Page 28 of Playing Dirty

“Insult me like that again, and I might lay another wet one on you before the night is over,” he teases while leaning in, sticking his tongue out and wagging it back and forth at me. But something over my shoulder catches his eye before his gaze returns to me. “Oof, and speaking of… Don’t look, but I think your stepbrother is gonna be getting a wet one of his own by the end of the night.”

My jaw tics, and I try to tell myself that I don’t care what Madden does; it’s of little to no consequence to me. And yet, it takes all of half a second for me to glance over my shoulder to find him. And it only takes another half second after that to notice the guy he said he was meeting.

He’s dressed in what looks to be a cashmere sweater and pair of jeans, his blond hair styled neatly on his head to pair with the short beard covering the bottom half of his face. It’s too far to see what color his eyes are, but despite the distance, one thing is abundantly clear: He’s way too old for Madden.

Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but he has to be damn near thirty.

“Whew, T. That stare could cut diamonds.”

Camden’s comment draws my attention back to him. “You’re the one who told me to look.”

“There was clearly adon’tin front of that sentence. Not my fault you didn’t hear it.”

“I heard it just fine. Butdon’t lookis the universal statement people make when theywantsomeone to look,” I snap, glaring at him now.

“My God,” he says while holding up his palms in one of thosekeep awaymotions. “Doesn’t mean you need to bite my head off about it.”

The guy rests his hand on Madden’s arm while the two of them laugh about whatever the hell they’re talking about, and my jaw locks at the sight. To the point where I swear my molars start to crack, I’m clenching my teeth so hard.

I’m not the jealous type; never have been with any of the girls I’ve dated over the years. Yet, for some ungodly reason, a green-eyed monster rears its ugly head as I glower at the two of them across the room like some jealous boyfriend.

Which is fucking insane.

It’s not like I want him for myself.

The guy he’s with rises from their table and starts heading this way to order another drink at the bar. Taking a long, deep breath, I remind myself that Madden can do whatever he wants. If he wants to kiss this douchenozzle? Cool. Go home with him and fuck him six ways to Sunday? Even better. At least then I get the bed to myself tonight.

My brain catches on the thought. On the king bed we share back at the resort, and on the possibility that, instead of going home with this dickweed, Madden might—

He wouldn’t.

But all rational thought to talk me out of the possibility is gone. It left the moment the mere idea of Madden bringing this guy back to our room came into play. That’s the only explanation for why I’m seeing red, let alone pushing off my stool and storming over to where Madden is sitting.

This time, he doesn’t see me coming—too busy typing out a text on his phone while hisdateis otherwise occupied—but it all changes when I slam my palm down on the wood beside his soda glass.

His head snaps up, only for his brows to clash together when he sees me.

“Theo? “What’s—”

“You’re not kicking me out of our room to get laid tonight. And you’re sure as fuck not gonna screw some stranger in a bed I’ll have to sleep in after.”

The words come out in an embarrassing display of word vomit, and if I were sober, I’d probably want to bury myself alive because of it. But the whiskey in my system won’t allow me to feel self-conscious about just how transparent I’m being. I’m too pissed to care.

He lets out a sharp laugh. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I wordlessly motion toward the guy he was just flirting with, who is leaning against the bar while he waits for the drink he ordered.

Madden glances from me to the guy and back again. “What makes you think I was planning to do that?”

“Because I know what flirting looks like.”

Obviously.

What other reason would there be to flirt with someone? I certainly can’t think of any. At least none that would apply to this particular circumstance. But for some reason, he doesn’t look convinced.

Madden’s skeptical at best when he asks, “And flirting means I’m gonna automatically drag him into bed to fuck, does it?”

One of his dark brows arches as he waits for me to reply, but it seems the words “bed” and “fuck” falling off his lips in the same sentence have somehow made my mouth drier than Death Valley. Or maybe that’s the whiskey’s fault.