Page 35 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Feels like dying a little, but I do it.

“Anything else?”

“Nope.” I pop that P a little too hard.

Does this mean I get an even longer reprieve from the whoring? I mean, can’t have clients trying to bang me on my period, right? I should be relieved, but there’s just tightness in my chest and an angry flush on my face.

It’s the waiting I can’t stand.

If Elonzo can reach me behind the secure, vaulted doors of the Devil’s Den, what’s to say he can’t send an assassin into Smith’s room to finish the job? I’m a sitting duck.

While I’m waiting for my change of clothes, I wash out my underwear in the sink, but even Smith’s expensive-as-fuck soap leaves a rusty-colored outline behind on the pale fabric.

I toss it over the towel rail to dry and bundle the sweats into the laundry hamper. Then I keep myself occupied by going through his cabinets, making a mental list of anything that might prove useful in future escape attempts.

Reinforcements arrive a few minutes later.

There’s a light tap on the door. “May I come in?”

“You may most certainly not,” I snap, snatching a fluffy bathrobe from its hook on the wall as I hurry over to the door. I open it just wide enough to stick my arm through, and Smith pushes it open the rest of the way, nearly bowling me over.

“Hey!”

He holds out a box of tampons, giving me a quick once over as if he’s making sure I’m not, in fact, bleeding out. I tighten my hand in the soft fabric, in case he tries to rip it off.

“I deal with this more often than you might think,” he says.

“Nah, I figured this is right in your wheelhouse.” I snatch the box from him and shoo him out. For a moment I think he’s going to stay where he is, watching while I put in my fucking tampon, but after a last quick scan of the bathroom, he leaves.

Did he think I was bluffing? That this is some scheme I concocted?

Ugh. Men.

Putting on clean underwear and sweats feels like heaven after standing around half naked. I tidy up the bathroom and step out, raking the hair out of my face as I look around the room.

Smith is on the balcony, staring out over the city. He does that sometimes, and I’ve even joined him a few times, but I feel hot and prickly with irritation and embarrassment.

I’m thinking about getting into bed early.

Smith sleeps on the couch, and I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with being gentlemanly.

The couch faces the bed, so he can—and will—watch me sleep.

When I keep my back turned, I can pretend it’s not happening, and I can fall asleep most nights.

But sometimes I lie awake for hours with the feel of his eyes on me.

The smell of coffee hits my nose as I’m walking past the dining table. I glance over and give a double take.

There’s a jug of coffee on the table, two tiny milk jugs, sachets of various types of sugar…and a chocolate cake.

Not like a cutesie slice or two.

A. Whole. Fucking. Cake.

“It’s decaf,” Smith says, making me jump for the second time tonight. “In case you were wondering.”

“Not the coffee I’m wondering about,” I mumble, giving him some bodacious side-eye as he walks up to the table without looking at me. “It’s the twenty-pound cake.”

“I could send it back if you?—”

“I’ll cut you.”

I’ve never seen anything more glorious in my life…and I own a fucking diner. Even from here, I can tell the buttercream frosting is the perfect velvety, melt-in-your-mouth texture. Spirals of shaved chocolate crowd the edges of a glossy mound of?—

“Are those raspberries ?”

Smith obscures my view. I scuttle around him, eyes latching to the cake as he slices a piece. It feels like the desecration of a sacred relic, but I’m already drooling.

“Damn, that smells good.”

He slides a slice of the cake onto a side plate. I hold out my hand—fucking meekly, in my opinion—my fingertips and tongue tingling in anticipation.

But instead of giving it to me, he puts it down in front of him on the table.

Okay, guess the second slice is mine then.

No worries.

I can wait a few more seconds.

But he doesn’t cut a second slice. He looks up at me, expressionless as he drags the flat of the knife over his tongue, cleaning up the streaks of icing.

The cramp in my ovaries has nothing to do with my period.

The way he’s licking that knife makes me want to bear ten of his children.

“May I?” I ask politely, pointing to the side plate.

“You may,” he all but purrs.

But when I reach for the plate, he smacks me on the back of the hand with the knife handle.

Hard.

“Ow!”

“Once you’ve earned it.”

“You realize you’re putting your life on the line, withholding chocolate from a hormonal woman like this? Is this really the hill you want to be slaughtered on?”

“Nothing in life is free, kitten.”

I wish I could tell him to go to hell, but I want that cake as badly as I want to breathe.

“Fine. What’s it gonna take?”

