Page 19 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

She flinches when I pour shampoo on her hair, but doesn’t resist when I lather it into her scalp. After a moment, she even leans into the touch, her arms dangling limply at her sides.

When I’m done washing her hair, I rinse it out and coat her hair in conditioner, working it through the tangles with my fingertips. She attempts to wash herself with the soap while I’m busy, but she’s doing a piss poor job.

I grab her wrist, savoring the way her muscles tighten as she fights me before she reluctantly lets me take the soap from her hand.

“Control freak,” she mutters as I squirt soap onto my hands and build up a lather.

Her skin breaks out in goosebumps when I run my soapy hands over it.

When my fingers glide over her breasts, her nipples tighten into hard little buds.

I struggle not to tweak them, forcing my hand down her belly instead.

She grabs my wrists before I reach her apex, and this time, she doesn’t let go.

“I can do that,” she says in a tight voice.

“How will I know you did a proper job?”

She lets out an indignant huff, but her fingers release their grip by a fraction.

A pleased rumble vibrates in my chest as I slide both hands down, grabbing her inner thighs and tugging her legs apart.

“Lean forward, hands against the wall.”

“I swear I’m innocent, officer,” she mutters as she obeys, then lets out a sulky, “Ow.”

“What now?” It’s more a growl than words.

“Hurts.”

“Suck it up.”

The sight of her bruised ass so perfectly poised in front of me has given me a hard-on the size of my fucking forearm. I admire her plump curves with a smirk as I drag my hands over her pussy.

She shudders as I clean every inch of her, then rinse her off just as well.

The last time I slide my hand over her pussy, it’s as slippery as if I just soaped her up.

Grabbing the front of her throat, I tug her against me.

She gasps, her hands grabbing onto my arm as if she thinks I’m about to strangle her.

But all I want is to catch her scent.

I dip my head, pressing my nose and lips to her hair, inhaling her, basking in the warmth of her body against mine.

She trembles against me, silent, unmoving.

For a glorious moment not resisting, but submitting.

Christ, I want to kiss her. Her pouty little mouth is begging me to nip and suck until it’s bruised, bleeding. My lips tingle, but I fight back the urge now like I did back in the playroom.

But when she tips her head back and stares up at me with pained, hooded eyes, the last of my will crumbles.

I drop my head, and she cranes back even more, until our noses touch. Warm rain showers us, her eyelids fluttering when the drops skim her face. I hear her breath coming faster, tiny little pants I’m desperate to suffocate.

“Get. Out,” I murmur.

She blinks, her throat moving under my hand as she swallows. “What?”

“Out.” I lick my lips, clear the hoarseness in my throat. “Now.”

I’m struggling to keep my face neutral as she stares at me with open confusion.

“One. Two. Thr?—”

Her jaw bunches, mouth drawing into a tight line as she blurts out, “Asshole!” and pushes past me.

Christ. How the fuck can she be so feisty after that session when I saw her go into sub-drop? Has she already recovered?

Instead of cordoning myself off from her like the noxious, toxic poison she is, I keep breathing her in.

I turn off the shower, slip my glasses back on. Zoey tries to dart out the shower, but I snag her with an arm around the waist. When she tries to claw at me, I snatch her wrists together in one hand and tighten my grip until she whimpers.

I use my body to herd her out of the shower, and point to one of the guest robes hanging near the towels. “Put that on.”

She must be glad for the coverage, because she goes over and eases into it with an exaggerated wince, no hesitation. If she thinks she’s hurting now, she’s going to be in agony when all the endorphins leave her body.

Why can’t I get the sound of her hoarse yells out of my head?

The way she kept sobbing out, “Stop!” like she stood a chance at halting that cane?

Clenching my jaw, I grab a towel to dry myself, and pull on my pants without bothering with my shirt. The bandage on my chest is still damp, so I peel it off and examine the row of holes. They’ve stopped bleeding and are already beginning to heal.

“I hope it scars,” she says, fussing with her hair in the mirror like she has no plans to leave this bathroom.

I eye her for a moment, releasing a heavy sigh. “Go wait on the bed.”

Zoey freezes, glares at me, and then slowly goes over to the suite’s king sized bed. The dramatic whimper she lets out when her ass touches the Egyptian cotton sheets makes my eyes roll.

“Keep going and I’ll give you something to cry about.”

I open the suite’s mini fridge, taking out a bottle of mineral water and an energy bar.

She’s propped up on her side, watching me warily as I move through the room.

I set the water down on the nightstand, and Zoey tries to move away when I come to sit beside her. But I simply grab her hips and tug her back.

“Ow, fuck!”

“Lie down.” I click my fingers.

She carefully eases down onto her side, hesitating before reluctantly resting her head in my lap.

I lean back so I can slide the tube out of my pocket. I hold it out so she can see it. “Warm shower, or a bath, after every session. Then you apply heaps of this.”

I expect her to snort and say something sarcastic, but she just lies in my lap like a dead thing.

I slip the robe down her shoulder and slide it over the curve of her hip, baring her naked, bruised skin.

She hisses when I start smoothing ointment over that injured flesh, but after the first few strokes, she falls silent.

Ointment done, I carefully arrange the robe back over her body, and hold out the water bottle for her.

She doesn’t reach for it.

“You need to hydrate.”

“M’lord’s magic solution for everything isn’t it? Just add wat?—“

I bring the to her lips as she’s talking, tipping it against her lips until she’s forced to drink. She splutters like I just dunked her head in the toilet.

“Christ,” I growl, snatching the black cashmere blanket draped over the foot of the bed, before cocooning her in it.

It’s as much to warm her body out of the shock than to keep her shielded from me. She watches me with half-lidded eyes, mouth pursed, like she’s waiting for the punchline of this terribly drawn out joke her life’s become.

I say nothing, enjoying her silence.

But it’s her submission when I shift back against the padded velvet headrest, the way she doesn’t resist when I pull her into my lap…that shit gets me so hard I’m surprised she isn’t grumping about how uncomfortable her seat is.

“It really fucking hurts, Smith,” she murmurs.

I don’t tell her she’ll get used to it. Most women don’t.

“The ointment will help.”

She carefully lays her head against my chest, like she’s expecting me to push her away. When I place my palm on her temple, she curls up into a ball.

I’m glad she didn’t ask for painkillers. It might dull the pain, but it also dulls the high.

Does she feel heavy and numb, or light headed and insubstantial?

I want to ask her, but that might give her the false idea that I cared.

It takes a few moments for me to realize that Zoey’s breathing has evened out. That she’s no longer actively pressing into me, her body now relaxed.

Christ…it’s been years since a woman fell asleep in my arms.

Why did it have to be her?