Page 16 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

“Seriously?” I don’t think my eyes can go any wider.

“Seriously.” Smith lifts the velvet hanger holding a leather nightie with enough straps on it to moor the Titanic.

Their buckles clink merrily when he twitches the handle, his dark eyes glued to me as if to gauge my response.

I know I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but I can’t help my lip curling into a disgusted sneer.

Tied up hams have more coverage when they’re put in the oven to roast.

“There’s no… bottom bit,” I say, pointing vaguely in the direction where some panties or something should be.

“That’s a feature, not a flaw.”

I stifle a shudder. “I’m not wearing that.” I cross my arms over my chest, hoping I sound stronger than I feel.

My entire body is trembling inside, and it has nothing to do with the way he manhandled me in the corridor. Okay, maybe like ten percent has to do with his hand on my throat.

It’s not that bad when he’s not trying to choke me to death. Warm and strong. Almost reassuring, until he told me he’d love to see me fight off Howler.

What the hell was that out there?

It felt…intimate.

As in, I’m a little slippery between the legs after that exchange, and hoping he doesn’t notice.

Smith twitches up a dark brow. “Forgive me if I was unclear. You don’t have a choice.”

I’m one hot second away from blurting out, “Make me,” but I know I’ll regret it. And then we’d end up right back here, me regretting it and wearing a costume that looks like Matrix porn cosplay.

I snatch the hanger from Smith, desperately trying to ignore the way my skin tingles when our fingers brush.

“Where’s the changing room?”

“You’re in it.”

I consider telling him to turn around…but the getup isn’t exactly modest, so what’s the point? It’s literally just some leather straps held together with buckles and studs.

The point is that the sex fiend in the other room can—and undoubtedly is —watching my every move through the two-way mirror.

“Creep,” I mutter as I make a show of turning my back to him like I did in the hotel room. Not sure if I’m referring to him or his pervy boss-friend, but neither of them are going to see me blushing, that’s for sure.

Jesus, how do I put this thing on?

Smith’s hand lands on my shoulder a few minutes later.

“Do you need some?—”

“I got this!” I snap, yanking away from his touch.

“It’s on back-to-front.”

“You’re making that up.” The buckles clank against each other as I give the ridiculous outfit a furious tug.

“Stop.” Smith’s calm command bypasses my brain and goes straight to muscles, which obeys him instantly. I freeze up, only my eyes moving to track him when he moves into sight.

Traitors.

Smith adjusts his glasses, coming close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body against my naked skin. He calmly untangles the fetish gear, sending tingles and goosebumps all over my body whenever he touches my skin.

My cheeks are so hot, it feels like they’re glowing. But when I dare to glance up at him through my lashes, he’s looking at my body with unexpected professionalism. Much like a rider might fuss with his horse’s bridle. I assume, having never ridden a horse, nor had fetish gear adjusted for me.

A strap slides down my hip, and Smith’s knuckles brush against my skin to adjust it like it’s nothing.

Like I’m nothing.

But it’s not nothing. A prickle of heat rushes up, pooling low in my body, making my insides twist with disgust…and my clit tingle with need.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but trying to wrestle my body into control appears to be a task in futility.

“Stop it, you’re tickling me,” I mutter, yanking a strap out of his hand and backing up so he can’t reach me.

Smith drops his chin, intensifying his dark stare. Then he turns and points to something a few feet away.

It’s a big white X, taller than Smith, leather cuffs dangling from each point. I spotted it when we came inside. Kinda hard to miss when it’s one of the most notable pieces of furniture in here.

I open my mouth, but then close it again.

It’s pointless arguing. I need to conserve energy for my imminent mental breakdown. I trudge reluctantly over to the torture device. No one’s gonna convince me it’s not.

Smith’s a sadist. His friend is a sadist. This Howler guy who’s apparently on his way is a sadist.

They’re all fucking?—

“Ow!”

