Page 42 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

The dealer takes back all the cards. I stare at the two chips still sitting on the table where she’d paid out my wager… and I count out three more chips and stack them neatly.

“Good girl,” Smith rumbles, arranging a much larger stack of chips in his wager box.

I feel giddy, and it has nothing to do with the large bet I’ve just placed. I’ve only just figured out that Smith has been inching my knee-length dress up my thigh this entire time.

His fingers brush my bare thigh. I inhale a sharp breath, catching a lungful of his earthy, sandalwood cologne.

Smith doubles down on his cards again, but I just wave away the dealer.

I have eighteen, and that’s good enough for me.

I should focus much harder on the cards being dealt, but my eyes are on the dealer’s slim hand with her plainly polished nails as she hands out cards.

And my attention is on Smith’s fingers, which have found their way between my thighs.

The dealer busts.

My heart thumps in victory. I leave the chips I won on the table, my hand trembling, knocking them over the more I try to stack them neatly.

This is insane. I could lose everything I’ve just made… and it’s a lot.

If Smith ever lets me walk out of this casino, out of his life…I’d have enough to repay Elonzo.

But will he let me keep it?

Will he ever let me go?

The heady rush of betting without a thought of keeping count is pumping adrenaline through my body, and that seems to intensify the pleasure of Smith’s fingertips gliding over my skin.

Smith barely glances at his cards when the dealer announces he has blackjack. His eyes are on me as I struggle to figure out what the hell to do with the pair of sevens I’ve been dealt. I could split, but I’m already at fourteen.

“Double down,” Smith murmurs, his hand skating between my thighs.

My clit goes crazy, tingling in furious anticipation of him moving the almost-inch he needs to touch me on that sensitive spot.

It’s not my money, it’s not my money ? —

The mantra doesn’t make it any easier to slide over a stack matching that I’ve already wagered. The dealer draws one more card… a six.

My heart clangs in my chest as I throw Smith an incredulous stare. He has a full smile on his mouth—possibly the first I’ve ever seen on him. I see the dealer turn over her second card from my periphery, but I can’t look away from the dark magnetism in Smith’s gaze.

He brushes my clit, and instead of clamping my thighs closed to stop him, I inch my legs open.

My breath sighs out of me as he strokes me.

I know that the dealer is drawing herself another card, but my hooded eyes refuse to budge from Smith’s face as he works my clit into a slow frenzy, stroke after stroke.

I hear the click of chips, and I’m not sure if it’s the dealer paying out my winnings or taking my lost wager.

I have zero fucks to give.

I’m on the brink of coming.

I grab Smith’s wrist, widening my eyes in alarm, desperately trying to signal him to slow down. As deliciously taboo as this is, coming in public was never on my bucket list.

This isn’t me. I don’t do shit like this.

The thought sends hot, vicious shame through my veins…but not enough to stop me grinding my hips against Mr. Control Freak’s fingers.

“No!” I whisper in a panic. “Please!”

But Smith just turns away, sliding the chips I won off the betting area for me, and slowly placing his own bet. I’m guessing he does this often, because the dealer doesn’t even look in my direction as she deals the cards, leaving my area empty.

Oh, God, he’s going to make me come.

Right here.

Right fucking now.

My body tenses. I slump forward, ramming my arms down on the edge of the table and leaning in as if I’ve never been so fascinated by a game of blackjack in my life.

I tip my hips forward, grinding my clit and pussy against Smith’s fingers as he effortlessly strokes me to orgasm while playing a casual hand of blackjack.

My eyes squeeze shut. My jaw clamps closed. I viciously press my thumbs into my temples like I have a headache.

I don’t know how I manage not to whine and moan as Smith cups my pussy and gives me a hard squeeze before slipping his middle finger inside, annihilating me with a few quick pumps.

What the hell is wrong with me? I should claw his hand away, slapping the smug grin off his face. Instead, I’m sitting here, letting him stroke me into a desperate, humiliating frenzy.

But the worst part?

There’s some a twisted part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.

The same part that finally gives in and loses control.

Dizziness washes over me as I fight not to lose myself to this orgasm and yell or scream or moan. Lips clamped closed, I claw desperately on to reality, dimly watching as Smith loses his bet on a double-down gone wrong.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“Win some, lose some,” Smith says, not even bothering to sound alarmed. He turns to look at me. I swear there’s a gleeful lilt to his words when he asks, “Are you feeling okay? Should we go?”

