Page 37 of Playing Dirty
“Fuck. That’s it,” he growls against my throat before pulling back, meeting my gaze. “God, look at you. Are you gonna come for me?”
The rasp and need in his voice causes my stomach to lurch, and I find myself nodding. I have no clue how he knew I’m right there, teetering on the edge of impending bliss. But I do know all it’s gonna take to push me into freefall are a few well-timed thrusts or the feel of his hand wrapped around me.
But when he yanks me back in for another kiss, I’m not hit with an orgasm; I’m slammed upside the head with realization. About what I’m doing,whoI’m doing it with. Maybe because it was staring me in the face only moments ago, but regardless of why or how, it’s still enough to drag me back to reality.
So rather than lean into the desire, the release, the need that’s reached a breaking point, I use my grip on his shoulder to push myself away. I don’t get very far with his hands woven into my hair and anchored on my hip,but it’s enough to break the kiss.
His eyes are hazy, pupils blown wide with lust as he looks up at me, and it causes my stomach to do another flip.
“What’s wrong? You just said—”
“I can’t do this,” I immediately bite back.
It’s the truth laced with a lie, and it burns like acid on my tongue, but I swallow it down anyway as panic slams into me like a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball. It’s nearly enough to steal my breath and take me out at the knees in one fell swoop.
I push against him again, this time hoping like hell he’ll release me. Ittakes a second, but he does, allowing me to push off his lap and back away from him. Confusion lines his features while he watches me put distance between us, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t make any move to follow me either.
I keep moving away, and when my calves collide with the bench on the far edge of the hot tub, the realization of my mistake comes crashing down around me.
Because wanting him isn’t an option.
Just the thought…
I shake my head, over and over again, as I grab the edge of the tub and haul myself out of the water. I don’t even bother using the stairs. The only thing I can think of is escaping to safety as quickly as I can.
A sharp laugh echoes out into the night, the sound much colder than the winter air surrounding us. It’s emotionless, and it has me stilling mid-grab for my towel and hoodie. And I know I should keep moving—take my shit and get out of here—but instead, I make yet another mistake by glancing over at him.
He’s standing at the edge of the tub with his hands curled over the top edge. The water clinging to his skin glistens in the dim light, and I find my gaze trailing subconsciously over the ink staining his arms and chest all the way down to the V-cut of his obliques, visible just above the water line.
My throat feels thick when I meet his gaze, finding his eyes have become two molten bronze pools while he glares at me.
“You’re a piece of work. Always running away instead of facing shit head-on.”
I may not hate him, but I hate when he’s right. And I hate it even more when he’s backed me into a corner, leaving me to fess up or live in denial—and I always choose the latter.
“Like I said last night,” I utter, my voice low and hoarse, “you don’teven know me.”
I catch his knuckles turning white as his fingers tighten while he rebuts, “Except I do. Better than you’d like to admit. And I think I’ve more than proven it just now.”
My teeth grind together to the point of pain, and I shake my head some more, as if the movement and my denial are enough to dislodge the reminder of what just happened. And Madden would sooner be damned to hell than let me off the hook that easily.
His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, and despite myself, my attention catches on it. Of course, he notices too, and another humorless laugh leaves him. “You’re fucking messy, and I don’t have time for that shit. I’ve got more important things to worry about than someone who can’t make up their goddamn mind. You want me? Great. You don’t? That’s fine too. But you need to figure it out, because I know what I want, and it sure as fuck isn’t to play games. With you or with anyone else.”
He turns away from me the second he’s done speaking, releasing a long sigh while dropping back down on one of the benches. Even with his back to me, I can’t stop staring at him. My fingers tremble around my belongings, and I tighten my grip on them as I find myself mentally spinning in circles. Willing my feet to move, to carry me away from him.
Because I don’t wanthim.
I can’t.
When my feet finally do move, I once again prove him right by running. Fuckingfleeing.And I make no signs of stopping.
Not when I reach the hotel room. Not when I throw all my shit into my bag. Not when I get in the car and start driving, snow and ice be damned.
No.
I don’t stop until I’m crawling into my bed all the way back in Chicago.
Eleven
