Page 20 of House of Cards

And maybe I’m still hoping, like the idiot I am, that Ricky will be back any day now, backpack stuffed with a cool hundred kay.

Naïve loser.

My brother’s been flaking on me for years now. Telling me ‘he’ll do better’, and then turning off his phone and disappearing with half the diner’s cash.

You’d think someone who can count cards like Ricky would stick to blackjack, but he loves poker almost as much as roulette. And judging from the bruises and bloody noses he often returns with, I’m guessing a lot of those games are illegal underground shit.

“Look,” I croak through a dry throat. “If it’ll soothe your poor, bruised little ego…then you take a few extra grand out of my purse. For your trouble. But I need the rest for?—”

I cut off with a strangled gasp when the man grabs my wrists and lashes them behind the back of the chair with one of his suspenders. He does it so quickly, so effortlessly, that I haven’t even thought about trying to struggle before he steps away.

He touches the frame of his glasses as he watches me yank and pull, a disturbing calm replacing his stern frown.

“What I want is sitting in this chair. And it’s already mine,” he says.

Then he shoves his hand between my legs.

My shocked yell echoes back to me in the confines of this tiny, airless room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I whisper in a breathless rush.

“Checking under the hood.”

He squeezes my pussy so hard, my spine snaps straight. And instead of being disgusted, offended, or terrified, I’m…confused.

My body thinks it’s got it all figured out. That large, gloved hand between my legs presses hard enough to make my mind haze over.

He’s close enough that I can smell his dark, earthy scent—completely the opposite of what I’d have thought he smelled like. Either a pricey cologne, or he meditated with some sandalwood incense earlier today.

“Go ahead. Tell me how angry you are. How much you hate me.” He brushes the knuckle of his other hand against my cheek, making me flinch as light gleams from the metal knife. Its slim blade looks like something you’d peel an apple with.

Or someone’s face.

My mind is begging for something in this fucked up scenario to make any kind of sense.

A weak, “Stop touching me,” is all I can push out of my strangled throat.

I can’t let this guy know how far out of my depth I am. Despite how my heart is hammering away in my chest, I give my lips a slow lick, forcing my voice not to shake. His eyes take in the movement with a quick glance, and then he squeezes my pussy again.

“Property doesn’t decide how it’s used,” he murmurs into my ear with his velvety voice as he massages my pussy.

There’s a sharp jolt of fear, instantly tangled up with something hotter, heavier, and completely out of my control.

I stare up at him in shock, my eyelashes fluttering as he ducks lower, one hand resting on the chair’s arm.

“So wet. Someone enjoys being strapped down and used, doesn’t she?”

He might not be surprised, but I sure am. Here I am, fearing for my freedom, my safety, Jesus, mylife,and to him, it must seem I can’t wait for him to fuck me with his giant dick.

That ridge in his pants sure as hell isn’t a flashlight.

Wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Getting dicked, of course, not getting murdered.

More wetness oozes out of me. He lets out a soft rumble, releasing his grip so he can stroke the slick fabric clinging to my pussy.

That touch sparks all the way to my mouth until my lips are tingling even more than my clit, and it hits every nerve on the way through my body.

I try not to lose myself in it, fight it tooth and fucking nail, but it’s too easy to slip under and let the current snatch me.

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