“No. And yes—” I swallow hard “—we should go.”

But as I move forward on the chair, about to stand, I realize there’s a massive wet spot on the back of my dress.

Crap.

My cheeks flare with heat. Smith turns his head a little to the side, giving me a sidelong glance as he flicks his hand toward the heap of chips in front of us.

He twists to face me, and then leans in, murmuring into my ear, “Did I make your legs go weak, kitten?”

“You fucking wish,” I mutter back.

He breathes into my ear, making my pussy clench and my dress even wetter. “Then another hand.”

“One was plenty.” I push through my embarrassment and whisper a furious, “My backside’s soaked .”

Smith stands, strips off his suit jacket, and drapes it over my shoulders. “Why didn’t tell me you were getting so cold?” he says. “Come. Let’s get something warm in you.”

“Like your tiny dick?” I hiss.

If there’s a smile lurking just behind the neutral set of his mouth, he’s much too composed to let it show. Or maybe I’m the optimist that thinks she can get blood out of a stone.

I stand, moving awkwardly as I try to figure out if Smith’s jacket is in fact covering up the damp spot on my dress.

Then I glance down and realize there’s a dark splotch on the chair where the fabric soaked through.

But before I can get embarrassed about that, too, Smith grabs the back of the chair and tips it forward until it rests against the edge of the table.

“Hold our seats,” he tells the dealer, tipping his chair forward as well. The other players are barely even paying any attention, but I wouldn’t have been able to walk away without Smith’s jacket to cover my ass.

Thankfully, I’m not tall, and he is. The suit jacket ends well under my ass, and a few steps later my blush starts receding. Smith leads us straight to the elevator and swipes his keycard.

It opens on a chime, my pulse ramping up as we step inside. He’s so close, I can feel his breath graze the back of my neck.

I spin to face him as he leans over and presses the button for the top floor. The doors are still closing when I bring my hand around in a fast arc.

It’s the hardest slap I’ve ever dealt in my life.

Smith’s head barely moves, but the splash of red that pops up on his skin is satisfying as fuck. He touches the tips of his fingers against his cheek, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“You fucking asshole!” I yell hoarsely.

Alarm bells clang in my head when Smith’s face hardens, but I ignore them all.

I’m a woman possessed.

I charge forward, slamming my palms into his chest, trying to shove him back. I’m pretty sure I only succeed because he’s wondering how the hell he let a demon into the elevator with him.

His back hits the wall.

When I lunge at him again, he grabs my wrists, preventing me from giving him another slap, or clawing his eyes out, or whatever the hell I’d been planning.

But he doesn’t say a fucking word.

Not. One. Word.

It’s suddenly too quiet. Too calm.

I can’t tell if he’s planning to ignore my outburst or if he’s just waiting until we’re in his hotel room before he punishes me. I’m too worked up to wait and find out.

“I get it, okay?” My voice is loud, hoarse, strained. “You’re such a big deal around here, you think you can do whatever the fuck you want. But I don’t care what you think I owe you. I’m not just one of your fucktoys !”

His eyes turn to slits, but the fucker has the audacity not to defend himself. The elevator stops, and the doors open, but I’m too riled up to care less.

“Do you think I wanted to come so hard that I’d leave a fucking wet spot on the seat in the middle of your posh casino?” I tug furiously at my hands, trying to pull them out of his steel grip. But it’s impossible, because fuck, he’s strong.

His annoyance is gone in an instant. “That’s what you’re upset about?”

“No! Yes! I mean, fuck, it’s…I…I fucking hate you, you arrogant, sadistic fuckhead!” I try to slam my fists into his chest, but he just bats my hands away with one sweep of his arm.

“We had a deal! I let your psycho clients do what they want to me, and you’ll let me go.

Eventually.” I pause, lick my lips. Lower my voice back to something more reasonable, now that I’m losing steam.

“That was the deal, Smith. Not parading me around like a show pony.

Definitely not making me come in public.

“What’s next?” I scoff. “Fucking me on the casino floor?”

He grasps my face in a single hand, squeezing so hard I whimper in pain. Grabbing his wrist, sinking my nails into his flesh, does absolutely nothing.

His fingers clamp over my chin, and I can fucking smell myself on them.

He tilts my face up, forcing me to meet black-tar eyes that stare right into my fucking soul.

“The deal’s changed, Zoey.”