Not My Match Page 8

  We stare at each other, and heat builds and rises inside me, a yearning to touch him that makes me feel light headed. I’m losing my mind. He doesn’t want me like that.

  His green eyes flicker over me, lingering on my body.

  I’m afraid to move, almost paralyzed, as if he’s a predator and I’m delicious prey. I’m aware of every excruciating detail of him, the span of his broad shoulders, the long tan column of his throat as he drinks his water, the roped muscles in his forearms.

  “You were right, you know,” I murmur. “I’m glad I’m not alone tonight.”

  “Ah.” He bites his lower lip, his teeth digging into the plump skin.

  “Thank you.” I push my glasses up. “I shouldn’t be here long—just until I get things figured out with my insurance.”

  “All right.”

  More quiet. More staring at each other.

  What is he thinking?

  “I should shower,” I blurt.

  His gaze drifts lazily over me. Again. “Me too.”

  Oh Lord. I cling to the edge of the granite, imagining him under a spray of water, the droplets slicking over his skin—

  Nope. Must stop.

  “Why did you kiss me?”

  He frowns and straightens, seeming to shake himself. “Why not? See you in the morning.” And then he’s striding down the hall to the last room and shutting the door behind him.

  Chapter 6

  DEVON

  Sleep refuses to come, even after a hot shower and fifteen minutes of watching The Office. All the usual tricks. I check my phone aimlessly, wincing at the late hour, then toss it aside. Training camp will be here in a few hours, and I should be exhausted—but my blood pumps overtime, my heart rate still erratic. That moment of thinking she was still in her apartment in the fire rushes back, and I let out a heavy exhale and scrub the bristles on my jaw. I was out of control, ready to barrel through the firemen holding me back, just to get to her. I wanted to rail at her. I wanted to throw her over my shoulder, spank her ass, then . . . fuck her hard and fast until she got some sense.

  Jack’s face appears in my head. Keep your eyes on her. She’s a virgin, he told me at his engagement party a few months ago. At the time, he was scowling as he watched her talk to a group of rambunctious players. The guys like talking to her . . . I mean, why wouldn’t they? She’s smart and sexy in an understated, unassuming way, a sharp contrast to the blowsy jersey chasers who dance attendance on them. She’s a bit aloof and reserved, too, as if she’s holding part of herself back. Little does she know that to an alpha male, that means challenge.

  But shit, why, why did he have to tell me that?

  I mull it over, trying to get to the bottom of it as I kick my covers.

  Maybe he thought you needed to know, a sly voice says.

  And here I am, with her just a bedroom away.

  A scream pierces the quiet, and I jerk out of bed and dash to her room, flinging open the door as I reach it. I was worried she’d have bad dreams. Risking her life for a string of pearls—shit. What a crazy girl.

  Pookie stands on the bed and shivers, all six pounds on alert as Giselle tosses and turns.

  “Giselle?” I murmur, not wanting to startle her as I sit on the bed. “Babe, you’re dreaming.”

  She cries out again, unaware, and flails at the duvet, twisting around as a tear falls down her face.

  Forget this.

  After untangling her from the comforter, I cup her shoulders and ease her up to my chest. She makes all my protective instincts flare to the surface.

  “Dev,” she whimpers. “What’s happening?”

  “Bad dream. You’re sleeping with me.” Makes perfect sense.

  I sweep her up, and she clings to me, her arms tightening around my shoulders as her face presses against my chest. “I’m sorry. God, you must be sick of me.”

  “Not yet.” I walk with her down the hall. Nothing wrong with this. Nothing.

  “I keep seeing Myrtle in my head. She’s . . . she’s falling down the stairs, and it’s my fault. Her knees are bad.” Her breath hitches. “I should have walked her all the way out the door.”

  “Shh, I got you.” She’s worried about Myrtle when she should be thinking about herself.

  I ease her down on my bed, keeping my gaze averted from her toned long legs, the shapely curve of her hips peeking out from one of my old shirts, the fall of her damp hair curling around her shoulders. Nope. This is so she can sleep. This isn’t weird.

