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I’ve seen that look on her face before. Last night in the limo. With me.
And seeing it here? Now? With fucking Tristan? It makes me crazy. Like I want to break something. Maybe his face.
Especially when the video gets to the part where that arrogant face is shoved up in my woman’s pussy, licking and sucking her until she comes so hard, screaming and moaning his name. Not my name. Not, “Oh god, Madden, fuck me now.” Bu
t Tristan.
I don’t want to watch this shit, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. It’s like a car wreck that you can’t look away from. It’s sucking me in, just like—wait. Oh, hell no.
No fucking way.
Megan gave Tristan a blow job?
Yeah, about that not being able to look away thing? Fuck that. I’m not watching this garbage. I toss the tablet across the room, not even caring if it breaks.
What the fuck?
I mean, logically, I knew they messed around. I’m not an idiot. If she did those things with me, why wouldn’t she with Tristan? But some part of me hoped that I was wrong.
What I don’t get is the way it’s making me feel. I have some primal urge to rip Tristan’s fucking head off. What’s that about? I feel hot, my skin on fire, my pulse out of control.
Then it hits me. I’m jealous. Fucking jealous. Of fucking Tristan.
Not once in my life have I experienced this before, despite our lifelong history of competing against each other. Not like this. And I don’t have the first clue what to make of it.
Tristan
I’m pacing again. There’s going to be a path worn into this carpet by the end of my stay in this apartment if things keep on like this.
But I can’t be still. I’m keeping myself moving so that I won’t go the one place that I actually want to be. Megan’s room. I need to give her space, though. Let her have time to process what went down today and come to her own conclusions.
Like I’ve said, I’m patient. I can wait it out. Bide my time like I have all season.
But this is fucking hard. I want to go to her and make sure she’s okay.
This morning was a fluke. A slip in my firm grasp on my self-control. Something that can’t happen again. I shouldn’t have let Madden get to me like he did, provoking me like that. I should know by now how much he likes to drag me into his games. It’s how he plays things. He likes to get his hands dirty. Play dirty. And sometimes it works for him.
I knew better than to respond to his shit. But fuck, when he started talking about Megan being wet for him, I lost it. I can count on one hand the times I’ve lost my cool like that. And I know exactly why I did today. It’s obvious.
I care about Megan.
She matters to me, means something. If she didn’t, none of that shit would have gone down. No way would I have let Madden push my buttons. But he knew exactly which ones to push.
A knock on my door stops my pacing in its tracks, and I just stand there for a minute, staring at the door until another knock gets me moving. Who could it be? Megan?
My pulse speeds up at the thought. Maybe she’s ready to talk. Then I can explain to her that I only reacted like that because I care about her so much. That I couldn’t stand hearing those things come out of that asshat’s mouth.
But when I pull the door open, the smile fades from my face. Some random production assistant I’ve never seen before is standing there staring at me, all wide-eyed and hesitant.
I raise my brows, irritated that it’s not Megan. “Can I help you?” The way I say it should be obvious that it’s code for tell what you came for then get the fuck out of here.
“I, um… I’m supposed to give you this.” He thrusts a tablet into my hands, then makes a hasty retreat.
Fuck.
What now? The last time I got an unexpected tablet delivery, Madden showed up and swept my woman away from me. Right out of my fucking arms.
I sigh and scrape a hand over my stubbled jaw, staring at the tablet in distaste. I automatically know I’m not going to like whatever it is I’m about to see. I toss it on the bed, debating if I should actually watch it.
