Page 78 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

If this is what doing drugs feels like, my heart goes out to junkies everywhere. I wouldn’t be able to quit.

A delicious, effervescent fog wreathes my mind. Thoughts come and go, but they’re just vague shapes, no form or substance, drowned out by the warm sizzle on my thigh. The ache deep inside my core. My tingling clit.

All because he cut me a few times? Doesn’t make sense.

But it does, because it was him holding the knife. Him so confidently guiding that sharp edge over my skin.

Terrifying in his calm. In his mastery.

I’m not turned on. I don’t feel horny .

I feel like I’m about to go in for surgery, and the anesthetic just kicked in.

When Smith’s cock appears, I give up trying to rationalize anything anymore. I just want him inside me.

Stretching me, like I know he will.

Filling me to the brim.

But he doesn’t push into me like I want him to. Because I have to earn it through pain and suffering, apparently.

Why else would he be teasing me like this? Making me drool for his dick.

And as much as I just want to reach for him, to take the situation into my own hands, quite fucking literally, I know I can’t.

This is his moment.

I knew it the second I stepped inside this room. How carefully he’d staged it. All the little details. The excitement, the anticipation.

It’s almost like this is some kind of fantasy he’s been desperate to play out in real life.

How can I interfere with something so precious?

So I just lie here like a lovesick puppy, watching him stroke his cock an inch from my pussy, and pretend I’m happy that he isn’t fucking me with it instead.

My hands clench tighter in the plastic as I struggle not to reach for him, not to stick my hand between my legs and get myself off just to end the torture.

Smith’s eyes flick up to mine.

My back arches at the malevolent hunger I see in them.

It’s like he wants to eat me alive.

And for some fucked up reason, my mind thinks that’s the best way to go.

“Do you feel dizzy? Numb? Nauseous?”

He rattles out the questions like it’s an interrogation. I shake my head for each one.

“You’re still okay?” he prompts again.

I smile. “Better than okay.”

Smith’s hands circle my waist, and my breath catches as I’m suddenly airborne, floating, flying.

He positions me on his lap at the edge of the bed, my back to his chest, both of us facing the stand mirror.

The plastic sheeting crinkles under him as he tucks my feet between his legs, my knees flush against my chest. The cuts on my thigh burn like fire as the skin stretches, and I have to clamp my lips closed to muffle the gasp of pain.

My mind flickers back to the day he chased me through his hotel suite at the Devil’s Luck. When I bit him and he used his own blood to paint my pussy before he went down on me, devouring me.

Now I get why he was so turned on.

It was the blood.

He takes off his glasses, folds them up, puts them down on the bed behind us. When he faces forward again, there’s a hard set to his mouth that sends a frightful tremor through my body.

“Spread your legs,” he rasps against my ear, eyes locked on mine in the reflection just a few feet from where we sit.

I hesitate, not because I don’t want to, but because some small part of me still rebels against being so completely owned. Rolling over. Submitting.

His palm cracks against the outside of my thigh, a dangerous rumble in his voice. “Now.”

I set my feet down beside his thighs, but my knees stayed glued together, trying to retain some modicum of dignity.

Another slap makes me flinch, gasp.

“I won’t ask again.”

My thighs part, my face immediately going hot. The mirror reflects everything—my flushed cheeks, my heaving chest, the blood smeared on my skin, the gleaming wetness between my legs.

“Wider.”

I comply, stretching until it hurts.

“Good girl,” he murmurs into my ear. His praise shouldn’t affect me, shouldn’t make me want to purr like the fucking kitten he keeps calling me, but it does. “Open yourself for me. I want to see every inch of you.”

My fingers tremble as they move between my legs, as I reluctantly part myself for him, just like he commands me to.

“You’re being such a good little slut for me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my neck.

His cock digs into the small of my back as his fingers glide over my pussy.

“You’re dripping.” He gathers my wetness on his fingers before bringing them to my lips. “Taste how much you enjoy it when I hurt you.”

I open my mouth obediently, sucking his fingers clean. The taste of myself is tangy, unfamiliar.

“Such a good little whore.” His praise burns through me like wildfire. “Keeping your legs spread. Showing me how much you need my cock. So wet. So ready.”

He shifts under me, dragging his cock out from behind my back, gripping it near the base so he can stroke it against my pussy.

I whimper, rocking forward, trying to increase the friction.

“You want this?” He presses just hard enough to tease, then holds it away. “You want to be fucked by the man who just cut you? Who marked you?”

“Yes, please,” I beg pathetically, hating myself for it, but unable to stop.