  After grabbing a pair of light flannel pajama pants, I slip them over my underwear and crawl in next to her, settling her under the covers and myself on top.

  “Come here,” I say.

  She pauses for half a second, then scoots over while I rest on my back. Even with a layer of sheets and a duvet and a few inches between us, I feel the warmth of her body. She smells like my shampoo and bodywash—mango and citrus. In my head, visions dance around of me sliding under the covers with her, parting her thighs—

  “You’re unexpectedly . . . sweet,” she murmurs.

  I shove away my erotic thoughts. “Sure.”

  I turn my head to see her blinking up at the skylight over the bed. It lets in more light than I thought it would when I had it installed, but something about the stars speaks to me. My hand reaches up and traces a line from one star to another. “You think there’s life up there?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “It pays to keep an open mind, but not so open your brains fall out,” I quote.

  She lifts up on her elbow and stares at me. “Carl Sagan?”

  I smirk at the surprise in her tone. “Not just a jock, Giselle. I read, mostly on the road.”

  She blows at a piece of hair in her face and plops back down. “Devon Walsh, squashing stereotypes one quote at a time.”

  “I don’t think we’re alone in the universe. We’re just a speck, simple humans walking a life unaware.”

  She laughs, a hint of bemusement there.

  “What?” I ask. “You don’t agree?”

  “Oh, I agree. Not everyone believes in aliens.” She sighs. ‘“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is only bearable with love.’ Sagan again.”

  Love? I arch a brow. Not touching that quote with a ten-foot pole.

  “Tell me . . . these alternate universes you mentioned—where are we right now?”

  “I love that you’re curious about my theories.” Then . . . she presses a light kiss to my shoulder—nothing sexy, for fuck’s sake—but heat licks me from head to toe. Ah hell, keep your face blank, asshole, and your dick better chill out.

  I clear my throat and ease an inch away. “Come on. What are we doing in this universe? Don’t make me a teenage girl.”

  “You might not like it . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “If I’m some ugly insect or demon, yeah, I may not, but help a guy out. I need a story to put me to bed.”

  She laughs under her breath. “Are you sure?” Then: “Ohhhh, a demon universe—”

  “Focus, woman. Hit me with your best one.”

  “Fine. You’re a seven-foot purple-colored alien from Sector 4, the Triangulum Galaxy, 2.7 million light-years from Earth—”

  “Is that a real place? Why am I purple?”

  “Yes, it’s real, and purple is your favorite color.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just imagined it’s your favorite color. Is it?”

  “Let’s say it’s purple or blue.” I grin. We’re not looking at each other, both of us staring up at the stars. “So as an alien, do I look like a man?”

  “You have a humanoid form, yes, much like now—broad shoulders and long sleek black hair. Your prehensile tail is four feet long with a pointed end, and you use it as a whip when you fight. Your skin is made up of scales—”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Your scales are very small and shimmer when you’re excited. They’re very soft and warm.”

  “Sounds prissy.” I’
m enraptured, hanging on every word.

  “Nothing girlie about you. Muscles abound. You’re a virile, alpha alien—”

  “But I have a tail.” My voice is dry. “So this alien is a demon.”

  She huffs. “Fine. I’ll take away the tail, but you could have used it for . . . pleasurable . . . activities . . .”

  My dick twitches. “Like what?”

  “Nope. You don’t want it, so it’s gone.”

  “Please continue.”

  “I’m trying!” She pokes me in the side. “You stalk around in a loincloth—rather strange since your world is so advanced—with metal gauntlets on your wrists. You keep an amethyst stone on a necklace around your neck. It belonged to someone important who passed away. You’re a mercenary sent to Earth to procure a woman for your king. You find me, er, her in Los Angeles. She’s a twentysomething scientist with a D cup. Her name is Kate, and she has blue hair.” She pauses. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “You said D cup. I’m riveted.”

