Page 21 of House of Cards

When was the last time someone touched me like they meant it?

Between Mom’s death and running the diner, I haven’t had the energy to date. Where’d I meet a guy, anyway? One of mycustomers? Gross. Dating apps freak me out. Only thing that’s been giving me pleasure lately is a getting a good night’s sleep—with a little help from my friends in my nightstand drawer.

Now this handsome, dangerous man is offering the most fucked-up form of release, and I’m running out of reasons to resist him.

A desperate moan drags me free, the mental whiplash of resurfacing hitting twice as hard as when I realize I’m the one who made that sound. Humiliation rips through the pleasure, followed by seething, righteous anger. I slam my thighs closed and twist my legs to the side, dislodging his grip.

“Just fucking tell me what you want!” I shout, my entire body shaking like I just came.

Fuck, it was close. And from a few seconds of contact? I’ve been working too hard.

He considers me with a blank expression.

“You, Zoey Dennen. All of you.”

It should terrify me he knows my last name, but that seems inconsequential compared to everything else I have to process.

He uses the knife to lay a trail of icy prickles over my skin, from my chin to each tightened nipple, then down to the hem of my underwear.

Something flashes behind his glasses.

Satisfaction.

Or maybe the pure, sadistic thrill of watching me nearly unravel.

“Every hole. Every breath, every bruise. When I’m done, there won’t be an inch of you I haven’t owned.”

I stare at him for what feels like aeons, noticing the faint lines beside his eyes where he’ll get crow’s feet in a few years. How his pale skin suggests he doesn’t get out much, yet how I can feel, even through the gloves, that his hands aren’t soft and ladylike but hard and strong.

My voice wobbles as I bleat, “Come again?”

His growl makes it obvious that I’m doing the one thing he warned me not to—making him angry.

And his punishment is to wedge his leg between mine, keeping them open so he can slide a hand behind my underwear.

A wave of tingling pleasure shoots through me again, and when he pushes the pad of one gloved finger against my entrance, it’s followed by a hard ache deep inside me.

His expensive, woody cologne fills my lungs with each panicked breath, becoming tangled with the scent of my arousal.

He doesn’t push inside immediately. Instead, he gently pulses against me, like he’s testing how much give there is.

Or maybe he’s savoring my horror.

My eyes flick up to his, wide, panicked. “No, please, don’t?—“

There’s the faintest suggestion of a smile on his mouth as he studies me, then he pushes his finger inside.

Instead of twisting away or stopping him, my hips buck against his hand. He lets out a soft rumble, tilting his head to the side like he’s scanning a new menu from his favorite takeout place.

“You can’t…that’s not…Jesus, don’t?—”

I can’t form a sentence to save my life. I guess all the blood is leaving my brain in favor of pooling in my clit. It certainly feels like it, the way it’s throbbing. As if he picks up on this with his heightened spidey sex senses, his thumb drags through my wet pussy before gliding over my engorged clit.

“Fuck,” I mutter, furious that I can’t look away, and wanting to die of shame as my body responds to this guy’s touch with wanton delight.

My thighs spread open, my ass scooting forward even more on the seat. Another delirious moan slips out of my mouth, and I don’t even try to stop it this time.

It.

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