Page 46 of House of Cards

What thehellwas that out there?

It felt…intimate.

As in, I’m a little slippery between the legs after that exchange, and hoping he doesn’t notice.

Smith twitches up a dark brow. “Forgive me if I was unclear. You don’t have a choice.”

I’m one hot second away from blurting out, “Make me,” but I know I’ll regret it. And then we’d end up right back here, me regretting itandwearing a costume that looks likeMatrixporn cosplay.

I snatch the hanger from Smith, desperately trying to ignore the way my skin tingles when our fingers brush.

“Where’s the changing room?”

“You’re in it.”

I consider telling him to turn around…but the getup isn’t exactly modest, so what’s the point? It’s literally just some leather straps held together with buckles and studs.

The point is that the sex fiend in the other room can—and undoubtedlyis—watching my every move through the two-way mirror.

“Creep,” I mutter as I make a show of turning my back to him like I did in the hotel room. Not sure if I’m referring to him or his pervy boss-friend, but neither of them are going to see me blushing, that’s for sure.

Jesus, how do I put this thing on?

Smith’s hand lands on my shoulder a few minutes later.

“Do you need some?—”

“I got this!” I snap, yanking away from his touch.

“It’s on back-to-front.”

“You’re making that up.” The buckles clank against each other as I give the ridiculous outfit a furious tug.

“Stop.” Smith’s calm command bypasses my brain and goes straight to muscles, which obeys him instantly. I freeze up, only my eyes moving to track him when he moves into sight.

Traitors.

Smith adjusts his glasses, coming close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body against my naked skin. He calmly untangles the fetish gear, sending tingles and goosebumps all over my body whenever he touches my skin.

My cheeks are so hot, it feels like they’re glowing. But when I dare to glance up at him through my lashes, he’s looking at my body with unexpected professionalism. Much like a rider might fuss with his horse’s bridle. I assume, having never ridden a horse, nor had fetish gear adjusted for me.

A strap slides down my hip, and Smith’s knuckles brush against my skin to adjust it like it’s nothing.

LikeI’mnothing.

But it’s not nothing. A prickle of heat rushes up, pooling low in my body, making my insides twist with disgust…and my clit tingle with need.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but trying to wrestle my body into control appears to be a task in futility.

“Stop it, you’re tickling me,” I mutter, yanking a strap out of his hand and backing up so he can’t reach me.

Smith drops his chin, intensifying his dark stare. Then he turns and points to something a few feet away.

It’s a big white X, taller than Smith, leather cuffs dangling from each point. I spotted it when we came inside. Kinda hard to miss when it’s one of the most notable pieces of furniture in here.

I open my mouth, but then close it again.

It’s pointless arguing. I need to conserve energy for my imminent mental breakdown. I trudge reluctantly over to the torture device. No one’s gonna convince me it’s not.

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