Page 36 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

I expect a moan or two, but he’s silent. Dark, demanding eyes locked to mine, jaw clenching, but motherfucking mute.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs.

My only warning is the tightening of his fingers around his cock before he spears the tip past my lips and deep inside my mouth. And he just keeps going, feeding inch after inch of hard dick into my mouth like I’m a fucking boa constrictor.

I try to pull back, to breathe, but his grip on my throat tightens, holding me in place. All I can manage is an angry, “Mm!”

I’m choking, gasping for air, and he’s just standing there, watching me, his expression never changing.

“Come on, kitten,” he says, sounding annoyed. “I’m barely halfway in. Relax, and open your throat.”

Relax?

I want to scream.

To fight.

His muscles tense under my touch when my hands find his thighs and I dig my fingers into his skin.

He lets out a low groan and finally pulls out enough that I can suck in a slobbery breath.

A surge of satisfaction fills me along with that burst of air.

I might be at his mercy, but I’m not powerless.

He thrusts back inside, head still tilted at an angle so he can watch me take every inch of him. I flick my tongue out to lick the underside of his shaft, trying to communicate that I’m not his enemy.

Smith jerks, a hiss escaping his lips. I’m rewarded with another inch of his cock each time I wriggle my tongue against his shaft until I well and truly can’t breathe anymore.

In seconds, his pulse quickens, his breath coming faster.

I’m doing this to him. Me.

And as much as I hate him for using me like a fucking cum rag, I can’t deny the thrill it gives me.

The power, the control, the sheer, raw desire.

I close my eyes, giving in to the sensation, to the taste of him, to the feel of his hands on me. I might be upside down, but at this moment, I’m not sure which way is up anymore.

All I know is that I want more.

I want him.

And I hate myself for it.

Hips rock forward and back, hard but controlled, as he thrusts deep into my throat. I try to match his rhythm, sipping for air at every chance, but he’s always one step ahead, keeping me off balance. It’s infuriating and exhilarating all at once.

My body responds to the friction against my tingling lips, the taste of him, the weight of his cock as he forces it deeper and deeper into my throat. The sound he makes with every thrust—a tight, low groan that sounds both frustrated and feral.

Heat builds between my legs, warmth soaking my underwear.

I squirm, rubbing my thighs together, but it only makes the ache worse.

Of course, he notices my movements.

Of course, he stops mid-thrust to taunt me.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.

I glare up at him, but with my mouth full, I can’t exactly snap back a retort. He chuckles, the sound low and dark, sending shivers down my spine.

“Don’t lie to yourself, kitten,” he states. “Every time I touch you, your body’s begging for more.”

He pulls out, allowing me just enough air to fuel a nasty, “I’d tell you to go to hell, but I’m pretty sure you’d feel right at home.”

Smith leans down, his face inches from mine. His eyes are dark, intense, searching. “Say it, Zoey,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Say how much you want this.”

I hesitate, my mind racing. I could lie, remind him how much I hate him.

But something in his eyes stops me, a need that mirrors my own.

“I... I want this,” I admit, the words torn from me.

A faint smile spreads across his face, transforming his features. He looks almost... happy. “Of course you do. I could bruise your throat and you’d still beg to swallow my cum.”

“You fucking arrogant— mm !”

He shoves his cock back inside my mouth so fast I barely have time to get my teeth out of the way. He lets out another hiss, slapping my cheek, but he doesn’t pull out.

There’s heat in his eyes, a wildfire that both terrifies and entrances me. It ignites a needy ache in my core that makes me want to shove a hand between my legs and get myself off.

Is he right about me liking this? Not just him, but when he uses me like this?

Smith starts relentlessly fucking my throat. I drag in air every chance I get, but they’re few and far between. My gag reflex tries to fight back, but I clench my stomach and will myself not to puke.

I’d probably just choke to death if that happened.

Saliva splutters around my lips, coating the sides of my mouth, my chin, the tip of my nose. I’m a mess, and that’s before he groans like an injured bull and comes.

I taste nothing, because he’s in too deep. But I can feel his cum hitting my throat, and I barely hold down another violent gag.

“Attagirl,” he groans as his dick pulses inside my mouth. “Swallow every drop like the needy little slut you are.”

Like I have a fucking choice. My stomach is threatening to revolt, bile pushing up my throat, but I swallow it down.

That earns me a throaty moan that has my clit tingling and my nipples tightening. But I keep my hands on his thighs, bracing myself as he pushes inside my mouth one last time before pulling out.

He stands there for a moment, spent dick hanging heavy between his legs, dark eyes on my mouth.

I lick my lips, and he tears his penetrating gaze away, locking eyes with me.

“So…” I say, trying to sound airy and not at all like I nearly came just from giving him head. “About that cake…”

His lips twitch into something that might have been a smirk. Then he tilts his head toward the dining table, staring into my eyes like he’s weighing my soul. “Go ahead. You’ve certainly earned it.”

I scramble off the bed and hurry across the room. Not just because I’m dying for cake—I am—but because I can’t stand meeting his eyes.

Why the hell are my cheeks burning? Because he told me I was a good girl again?

This is some messed up shit, right here. Even if I get out of this situation alive, I’m going to need therapy for the rest of my life.

I grab a fork and attack the slice he cut earlier, keeping my eyes locked to my task as Smith comes up behind me.

He says nothing, does nothing, just stands close enough that I can smell him, feel his heat.

It makes my hands tremble, but not with fear.

I’m anxious about making a mess, because somehow I think he won’t like that, and apparently I’ve become a chronic Smith-pleaser.

Smith sweeps my hair away from my neck, sending a thrill through my entire body.

His touch is so gentle, entirely different from the man who just forced himself down my throat.

I flinch, turning my head to peer up at him, and glimpsing something new on his face, a warmth in his eyes that has nothing to do with what just happened on the bed.

“I’ll have a slice, too,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to the cake, before settling back on me.

The look is gone, his face back to neutral.

I swear I didn’t imagine it.

Maybe there’s more to this monster than the controlling, sadistic freak the world knows him as.

Which makes no damn sense.

None of this does.

I didn’t just like servicing him, even though he forced me to do it. And sure, it’s nice to be praised for a job well done. And let’s not forget the mouth-watering reward I’m about to devour.

I…want to please him.

I…want him to like me.

Sure, this could just be a coping mechanism. Be nice to the monster, and he won’t eat you up.

But this feels like something else. Something…deeper.

Fuck.

I don’t think I want to leave.