for hire, it was all about the numbers.

I’ve refined the process since those early days, when broken girls were discarded like used merchandise. Created systems and protocols that keep emotions safely removed from the business side of things. Rules our clients must obey.

It all takes effort. Strict discipline. And time—mostly mine.

Which is why I’m still so pissed that the Bogota cartel hijacked our SUV en-route to a private party last month. The driver and security staff were executed roadside, but the Angels in transit that night vanished without a trace.

It’s just one in a series of similar attacks. They’ve been after our Angels for years now.

Zoey doesn’t glare at me as she straightens her robe, but there’s a sulkiness around her eyes as she rubs her backside through the fabric. I slip into a white dress shirt, attach my suspenders, and slip on my charcoal gray suit jacket.

When I turn and head for the door, I swear I hear her mutter, “Sicko,” under her breath. I beckon her over, and she studies me warily for a second before complying.

“Have you already forgotten your first lesson?”

“No, m’lord.” She freezes when I tuck a chunk of damp hair behind her ear, and flinches when I pat her face.

“There’s my good girl.”