Page 6 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

My hands are clammy with sweat, my thighs practically glued together with the stuff. The heat causing it is internal and external, coming in waves every time this man’s eyes skate down my body.

I try to keep myself decent, but that leaves me absolutely defenseless.

Like now, when he runs the flat of his knife blade down my face and along my jaw. I could fend him off, but at the risk of losing what little dignity I have left.

I have to get out here.

“People know I’m here,” I lie. “They’ll come looking if I don’t get home soon.”

“If you had people, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Fucking asshole.

Goosebumps break out over her skin when he traces the tip of the knife from my collarbone down to my belly.

“No,” he muses. “I don’t think anyone’s coming for you, kitten.” His voice drops to a dark, throaty rumble. “I bet no one even knows you’re here.”

My jaw tightens when his intense dark eyes settle on me again, desperate to stop my teeth from chattering as he teases the knife along the hem of my underwear. My heart hasn’t stopped pounding since I spotted him watching me at the blackjack table.

That whole thing about eyes meeting across a crowded room? Works for psychopaths too. I felt that charge when our gazes locked.

Buzzcut didn’t make me half this scared, and he had a gun and a knife on him.

No more bluffing. I need to negotiate.

“My chips are still on that table. Let me go, and they’re yours.”

The perpetual crease between his brows deepens. “You disrespect my casino, you disrespect me. I’ve killed men for less.”

My chest closes at the dangerous tone in his voice, squeezing my heart until it feels ready to burst.

But if he wants to kill me, he’s going to have to get in line.

The morning after Buzzcut broke into my apartment, I should have gotten on the first bus out of town and just kept going. But I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving everything behind. It’s a shitty life, sure, but it’s mine.

And maybe I’m still hoping, like the idiot I am, that Ricky will be back any day now, backpack stuffed with a cool hundred kay.

Na?ve loser.

My brother’s been flaking on me for years now. Telling me ‘he’ll do better’, and then turning off his phone and disappearing with half the diner’s cash.

You’d think someone who can count cards like Ricky would stick to blackjack, but he loves poker almost as much as roulette. And judging from the bruises and bloody noses he often returns with, I’m guessing a lot of those games are illegal underground shit.

“Look,” I croak through a dry throat. “If it’ll soothe your poor, bruised little ego…then you take a few extra grand out of my purse. For your trouble. But I need the rest for?—”

I cut off with a strangled gasp when the man grabs my wrists and lashes them behind the back of the chair with one of his suspenders. He does it so quickly, so effortlessly, that I haven’t even thought about trying to struggle before he steps away.

He touches the frame of his glasses as he watches me yank and pull, a disturbing calm replacing his stern frown.

“What I want is sitting in this chair. And it’s already mine,” he says.

Then he shoves his hand between my legs.

My shocked yell echoes back to me in the confines of this tiny, airless room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper in a breathless rush.

“Checking under the hood.”

He squeezes my pussy so hard, my spine snaps straight. And instead of being disgusted, offended, or terrified, I’m…confused.

My body thinks it’s got it all figured out. That large, gloved hand between my legs presses hard enough to make my mind haze over.

He’s close enough that I can smell his dark, earthy scent—completely the opposite of what I’d have thought he smelled like. Either a pricey cologne, or he meditated with some sandalwood incense earlier today.

“Go ahead. Tell me how angry you are. How much you hate me.” He brushes the knuckle of his other hand against my cheek, making me flinch as light gleams from the metal knife. Its slim blade looks like something you’d peel an apple with.

Or someone’s face.

My mind is begging for something in this fucked up scenario to make any kind of sense.

A weak, “Stop touching me,” is all I can push out of my strangled throat.

I can’t let this guy know how far out of my depth I am. Despite how my heart is hammering away in my chest, I give my lips a slow lick, forcing my voice not to shake. His eyes take in the movement with a quick glance, and then he squeezes my pussy again.

“Property doesn’t decide how it’s used,” he murmurs into my ear with his velvety voice as he massages my pussy.

There’s a sharp jolt of fear, instantly tangled up with something hotter, heavier, and completely out of my control.

I stare up at him in shock, my eyelashes fluttering as he ducks lower, one hand resting on the chair’s arm.

“So wet. Someone enjoys being strapped down and used, doesn’t she?”

