Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(41)

“Dev?” She pulls back, gaze locked with mine as the moments tick down. “Level five,” she murmurs, and I shake my head at her.

“What kind of test?” I grumble, trying to focus. “The douchebag-slash-asshole-slash-how-bad-do-I-want-to-kill-him test. It’s evolving as we speak.”

“Clearly.” She rests her head in the crook of my neck, and my arms curl around her waist. I tug her closer, tipping her face up. She looks ethereal in the lights of the car, her blonde hair shining. I sigh. “All right. Come on; let’s get this kiss out of the way and get on with our lives.” My words are light, but my pulse beats like a jackhammer, already imagining how she’ll taste, the slide of her mouth against mine, the satiny feel of her skin under my hands, because I’m going to run my hands all over her, touch her face, her hair, her arms, her tits. I can handle one kiss, for Christ’s sake.

Can you? a voice cackles in my head.

“You were right the first time. No touching. I get it. I’ll wait for Mike.” And then she’s twirling out of my arms, with her face averted.

I’m right behind her, and she whips around, and we bump into each other.

“Giselle, you’re teasing me.”

“No, I’m not,” she replies, eyes flashing. “Don’t you get it? I have thought about kissing you more than you may realize, and it’s . . . not returned! We are just friends, not even really that, because you only know me because of Jack and Elena, but in my head—” Her voice stops. “What are you doing?” she gasps as I fiddle with her hair.

“When I kiss you, I want my hands in your hair. These braids have to go.”

I work on one, and she does the other. “If you think I’m going to let you kiss me now, you missed your chance.”

“You’re right; I’m an ass. I don’t deserve to kiss you at all,” I murmur as she throws her rubber band on the ground, and I toss mine alongside it. “But we should get this . . .” Hot as fuck moment . . . “Experiment out of the way.” My hands wrap around her waist.

She shakes out the braids with her fingers and glares at me. “You might discover, football player, that one kiss isn’t enough—”

I kiss her, getting my first taste (and trying to go slow) by pressing soft brushes against the corners of her mouth before tugging on her bottom lip with my teeth, parting her lips, and swallowing her gasp, then swooping in to slant my lips against hers. We fit together as if we were made for each other, her head tilting in my palms as I slide my hands deep into her hair and clutch her skull. I give her everything she deserves, long and slow and languid, lazily sucking at her lips until she moans, her fingers scraping down my jaw, sliding across my shoulders, her nails digging into my shirt as she grips me.

I’m in control, in control; this is not affecting me. I am cool . . . until her tongue meets mine and tangles. A rush of desire rolls in, obliterating any good sense, and we go from gentle to feral in a millisecond. Our lips merge and battle, one of those long searing kisses meant for people who can’t get enough with one taste and don’t want to stop.

“Giselle . . .” Groaning, I pick her up, and her legs wrap around my waist like a vise. Somehow I’ve got her pressed against the barn, our mouths glued together in every possible position I can think of, my tongue dancing with hers, dueling and winning everything I want, taking and taking, then giving and giving. This is the longest kiss in history; it’s like we’re making out in high school, the best goddamn kiss, and everything I’ve wanted since the moment she walked into my penthouse. I can’t think, and what am I doing? Just shut up, brain. She cups my ass and grinds, the feel of her nipples against my chest maddening. Don’t touch, or you’ll be lost. Fuck, she smells like vanilla and flowers—vibrant, heady blooms on a summer day, the ones that make you dizzy and weak for another inhale.

“Giselle,” I gasp out her name as I rotate my hard dick against her core. Her legs tighten as she whimpers, urging me on as she sucks my bottom lip, dragging it out. My hand is up her shirt, and I graze over her breast, tugging on the erect nipple through her lace bra . . .

Something falls from above me, grazing my arm, and I flinch back, looking up and then down at the ground.

“What the—”

“Curse.” She sucks in a deep breath and looks up. “Piece of wood came off the window. Rotted and needs to be replaced.”

I gaze back at her lowered lids, swollen mouth, and heaving chest.

I’m in no better shape, and like a rubber band snapping against my wrist, I come to my senses and let her down, putting space between us.

The silence of the night is deafening, and I’m scrambling around in my head, looking for a way to explain that I didn’t mean to take it that far, that we need to just take a second and breathe and pretend like this never happened. She searches my gaze, and maybe she sees it, maybe she does, because she straightens her spine and gives me a tight-lipped nod.

“Giselle . . .” I still don’t know what’s going to come out of my stupid mouth, but she beats me to it.

“No need to say what is on your face, Devon. That kiss was terrible, and we can never do it again.”

My eyes shut. What a lie.

But . . .

We can’t. There’s Jack, but shit, mostly there’s me. I can’t hang on to girls like Giselle. I don’t want to.