  She sighs. “Twenty days into the yearlong journey to your home planet, your cloaking goes on the fritz, and the ship is attacked by your enemies. You release her to protect her from being taken, and you and Kate fight them. A tentative friendship is born after you defeat them. She also knows how to fix your cloaking issue. You teach her your language but force her into the antigravity chamber every sleep cycle. Big alien jerk. You’ve taken an oath to hand her over untouched, yet one night, you sleepwalk to my, um, Kate’s cage, let her out, and forget your oath about keeping her pure—”

  “Giselle,” I say, my voice low and husky, images flitting through my head. “Is this about to get dirty?”

  “It’s my story, actually. I’m writing it.”

  Oh.

  “That’s amazing. You’re . . .” So fucking hot . . . “Obviously not only smart but, um, creative.” I pause, inhaling a breath. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about the sex part.”

  “You asked. I responded.” Her voice lowers. “I want to lose my virginity before I turn twenty-four, Dev.”

  I start. “When’s your birthday?” I ask a few beats later, battling to keep myself from pouncing on her. Hands off the innocent girl. Hands off the innocent girl. Jack will kill you.

  “Sunday. Mike Millington’s going to be there.”

  “And he is . . . ?”

  “My tween crush who’s recently divorced. He’s probably bald with a beer belly.” A long sigh comes from her. “If he’s kind and there’s something there, I don’t know, maybe . . .”

  My chest rises, and I’m racking my brain to come up with a reply, but my head is going haywire and wants to say, Well, if you want to get rid of it that bad, then what the hell is wrong with the man you’re in bed with—

  A whine comes from the open door.

  Pookie runs to Giselle’s side of the bed, and Giselle gets up to scoop her up, climbs back in the bed, and flips over to her side, away from me, as she settles the dog under the covers.

  “Good night, Dev,” she murmurs. “Thank you for letting me sleep with you. Just this once. You’re the best.”

  Yeah, the best. Right.

  I mutter out a reply, heave out a breath, and turn over to face the wall.

  Chapter 7

  DEVON

  When I come out of my room at seven, Giselle is sitting on a stool at the island with her back to me, laptop open, earphones on her head as she types like a maniac.

  It’s weird coming out to someone in my domain. Usually girls are gone before the sun comes up—not because I’m a shitty host, but because they don’t feel the need to linger. The light of day isn’t pretty after casual sex.

  She balances precariously on the seat as she reaches up to grab a pen, another one of my old shirts riding up. She must have tied it in a knot at the front. Her frayed shorts are on her ass, snug and dipping down far enough that I can see the waistband of a pink thong. I take in a familiar image at the base of her spine.

  “Why do you have half a butterfly on your back?” I ask, sliding up next to her so I don’t freak her out.

  She turns and smiles and takes the earphones off. “Morning, sunshine! Let’s kick today’s ass. You with me?”

  I wince. “God, you’re one of those.”

  She throws her arms around me for a quick hug, gets off the stool, and dances away to the stove. “I’ve never needed much sleep. Up at six, and I made you breakfast. Banana-nut muffins. I found the mix in the pantry, so I figured you liked them.” She takes in my track pants and workout shirt.

  Quinn, Jack’s younger foster brother, buys most of my groceries. I didn’t even know I had muffin mixes. Normally, I eat oatmeal and a protein bar, then get out of here as fast as I can.

  “I was going to make some eggs once you got up.” She smiles, and I feel the tension from last night falling away.

  “All right. Bacon?”

  She grins, and I grab the food from the fridge. She takes them and starts cracking eggs and whisking them in a bowl she pulled down from the cabinet. “I made coffee.”

  “You’re fucking beautiful,” I exclaim as I pour myself a cup and take a long sip, watching her with bemusement as she blushes. I shove down thoughts of alien Devon ravishing her on a spaceship.

  After my first few sips, I help by putting the bacon in a skillet and watching it sizzle. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you evaded my question about your half-assed tattoo. How did it happen?” I’m anxious to hear her talk, and shit, I don’t know, she kind of fascinates me.

  She throws in some sour cream and salt and pepper with the eggs. “Got it when I was in college, right after my freshman year. I stayed in Memphis for summer classes, and, well, it was my birthday.”