He might not be surprised, but I sure am. Here I am, fearing for my freedom, my safety, Jesus, my life, and to him, it must seem I can’t wait for him to fuck me with his giant dick.

That ridge in his pants sure as hell isn’t a flashlight.

Wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Getting dicked, of course, not getting murdered.

More wetness oozes out of me. He lets out a soft rumble, releasing his grip so he can stroke the slick fabric clinging to my pussy.

That touch sparks all the way to my mouth until my lips are tingling even more than my clit, and it hits every nerve on the way through my body.

I try not to lose myself in it, fight it tooth and fucking nail, but it’s too easy to slip under and let the current snatch me.

When was the last time someone touched me like they meant it?

Between Mom’s death and running the diner, I haven’t had the energy to date.

Where’d I meet a guy, anyway? One of my customers?

Gross. Dating apps freak me out. Only thing that’s been giving me pleasure lately is a getting a good night’s sleep—with a little help from my friends in my nightstand drawer.

Now this handsome, dangerous man is offering the most fucked-up form of release, and I’m running out of reasons to resist him.

A desperate moan drags me free, the mental whiplash of resurfacing hitting twice as hard as when I realize I’m the one who made that sound. Humiliation rips through the pleasure, followed by seething, righteous anger. I slam my thighs closed and twist my legs to the side, dislodging his grip.

“Just fucking tell me what you want!” I shout, my entire body shaking like I just came.

Fuck, it was close. And from a few seconds of contact? I’ve been working too hard.

He considers me with a blank expression.

“You, Zoey Dennen. All of you.”

It should terrify me he knows my last name, but that seems inconsequential compared to everything else I have to process.

He uses the knife to lay a trail of icy prickles over my skin, from my chin to each tightened nipple, then down to the hem of my underwear.

Something flashes behind his glasses.

Satisfaction.

Or maybe the pure, sadistic thrill of watching me nearly unravel.

“Every hole. Every breath, every bruise. When I’m done, there won’t be an inch of you I haven’t owned.”

I stare at him for what feels like aeons, noticing the faint lines beside his eyes where he’ll get crow’s feet in a few years. How his pale skin suggests he doesn’t get out much, yet how I can feel, even through the gloves, that his hands aren’t soft and ladylike but hard and strong.

My voice wobbles as I bleat, “Come again?”

His growl makes it obvious that I’m doing the one thing he warned me not to—making him angry.

And his punishment is to wedge his leg between mine, keeping them open so he can slide a hand behind my underwear.

A wave of tingling pleasure shoots through me again, and when he pushes the pad of one gloved finger against my entrance, it’s followed by a hard ache deep inside me.

His expensive, woody cologne fills my lungs with each panicked breath, becoming tangled with the scent of my arousal.

He doesn’t push inside immediately. Instead, he gently pulses against me, like he’s testing how much give there is.

Or maybe he’s savoring my horror.

My eyes flick up to his, wide, panicked. “No, please, don’t?—“

There’s the faintest suggestion of a smile on his mouth as he studies me, then he pushes his finger inside.

Instead of twisting away or stopping him, my hips buck against his hand. He lets out a soft rumble, tilting his head to the side like he’s scanning a new menu from his favorite takeout place.

“You can’t…that’s not…Jesus, don’t?—”

I can’t form a sentence to save my life.

I guess all the blood is leaving my brain in favor of pooling in my clit.

It certainly feels like it, the way it’s throbbing.

As if he picks up on this with his heightened spidey sex senses, his thumb drags through my wet pussy before gliding over my engorged clit.

“Fuck,” I mutter, furious that I can’t look away, and wanting to die of shame as my body responds to this guy’s touch with wanton delight.

My thighs spread open, my ass scooting forward even more on the seat. Another delirious moan slips out of my mouth, and I don’t even try to stop it this time.

It.

Feels.

Too.

Fucking.

Good.

But it’s wrong. Like criminally wrong. I have to make it stop. Him. I have to stop him.

Terror and arousal feed each other in some twisted feedback loop, ratcheting up every nerve in my body.

I whimper out a panicked, “You can’t do this! It’s not fair!” and instantly hate myself for sounding like a spoiled child.

My mind and body are at war—one screaming danger, the other bucking under his touch. I should claw his eyes out, not spread my legs wider.

He leans in so he can fuck me harder, our mouths less than an inch apart. When he talks, I can feel his warm breath on my lips.