Page 11 of House of Cards

“Some of that luck had better rub off on me,” he says, leaning in toward her until their shoulders are touching.

She sweeps her hair over her shoulder as she cringes away from him, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. The sight makes something primal stir inside me. I’m overwhelmed by the visceral urge to press my thumb against her pulse, to feel her heartbeat flutter, then pound under my touch.

A jolt of electricity runs down my spine and settles low in my abdomen when her hazel eyes lock with mine. They’re as wide and startled as a cornered animal’s.

She quickly looks away, but our connection lingers, my body responding to her discomfort with unexpected intensity. I haven’t even spoken to her, but I can already imagine how she’d respond to my voice.

To my commands.

To my touch.

She’s young. Mid-to-late twenties. And the man beside her isn’t her partner, not if she so obviously loathes his touch.

The woman considers her pile of chips and then pushes them toward the dealer. Me and Troy are standing close enough that I can hear her ask the dealer to cash her out.

Has she lost her mind? Even novices can tell when they’re on a streak. Why would she leave a hot table?

“What the hell you doing, babe?” the annoying guy beside her demands, tugging on his clothes as if he’s worried she hadn’t noticed how expensive his Hugo Boss suit is. “Play another hand.”

“I have to go,” she says, already scooping chips into her purse.

She casts another worried glance over her shoulder, freezing when she realizes I’m still watching her.

I beckon to her dealer to stop the cash out, and head in her direction.

Like the crack of a rifle will send a deer leaping away through the trees, the woman throws a panicked look toward the dealer, then me, and rushes off without waiting for the rest of her chips.

Her clumsy escape nearly has her tumbling over her chair, but she quickly catches her balance on her kitten heels and hurries toward the staircase, all but running.

“The fuck?” Troy grates behind me.

“She was cheating.”

Winning streak aside, no one would run off and leave a massive pile of chips on the table.

“I’ll head her off,” Troy says.

My pulse quickens as I watch her flee, my body responding to the chase before my mind has fully committed to it. I want to see how she’d move under different circumstances. Pinned beneath me. Arching against my restraints. Trembling with need.

Withfear.

I grab Troy’s arm. He’s got at least twenty years on me, but the muscles under my fingers are hard as steel.

“I’ve got this,” I say, sharper than I intend. “Go speak to the dealer and get her details from the cashier.”

That’s a high roller table she just ran away from. Our dealers know to make sure who’s playing every hand. And if she came in here with cash, she’d have declared the source of that money—along with her name and other details—to the cashier.

Troy frowns like he wants to argue, but decides better of it. “Hurry. She’s getting away.”

I’ll catch her.

The thought causes a thrill that even my dick likes the sound of, and it doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.

I can’t wait to get my hands on the woman who thought she could get away with counting cards inmyfucking casino.

Maybe it’s anger. Or annoyance that someone thinks they’re clever enough to beat me at my own game. But as she casts one more frantic glance over her shoulder before disappearing over the curve of the stairs, it feels like something sharper, and much deeper than anger.

How long has it been since I last hunted down a pretty woman?

---