Smith’s warm breath hits the side of my neck, my shoulder, making me shiver. “Please what? Tell me what you want, kitten.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Fuck what? Your mouth? Your asshole? Your wet little cunt?”

My voice comes from far away, as if I’m bobbing against the ceiling like a helium balloon.

“Please,” I whimper. “I need you to fuck my cunt, Sir.”

His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. “Such a filthy mouth.”

I swallow hard. “Please, m’lord.”

He rewards me with another teasing brush of his cock, his eyes moving to our reflection. “Look at you. Look at how desperate you are for my cock.” He drags his cock through my soaked pussy, still not pushing inside.

“Yes, fuck, please.”

I don’t recognize the woman in the mirror.

Who is this heaving, wild-eyed degenerate?

The head of his dick nudges against my pussy, pushing inside barely an inch before he pulls out. I whimper again, trying to buck into him, but his grip on my hair tightens.

“Uh-uh,” he warns. “This slut only gets what I want to give, when I want to give it.”

“Please. Please!”

I’m a shivering, mewling mess by the time he stops teasing me. Never giving me more than an inch before pulling away. Calling me names that should make me want to fight him off, but only makes me want him more.

My thighs tremble with the effort of staying open.

My arms ache from holding myself exposed. A bead of sweat trickles down my throat and between my tits.

“Please,” I whine, pitifully. “Please, I can’t—I need?—“

I cut off when he grazes his teeth against the side of my neck. Will he bite me hard enough to break skin? The thought sends a panicked tremor through my body. There are arteries and shit there. What if he makes me bleed…and can’t make it stop?

Jesus, I don’t think I fucking care.

I’d die happy, if it was at his hands.

“Please, Sir. Your little slut needs to be fucked,” I mumble, not even knowing where the words are coming from. Certainly not my mind. I’d never say shit like that.

Smith’s eyes meet mine in the mirror.

“My slut,” he agrees. “Mine.”

Finally—fuck, finally —he pushes inside me.

Inch by excruciating inch.

Intentionally slow, like he’s punishing for being so fucking needy.

My mouth falls open as he fills me, stretches me, claims me.

The burn is exquisite, an agonizingly hard ache that throbs in rhythm with the stinging cuts on my skin.

“Open your fucking eyes,” he commands. “Watch me take what’s mine.”

I force my heavy eyelids open, watching in the mirror as his cock disappears inside me. The sight is so beautifully obscene, it makes tears well in my eyes.

“Such a perfect cunt,” he groans. “You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to take my cock. Made to be used.”

I can only nod.

Smith moves, each thrust slow and deliberate, forcing me to take every inch of him.

“See how pretty you look when I split you open.”

I can barely keep my eyes open, so I watch, mesmerized, through my lashes as his hard shaft disappears inside me, as I stretch to accommodate his thick shaft.

“No one else can make you feel like this. Make you beg like this. Make you bleed and thank them for it.”

“No,” I whimper, sliding my fingers down so I can feel his cock sliding into me. “Only you.”

The smile that touches his mouth is so predatory, it makes my clit ache.

“That’s right, Zoey. Me. Only me.” He nuzzles the side of my neck, and I turn my face to him, staring blurry-eyed at him as his cock forces its way deeper inside me.

Our lips brush. He sighs against my mouth, licks my bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth. His teeth close down, hard enough to bruise, then he pulls away, drawing back just far enough so I can look into his eyes as he grabs my waist and grinds me hard into his lap.

It hurts, but fuck, it feels good.

He keeps grinding into me, hips rolling and bucking. And I’m writhing and squirming just as fiercely, as urgently, as him.

“Yes, fuck, oh?—!”

His teeth clamp down on my shoulder.

The pain is exquisite. Blinding.

I’m suddenly woozy, ready to faint, but then his lips are against mine again and all I taste is my own blood and?—

I don’t even know I’m about to come until my body clenches up, my pussy walls gripping Smith’s cock like a fist. I dig my nails into his thighs, holding on for dear life as a violent climax rips through my body.

Dimly, I hear him murmur something.

“Only me, Zoey. Only ever me.”

Must be my imagination trying to make sense of his rapid breathing as he keeps himself buried deep inside me, rocking every so slightly as I ride out my climax on his hard cock.

Or my fucked up mind trying to piece together reality.

I’ve barely descended from heaven before his hand is around my throat, squeezing hard enough to bruise as he licks the bite mark on my shoulder. Each swipe of his tongue makes me gasp and struggle, the pain too intense after my climax.