Page 229 of House of Cards

“You okay?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

Five rivulets run jagged red lines down her thigh.

“Christ, baby, are you still okay?”

A groan, then a murmured, “Mm!” that sounds something like consent.

Blood pools in her hip like a sip of spilled wine.

I dip into it, rubbing it over my fingertips as I press my mouth, then my teeth, against her knee.

Fucking giddy as I suppress a laugh at the cool wetness, the slipperiness.

Fuck ‘dark’.

I’m not a monster. I’m a goddamn artist.

This? This is fucking art.

A heart wrenching sonnet penned in red.

Art—and catharsis.

My cock throbs painfully as I watch a droplet of blood slide down the curve of her thigh.

I trace the flat of the blade over Zoey’s ribs as I drag my fingers over her belly, smearing that pale skin with her own blood. Her lips part on a moan as she shivers under my touch, goosebumps breaking out on her skin.

Another cut. And it has to be the last.

Has to, has to, fuckinghasto…or I’ll never fucking stop.

It’s the deepest yet.

Barely a razor-blade’s edge left before I hit tissue.

My cock throbs as I watch the blood well up, as Zoey gasps in pain.

“My baby still good?” I don’t recognize this voice, these words, this man who’s so earnestly checking in with the woman sprawled in front of him.

I don’t recognize the flushed, writhing beauty on the bed, either. The wicked glint in her eyes, the way she keeps licking her lips and moaning.

No violence.

Just dark sensuality.

I promised myself—promised her—no sex tonight. This isn’t about that.

But Christ, the way she’s squirming against me is testing my control like nothing ever has. Her foot twisting and pushing into my lap.

“Smith,” she pants, desperate. Her hand slides over her hip, headed for her pussy or her clit, I can’t tell. But I slap it away before she can touch herself.

“No.”

Her groan is petulant, frustrated, but she fists her hand and shoves it down at her side, obeying.

Submitting.

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