Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(63)

He’s behind me now, his chest against my back, his arm curled around my waist as we lie on the couch. A muscled leg is on top of mine, curled, and his breaths are low and deep, his face in my hair.

I debate for a millisecond on begging off on the birthday lunch, but I promised I’d go, and Mama promised champagne.

Reaching out, I attempt to leverage myself up off the couch without waking him, but his arm tightens as he murmurs something.

He moves, his fingers slipping higher, inside the hoodie and underneath my camisole. He cups my breast, his leg drawing me in closer as he massages, brushing my nipple. The tip of my breast must have a million nerve endings, and every one shoots a blast of heat to my pelvis. He fondles me, caressing me against his thumb, and I feel drunk on sensation. A low groan comes from him as he breathes into my hair, the bristles of his unshaven jaw brushing against my nape.

His hand moves underneath my shorts and inside my panties.

He’s asleep. And I’m letting this happen.

“Baby . . . ,” he mumbles, and a finger slicks over my clit, lazy and slow. “So good . . . so fucking good.”

I bite back my gasp as delicious sensations roll over me. I try to hold it in—I try—but I shudder from the tips of my toes to my hair, the combination of the scruff on my neck to his fingers erecting a rolling desire that’s thick and sweet.

He flinches behind me, his breathing changing as he seems to come awake. I slam my eyes closed. Nope. I am not awake. I am in deep, deep sleep.

He slides his hand away, and I feel him shifting, rising up behind me, probably looking at my face and studying me. I picture his face, the chiseled jawline, the blade of his nose, those sensuous lips. I bet he’s got that stricken look. The one he wears when he wants me but doesn’t want to. Yep. He’s going to rake his hand through his hair . . .

A soft whisper comes. “Giselle?”

I fake a deep breath. Eyes shut tight.

He exhales, and I feel him moving behind me, stealthily, as he doesn’t crawl over me like I expect but goes over the back of the couch and lands with a thud on the hardwood. His footsteps pad into the kitchen, where I hear him opening the fridge and grabbing something, the fading echo of his feet as he walks down the hall to his room, then opens the door and shuts it quietly.

I jump up and dart for my bedroom. Eleven thirty. I have an hour to shower and get dressed, then drive to Daisy.

Half an hour later, I’m drying my hair when he knocks on the door of my bathroom.

“Hey,” I say as I open the door a crack.

His eyes search mine, then take in the lacy blue robe that hits at my thighs—thank you, little boutique downtown. It matched my hair. Seemed like a perfectly viable reason to buy it.

“Uh, I made coffee for you and set out some muffins we had left over. I know you have to get going.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for last night, this morning.” His gaze is hesitant.

“Anytime,” I say as I ease the door open more with my foot. He’s wearing pin-striped baby-blue tailored summer slacks with a matching jacket and a white shirt that contrasts with his tan. His belt is white-and-blue striped, his shoes brown loafers with no socks. Judging by the perfect fit of his suit, it must have cost more than my rent, and the way it hugs his shoulders makes me gulp. His dark hair is swept back, the royal-blue highlights glistening. He looks—have I died and gone to Devon heaven?—mouthwatering. Sophisticated. Sexy. An ovary explodes.

“Where are you going?” I ask, shutting out the disappointment that lingers, knowing I won’t see him today.

He shrugs, straightening the little white square in his jacket pocket. “Got to see Lawrence.”

I huff. In that?

“How did you get showered and ready and make coffee so fast?”

He pauses. “Head start. I was up before you. Didn’t I wake up first?”

“Hmm,” I say, my chest seizing as I resist the urge to give him the right answer. I reach over for my hair dryer and wave it at him. “My hair takes forever.”

“Do you need any help before you meet Mike? A few last-minute tips?” His words are light, but his face is set in granite.

“Oh yeah, Mike. The old crush. Can’t wait.” I wave at my face in a “He’s so hot” expression.

He flips around and heads inside the depths of my room. “What are you wearing? Let’s start there.”

He marches to my closet and starts pushing things aside. There’s barely anything there—a few skirts, some dresses, two pairs of jeans, and some shirts.

He yanks out a long dress. “This one.”

I sputter at the golden puppies frolicking on the velvet fabric as they chase a robin, the background a beautiful pastoral scene with tall trees and rolling hills. “That is a muumuu—for Myrtle. I forgot to give it to her. It’s five sizes too big, and it will hang on me like a shower curtain.”

“With your flip-flops,” he continues, as if I haven’t vetoed him. “Minimal makeup, no perfume.”

“Your fashion sense clearly extends to males only. We’ll blame this choice on your lack of sleep.” I brush past him, pulling the dress out of his hand, my robe parting, my cleavage drawing his gaze. After hanging the muumuu back up, I snatch two new dresses and flash them in front of me. “Ready-to-ride red or no-back black?” I swish them back and forth. “I have lingerie to match either.”