Page 32 of Dirty Play

“He’s not.” Livia’s voice is smooth and detached like she’s above this whole thing.

But I know better. I see how her grip tightens on her glass and her shoulders are just a little too stiff.

“Why don’t you talk with some of the other guys.” I turn to blondie, pointing my chin toward the others. “I’m sure they’d love to play.”

The girl pouts but doesn’t press, spinning away to latch onto some other poor bastard on the team.

Livia throws back her drink and sets her glass down with a little more force than necessary.

“Something wrong?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Not at all. See you around,” she says, throwing me a glare before turning and walking away, her hips swaying in that fucking dress like she’s trying to kill me.

And maybe she is.

I watch her head down to the ground floor, nodding to the bouncer at the top of the stairs.

From up here, I’ve got the perfect view.

The club stretches out below me like a stage. People are dancing, grinding, laughing, but all I see is her.

Livia’s on the dancefloor, moving like she doesn’t give a damn who’s watching, her body swaying to the beat, her hands in her hair, her head tilted back. The lights catch the sheen of her skin, the shimmer of her dress, and for a second, I forget to fucking breathe.

My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand as my eyes trace every curve of her body. The way that dress clings to her, barely there straps, a slit that’s a tease and a threat, it’s enough to drive a man insane.

And the way she moves…Fuck.

I should look away.

But I can’t.

Because all I can think about is dragging her out of here, ripping that dress off her, and seeing that smoky makeup run down her gorgeous face.

My thoughts are interrupted by some guy in a blue suit and too much hair gel. He sidles up to her like he’s got a right to. She steps back just slightly, but he follows, leaning in closer, his hand brushing her arm.

My jaw tightens, my fingers curling around the glass as jealousy spreads through me.

But then his hand moves lower, his fingers grazing her hip, his other hand reaching for her ass. Livia tries to step away, her movements sharp, her smile tight, her hand pushing at his chest, but the prick doesn’t get the message.

Something hot and sharp explodes in my chest, burning through my veins like acid as jealousy morphs into anger.

It’s ugly, feral, and about to explode.

I slam my glass down on the bar, the sound shattering through the VIP lounge like a warning shot.

Ares looks over, but I’m already moving, my boots thudding against the stairs, my vision narrowing to one thing: my hellcat.

By the time I hit the floor, my blood’s roaring, the bass from the music barely cutting through it.

The guy’s still there, his hand now gripping her wrist, his body angled like he thinks he’s got a chance.

Not tonight. Not fucking ever.

I reach them in a few long strides.

“Let go,” I growl, my voice low and lethal.

The guy looks up at me, confused for half a second. His confusion melts into something cocky like he’s stupid enough to think he can stand his ground.

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