Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(55)

“Did I . . . did I . . . we shouldn’t have watched that. It’s my fault.”

“No,” I say as I turn to face the door, feeling like an idiot as I talk to it. “It was really good . . . cinematography. Their faces . . . the sheets and pillows and stuff.”

She pauses. “Thank you for rescuing me from the weatherman.”

I open the door and stare at her. Her blue eyes are wide and starry. “Yeah, whatever.”

She’s so . . .

Dangerous.

“Good night,” she says with a soft smile and walks back into the den, where I hear another orgasm.

“Night,” I mutter and shut the door.





Chapter 15

GISELLE

Later, I head to my bedroom and pile up in my bed, headphones on, laptop open on my bare legs. I showered and changed into a blue lace camisole and a pair of booty shorts, fluffed up my pillows, and got to work. My story burns to be written. You’d think after finishing my movie, I’d be inspired for some off-the-charts sex scenes, but I’m deep into Kate sneaking like a ninja into the prison where Vureck is being held to rescue him after their ship was attacked. My story isn’t just a love story between total opposites; it’s the story of Kate figuring out her true self, a girl who’s powerful in her own right, who is now the one to save him. Her dream of going back to Earth has faded; all that matters is getting back her man—er, alien.

My fingers tap away at about ninety words per minute, Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack reverberating in my ears.

My ankle itches, and I give it an absent flick with my foot, tossing the covers off, still typing.

Kate uses her thin blade that Vureck gave her as a present to pick the lock to his cage. One of the lizard men wakes up from the sedative she put in his food and pounces on her—just as a tickle brushes against my leg, and I shake it off. The sensation prickles again, against my thigh, and I huff, look down, and . . . scream. Headphones are ripped off, and my laptop crashes to the floor as my hands fling around at what surely must be a million spiders in my bed. A brown eight-legged body jumps off the sheet and dives deep inside the covers.

Devon jerks the door open, hair soaked, body wet, a white towel knotted around his waist. My mouth opens, the scary arachnid of death forgotten. His chest—oh Lord, I’ve never seen his naked chest—is a work of art, the skin a light-tan color, sleek and muscled, his pectorals sharply defined, the oblique abdominals creating a distinct roll of muscles that tapers to the V at his hip bone. My eyes bulge. I’ve never seen a real six-pack on a guy, except online and in movies. A bead of water tracks down his throat, skating down the center of his chest, past the sparse hair, and right into more hair, at the top of his towel. Elena calls that a goody trail, and I agree. There’s goodness in every part of him. He isn’t beefy like some football players. He’s a runner, all hard muscle and power, honed to outlast, outdistance, outperform—

“Giselle! What’s wrong?”

I sputter. “You look . . .” Like a dream. “Wet.” I swallow.

He marches in—one hand on the terrible, terrible towel—and paces around the room. I check out his ass and back—oh wow, back muscles for days, and if I was thinking clearly, I could name every single one. Think clearly! His lats under his arm are toned and tight, the rhomboids of his upper back tense and ready to fight.

A furry thing jumps on my foot, and I scream again, hands waving in front of my face. The bed bounces as I hop down to the floor—what took me so long?—landing with a thud, wincing at the ankle that still isn’t right. My voice is breathless, and I’m not sure it has to do with the spider tormenting me or the fact that seeing Devon naked is a very bad thing for my vow to keep us just friends.

Devon shakes his head at me, his lips twitching.

“What?” I grouse.

“It’s a tiny spider,” he replies, eyebrow arched.

I cross my arms. “The giant spider has been crawling on me for several minutes! It jumped at me! You saw how fast it moved. Zero to sixty in a heartbeat. And now it’s in my bed, and you have to find it and kill it. Meanwhile, I will be sleeping on the couch, because there’s no way I’m getting back in that bed with a monster loose . . .” I stop, glaring at him as he chuckles. He shakes his head, his chest rumbling with laughter.

“Didn’t know you’d go berserk . . . over a tiny, tiny . . .” He wipes at his eyes. “Giselle, baby, you’re killing me.”

After snatching a pillow off the bed, I double-check it for spiders (clear) and clutch it to my chest. “I saw hair on its legs!”

He throws his head back for more laughing, and I smack him with the pillow.

He isn’t fazed, cackling more, so I whack him again. He holds his hand out to tell me to stop but moves fast, grabbing the other pillow. He hits me on my torso.

“Did you even check it for spiders?”

“No, and I bet the little guy is right on top.” His eyes flare as he looks at my chest. “Giselle, don’t move.”

There’s been a spider crawling on me, and he tells me not to move. The man needs to rethink who I am. I scream and brush at my chest frantically, heart pounding. Not seeing anything, I look back up, and he’s grinning. “Psych.”

My hands fist. “Oh, you . . . you . . .” I jump at him, shoving him with my pillow, and he falls down on my bed. I expect him to get up, but he just lies there, the rumble of his laughter making my lips curve. I like seeing him like this, relaxed and easy and so beautiful. His dark hair is slicked back, his eyebrow piercing glinting under the lights, the butterflies and roses on his arms—then a brown monster appears and sits on one of the blooms, right below his right shoulder.