Page 224 of House of Cards

Oh, and, uh, most importantly…

This room looks like a future crime scene.

Clear plastic sheeting covers the king-sized bed, the dim light from the bedside lamps gleaming on the shiny, translucent surface. He’s dragged a full-length mirror to the foot of the bed and angled it so whoever’s on there can see their reflection.

…while they’re being murdered.

My eyes skip to the nightstand, where a sleek metal first aid kit sits open on the nightstand, its contents meticulously arranged.

Gauze, antiseptic, something metallic that catches the light in a disturbingly clinical way.

Smith comes up behind me and stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. That earthy, intoxicating aroma of his envelops me, but there’s a hint of something darker, muskier beneath it. Could be the whisky he was drinking, could be that he worked up a sweat perfecting his murder room.

“Um…What the actual fuck?” I squeak.

He closes the door behind us with a soft click, then comes to stand in front of me, blocking my view. Something flickers in his eyes, uncertainty maybe, but it’s gone a second later.

“Is there a problem?” His voice is low and calm, but there’s a slight rasp to it that wasn’t there before.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly clogged. “It’s missing something. Candles and champagne, maybe.” I sweep out a hand. “Rose petals on the floor, that kind of thing.”

His mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but it’s the closest thing to it. It transforms his face, softening the hard angles for a moment before he’s back to his impenetrable mask.

“Strip.” His deep, silky voice takes me back to the night we met.

The night I ran.

The night he chased.

The night he caught me…and everything that’s happened since.

Not even a fortune teller could have predicted this is where I’d end up.

This hotel, this bed, thisman.

My hands tremble slightly as I pull my tank top over my head. I’m not wearing anything underneath. Didn’t see the point. The cool air pebbles my nipples, and again I have to resist the urge to cover myself.

Not from the chill in the air, but Smith’s gaze as he scours it over my body like he’s consuming me.

Fuck modesty. He’s already seen every inch of my body.

His chest rises and falls with each slow breath, shoulders stiff, jaw clenching even tighter. He pulls his own shirt off in one fluid motion, and smooths a hand down his hair, somehow tousling it even more.

My mouth goes dry.

Fuck me, I forgot how utterly gorgeous he was.

All that lean muscle? Marks I’m now confident are the scars of healed bullet and knife wounds. The faint trail of dark hair disappearing behind his sweatpants.

“On the bed,” he commands.

“The murder bed, you mean?”

“Zoey.” The warning tone in his voice sends a tingle between my legs.

I inch closer to the bed, plastic crinkling beneath my weight as I perch nervously on the edge. The material chills the backs of my naked thighs, making me shiver, but it doesn’t cling to me like I thought it would. It’s too thick, too rigid. An industrial grade sheeting of some kind, the perfect accessory for professional killers and hobbyists alike.

“Bet you can’t find this at Home Depot,” I murmur, running my hand over the plastic beside my hip. “Do you guys order this stuff online, or?—”

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