Page 32 of House of Cards

His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer harder against his hand, the pressure toeing the edge of pain

I’m not sure if he’s sexier with or without his glasses on. That he’s smeared with food isn’t helping me decide.

“You kidnapped me! What the fuck did you expect was gonna happen?”

He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt and then grimaces at the mess on his clothes. “Princesses get kidnapped. You arenota princess.”

I spit at him.

If he didn’t like me stabbing him with a fork, hedefinitelydoesn’t approve of that. With a low-throated growl that makes the hackles on the back of my neck stand up in terror, he drags me back over the carpet and into the bathroom.

“You know what I hate more than liars, Zoey?”

I assume his question is rhetorical, because before I can drum up an answer, he shoves me under the shower head.

Thankfully, it’s not scorching hot anymore. I guess even fancy hotels have a limit on how much hot water they can supply guests. I gasp as lukewarm water pours over my face, reaching back with clawed hands to attack Smith, convinced he’s trying to drown me.

“Waste,” he hisses as he kicks off his shoes. “Iabhorwaste.” A second later, he’s ripping off his suspenders.

My body goes ice cold when I realize he’s undressing.

Fuck!

I scream, then splutter, then choke as water goes down my windpipe.

“Relax, kitten,” he mutters as he steps out of his pants. “If I wanted to fuck you, you’d be on the bed with my cum leaking out of your ass.”

Shock pulses through my body. I gape up at him, limp as a washcloth as he drags me back under the spray and washes my face. His gentle touch is completely at odds with the furious scowl on his face and the tight grip he still has around my throat.

When my face and décolletage have been cleansed to his satisfaction, he pushes me against the wall and slowly releases me, studying me warily as he strips naked.

A normal guy might give me time to check him out, but Smith just puts out his hand to test the water and then steps inside.

I stay huddled against the cool tiles, my mind endlessly repeating his last words as I watch him clean breakfast food offhis face and neck before he tends to the four small holes on his chiseled pectoral muscle.

Hiswhatleaking out of mywhat?

Moving slowly, so very careful of triggering him into more violence—or him possibly dragging me over to the bed and making good on his threat—I wrap my arms around my chest.

I finally get to see what he was hiding under his expensive suit.

A body built to dominate.

His arms are veiny and lean, the kind that could pin you to his desk without breaking a sweat. Chest of solid muscle, slim but well defined…and scarred. A round, puckered scar that might have been a bullet wound. A long, pale line over his ribs that could have come from a knife.

I can’t stop my eyes dragging further and further down his taut body to his narrow hips, and the trail of dark hair leading down to his thick?—

Holy hell.

What I felt earlier wasn’t even a full erection.

He’s.

So.

Big.

“Eyes up here.” His voice is rough, and when my gaze locks with his, my body quakes at the dark hunger I see in his eyes. “Turn off the water.”

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