He carves a sliver of cake from the slice with a fork and studies the morsel with a faintly bemused expression on his handsome face. “What’s it worth to you?”

“You want me to name my own price?”

“That’s fair, isn’t it?” His dark eyes flicker to me.

“Um…I could…” I rack my brain for something that won’t give him too much satisfaction. He’d probably like something where I’m on my knees. “I could stop calling you names for like…twenty-four hours?”

“Interesting proposition, but…” He glances down at the morsel on his fork, and then slides the fork between his lips.

His eyes shutter closed as he chews, his head moving side to side in a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. “Mmm-mm!”

I should have grabbed the second fork and stabbed him in the fucking face. But watching him eat that cake with such unadulterated bliss plastered on his normally stony face is making my entire body tingle with want.

Not for cake.

For him. And cake, maybe. Like at the same time.

Oh, God.

His eyes open, and a flicker of a smile touches his lips, like he’s caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. “The frosting alone is worth more than that.”

“I’ll…I’ll…” I lick my lips, and his eyes dart to my mouth.

“You’ll…?”

I groan, dragging my fingers through my hair. I know what he fucking wants. What every man wants the moment they remember you have a mouth.

“I could…you know… blow you.” The last is barely a whisper.

“Could you? You don’t sound so sure, kitten.” He carves another slice from my cake, eating it as I fight against basic human dignity and a chance at a chocolate cake.

Who am I kidding?

“Fine, you sick fuck.” I throw my hands in the air. “I’ll do it.” My hands go into my armpits as I inch around the table. “Guessing I only get the cake after?”

“You’re guessing right.”

“Least it’ll help with the taste,” I grumble, shrugging my shoulders as I try to hype myself up. He’s just standing there, carving another sliver of cake, like he has all the time in the world.

“Could you at least face me?”

He sets the plate down, taking his sweet time finishing his mouthful before turning to me. But as I sink to my knees and reaching for his fly, he grabs my jaw in a tight grip.

“Get on the bed.”

I want to argue. I want to fight. But it’ll just take longer to get my hands on that cake. And my stomach is literally growling for it.

“Fine. Whatever.” Should be comfier there, anyway. No one enjoys bruised knees.

I go sit on the edge of the bed, Smith following leisurely behind me. But he must have sped up the last foot or two, because as I’m turning to face him, he grabs the back of my neck and shoves me face first into the mattress.

“Hey! What—” I cut off with a surprised yell as he flips me over and drags me to the side of the bed.

I grab his arms, trying to slap him off me, and get a hand on my throat for my efforts.

He pinches my cheeks, forcing my mouth open and rendering further discussion impossible.

My heart hammers as his grip tightens on my throat. I try to squirm away, to claw his fingers off my throat, but he’s too strong. He maneuvers me like I’m a rag doll, pulling me further over the edge until my head hangs over the side.

Blood rushes to my head, pulsing loudly in my ears.

“Let go!” I yell, the words garbled through my bent neck.

His fingers dig into my cheeks, keeping my mouth open wide. I can’t bite him, can’t do anything but glare up at him with hatred.

I give myself willingly to him, and this is how he repays me?

He looks down at me, his expression calm, almost clinical. It’s like he’s studying me, analyzing my reactions. I want to spit in his face, to claw at his eyes, but all I can do is hang there, helpless.

“Bite me, and I’ll wire those pretty jaws shut for a month.”

He adjusts his glasses with his free hand, the bulge in his pants growing. Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me get sick.

I won’t give him anything after this.

“Fuck you,” I choke out, but there’s a tremor in my voice that betrays me. I hate what he’s doing, but a dark part of me is already switching on at the thought that he’s going to force me to suck his cock.

“I’m going to fuck that sass right out of your throat until you’re begging for air,” he says, his voice infuriatingly calm.

He releases my throat and unzips his fly, hand wrapping around his thick cock to pull it free.

I brace myself, close my eyes, and try to disassociate.

But when the head of his smooth, warm cock touches my lips, my insides clench.

“Open.”

If I hadn’t brought this on myself with my fatal desire for chocolate cake, I’d have fought him. But I want to taste him as badly as I want to taste that cake.

Maybe even a little more.

My jaw relaxes, and he takes his fingers out of my cheeks.

“Lick.”

My eyes flicker open, staring at the hard length of his cock an inch above my face. Smith has his head tilted to the side, watching me with a frightening intensity in his dark eyes.

Gathering saliva in my mouth, I use my tongue to coat his cock.