Page 16 of Playing Dirty (Leighton U #4)

Theo

I don’t know what caused me to snap, only that the second I do, I realize it’s the greatest mistake I’ve ever made. Because nothing—fucking nothing on this planet—could prepare me for kissing Madden.

Kissing doesn’t even feel like the right word. Kissing implies soft or gentle, sweeping brushes of lips before they mold together, and this is nothing like that.

The moment our lips collide, it’s a full-on attack; one charged with so much fury and pent-up frustration, I’ll likely never recover.

It’s teeth and tongues and a feral kind of passion unlike anything I’ve experienced before.

It’s a bone-deep ache appearing out of nowhere, drawing a soft groan from my chest when his tongue teases the seam of my lips—one he’s quick to swallow down the second they part for him.

And the moment I give in?

All sense of control falls directly into Madden’s hands.

His fingers dig into my waist as he pulls me onto his lap, the harsh, sudden movement causing water to slosh over the edges of the tub.

It creates a hissing sound when it hits the ice and snow outside it—or maybe it’s me when my knees collide with the bench he’s resting on.

Either way, he doesn’t seem to care, too busy dueling my tongue with his own, using swift flicks and lashes the way he does when we end up in a verbal sparring match.

He’s got me speechless now, though, as I straddle him, my thighs bracketing his and my palms landing on the hard planes of his inked shoulders.

I try my best to steady myself against his onslaught, but a desperate sort of need coils in my stomach at the sensation of his skin against mine wherever our bodies are connected.

It lights me on fire from the inside out, and I know if this hot tub weren’t already bubbling from the jets, it would be from the heat in this kiss alone.

The fire quickly builds in intensity, becoming an inferno when Madden releases my waist, one ink-covered hand sliding up my stomach before wrapping around my throat; not squeezing but gently guiding my head to a different angle with his thumb.

And, fuck, does my cock take notice of just how sexy it is to be on the receiving end of a hand necklace.

Just like that, I’m painfully hard, my hands gripping his shoulders to the point where he might be left with bruises beneath all his ink tomorrow morning. And for some reason, the thought of leaving any kind of mark on him turns me on more.

A tortured groan leaves Madden this time as the fingers of his free hand slide through my hair, knotting through the damp strands and pulling harshly.

The way he moves is measured yet merciless, especially when he starts rolling and rocking against me.

Like a more wicked, vicious side of him has been unleashed by the simple press and grind of our bodies .

His teeth sink into my bottom lip, hard enough for the metallic hint of blood to mix with the whiskey I drank earlier. It lingers on my taste buds as he plunges his tongue between my lips in another brutal kiss, pillaging my mouth and leaving me breathless.

He drags me under with hatred, holds me captive with wrath.

And it’s a taste too fucking addictive to fight.

Even when the hand around my throat squeezes hard enough to pull me back to reality, it still takes every bit of willpower I possess to rip my mouth from his. But doing so only earns a tightened grip and a whispered snarl.

“Wanna tell me I’m full of shit again, Greyson?”

Having no interest in giving him the satisfaction, I crash my mouth back to his again, this time being the one to take control—or as much as he’s willing to give—when I slip my tongue past his lips to tangle with his once more.

His hand tightens in my hair at the back of my skull, and the other leaves my throat, sliding over my stomach before curling around my lower back, pinning me against him.

Claiming me as his prisoner despite me being here willingly.

But the move traps my aching cock between our stomachs, and I realize…I can work with it.

My hips shift of their own accord, my ass grinding over the ridge of his erection while seeking more friction on my own length.

He continues meeting every movement I make with one of his own, arching up into me while feverishly exploring my mouth; his tongue rolling and tangling with mine in time with our bodies.

And even as it’s happening, I know it’s all kinds of wrong and insane. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But the longer I’ve been stewing in this attraction for him, the harder it’s become to deny that’s exactly what this is .

Attraction. Desire. Lust.

And, God, it pisses me off. So I do the only thing I can think of; what he’s already accused me of doing.

I take it out on him.

I’m brutal and ruthless as I kiss him harder, acting on adrenaline and pure instincts now while my hips roll and grind against him at a frantic pace. There’s nothing pretty about it, our teeth gnashing together as our tongues duel for dominance, neither gaining the upper hand for long.

He’s always there, meeting me with venom of his own, and it’s dismantling the few threads of sanity I have left. To the point where I rip my mouth from his and glare down at him.

“I hate that I want you,” I whisper, the words coming out in a snarl.

His dark chuckle floats over my skin like satin. “About time we agreed on something.”

He takes the opportunity to sink his teeth into the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and while a hiss escapes me from the bite of pain, I don’t fail to notice the way it has my cock throbbing behind my swim trunks. Aching from how rough he handles me, begging for even more of it.

Every harsh bite and nip brings us close to the edge, reducing us both to nothing more than two animals seeking a release only the other can provide. And there’s so much desire and frustration laced in it, I might actually drown in it.

In him. Madden.

But not Blackmore captain Madden, who I’m sworn enemies with, and not stepbrother Madden, who I was resigned to hate on principle alone.

But the Madden I’ve been seeing the past few days; the one who is kind and caring and is genuinely a good person.

The one whose proven he’s more than I made him out to be .

He’s somehow invaded my mind, destroying all thought and common sense, and no matter how hard I try…I can’t hate him for it.

I can’t hate him at all.

“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, who I’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. It takes 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’t even 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 want him .

I can’t.

When my feet finally do move, I once again prove him right by running. Fucking fleeing . 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.