“Too tight, kitten?” Smith’s eyebrows twitch, but he keeps his head down, working ruthlessly at securing the last strap around my ankle from his crouched position. He’s eye level with my crotch, but shockingly, I haven’t caught him looking at my body. Not even my tits.

I yank at my bound wrists. “Sadistic asshole.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Smith says calmly.

My stomach sinks.

The way he’s fastening me to this cross, my back is to most of the room. I guess so his client has easier access to my backside. Which, in my very limited experience, is apparently where sickos like Smith likes spanking kittens like me.

The cuffs are tight around my wrists and ankles, digging into my skin like shackles despite the thin strip of padding. The pressure against my spread arms and legs isn’t painful yet, but I’m sure it’ll get worse.

Smith fastens the last buckle, slides a finger behind the cuff, and adjusts it a quarter inch.

I yank at all four cuffs, trying to get a little more room, which is when I realize just how fucked I am. The X feels impossibly solid. It doesn’t jiggle or shake no matter how hard I pull.

I’m not going anywhere.

My breathing stutters, shallow and fast, and it feels like there’s something stuck in my throat. I yank again, frantic, but hopelessness pounces on me when the only thing that moves is my already straining body.

“Smith, please, don’t do this,” I blurt out in a panicked whisper.

His eyes dart up to mine, a sharp frown between his brows. But silent, like he’s giving me a chance to retract my words.

I don’t.

All in, baby.

“My money’s yours,” I whisper fervently. “Every cent. Every chip. Please, please just let me go. I’ll just slip out. No one will even know. Please, please, please.”

My body tightens as he slowly stands, his expression growing darker with every foot. One hand goes to his chest, his fingers rubbing over the fabric of his neatly pressed charcoal suit.

Right where I stabbed him.

Gone is the aloof accountant-cum-sex-trafficker. He looks like a man who, when they finally catch him, is found with seventeen bodies buried in his back yard. Someone who took his time with each of his victims. Who kept trophies. Whose incredulous neighbors still claim was ‘such a nice man’.

Someone like Howler?

Hot pressure builds behind my eyes, tears welling so quickly I barely have time to blink them back. Guess that breakdown is right around the corner.

He grabs my chin, studying for one long, angry moment before he uses that grip to shove my head to the side, like he’s sick of looking at my pathetic face.

I don’t blame him.

There’s not a trace of courage left in me. I feel hollowed out. Empty.

What’s the use of fighting anymore?

Even if I got out of here, I have nothing to go back to.

He was right. If I had people , I wouldn’t be here.

Smith stalks away, opening a metal closet painted white to match the rest of the room. His body does a good job of hiding whatever’s inside, but I’m not even sure I want to know at this stage.

Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is?—

Oh, thank fuck, it’s a blindfold.

I can’t help but whimper when he slides it over my eyes and fastens it mercilessly tight around my head. Also can’t stop a panicked gasp when he grabs my hair and yanks back my head.

His breath warms my mouth, and for some ridiculous reason, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Like I so badly wanted to in the hallway. Which just proves how close I am to losing my mind.

An electric tingle throbs over my lips.

God. I hate myself more than I hate him. My tongue betrays me before I can stop it, wetting my lips like I’m begging for a kiss I don’t want, can ’t want, shouldn’t want.

No, no, no.

My body doesn’t get to win this time.

When I hear the door open and realize Smith is about to leave, I can’t help but bleat out, “Smith!”

A hand grips my hair, wrenches back my head.

For an awful moment, I don’t know whose hand it is. That door could have opened for his client, Smith not bothering to remain behind. Maybe even joining his friend behind the glass.

“There will be pain,” Smith murmurs in a voice as tight as his merciless grip in my hair. “Lots of it.”

A warm breath hits the side of my neck, Smith’s voice dropping to a whisper.

“Don’t let it crush you. Ride it like a wave, kitten. I—” Another breath, harder, exasperated sounding like the almost reluctant words that come next. “I’ll be watching.”