  “Bad shit happens on your birthday.”

  “You have no idea.” She sighs. “Anyway, I’d had a beer and was tipsy, and we walked into a tattoo shop. My girlfriend was getting E = mc2, but I picked out a butterfly, had it in my head that it represented change, a metamorphosis.” She attacks the bowl with the whisk. “So, the tattoo . . .” She pauses to take a sip of coffee, then sets the cup down. Her nose scrunches up. “I can’t tell you.”

  I turn to her and point the tongs at her. “You have to answer. It’s your thing.”

  “I can’t.” She crosses herself.

  My eyes narrow. “Giselle Riley, you aren’t even Catholic. What happened? Did it hurt?” Somehow I don’t think pain makes her squeal. She fell to her knees at the club and barely complained; she climbed down a flimsy ladder in the middle of a thunderstorm and never thought twice.

  I turn the bacon while she pours the eggs into a hot pan, her face blank. “Hard or soft? I like them soft, but I can cook yours a little longer.”

  Oh no, she won’t get out of this that easily.

  “I like them any way you want. Now . . . why did you get half a butterfly at the base of your spine?”

  She shoots me an evil eye. “You’re horrible, you know?”

  “Tell me, or no bacon for you.”

  “Fine! Earlier that year, in January, I was kind of seeing this guy, nothing serious. Big football fanatic. One night I went to his place to watch the national championship game between Ohio State and Georgia—”

  I freeze and face her, realization dawning. “Holy shit. That was my game, my senior year. I caught three passes and won that game.” I preen a little, flexing my arms for her. “Did you like my tight body, little college girl?”

  She rolls her eyes. “My date did. Quoted your stats from memory—whatever, he had a hard-on for OSU. I didn’t know who you were, just some player in a red-and-white jersey.”

  “Number eighty-nine. Write that down. You’re coming to a game this year.”

  “I know your jersey number.” Her face flushes a delicious pink color.

  “So what you’re saying is you took one look at me, saw my ink, fell in love, and went out to get a matching tattoo.” I chuckle when she throws a piece of bacon at me, and I catch it in m
y mouth.

  “I was inspired by your ink, okay, just a little, and it stuck with me when my birthday rolled around in August.”

  I make her a plate, then make mine, and we sit at the island across from each other. “Why didn’t you finish it?”

  “I had to push my pants down more than was comfortable so the artist could get the right spot. Then my friend left the room for a few minutes.” She shovels a forkful of eggs in and chews while I frown.

  “What happened?”

  Her silvery-blue eyes hold mine as she pushes up her glasses. “He set his tattoo machine down, put his hands on my ass, and squeezed so hard I saw stars. He held my arms down and tried to bite me there. I fought, elbowed him, fell out of the chair, and ran out.” Her lips twist. “You’ve got your mad face on. Told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “How far is Memphis? Three hours?” I calmly eat a slice of bacon, chewing hard. First the lacrosse dude from high school, and now this prick? I, Devon Walsh, swear to never hurt Giselle Riley.

  “I hope you got your revenge,” I mutter.

  “Went to the cops and filed a report. I didn’t want him assaulting anyone else, especially since most of the clientele were college kids.” She gets up and puts her plate in the sink, rinses it, then arranges it in the dishwasher. Pookie whines at her feet, and Giselle gives her a piece of bacon. “He got six months’ probation but lost his license in Tennessee. His defense was it was consensual.” She chews on her lips. “Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

  She moves to walk past me, and I grab her hand. “Hey. We’re not all jerks.”

  “I know,” she says, her face softening as we stare at each other. “Just some bad early experiences.”

  “Did it mess with your head?”

  “Maybe. I’m sure it added to the list of reasons not to date much, but we don’t have to worry about that much longer. Mike.” She gives me a thumbs-up. “Looked him up on Insta this morning. All his hair. Nice physique. It’s on.”

  And just like that, I’m ready to rip heads off. “Yeah, well, what about caring for someone? Huh? Getting to know them before you bang them?”

  She blinks. “This is your advice? You.”