Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

He stills and takes a step back from me, and I immediately want him back.

“Elena, there’s something I should tell you . . .” He rubs at his face. “Shit.”

He’s wavering.

I exhale. Preston’s taking Giselle home, and even though he’ll be in his full set of pajamas and smelly socks, I’ll be the one alone tonight.

“Are you married?” I ask.

“No!”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Serial killer?”

“No, but would I admit that if I was?” He smirks.

“Do you have an STD?”

He scoffs. “Hell no. I just got my physical. Plus, I never have unprotected sex.”

Then why does he look so conflicted? Maybe it’s me. I’m not his usual.

“Then we’re good. This is what it is, right? Just sex between two lonely people.”

He releases a sigh and gives me a lingering glance. “You should never be lonely, Elena.”

My entire body softens at the sincerity—and heat—in his voice. I like his growly tone. Masculine and nothing like Preston’s. He takes my glasses off, and I stare at his lips. They’re insanely lush, full, and totally bitable, a deep indentation on the bottom. No man should have such a wicked mouth.

“Which is why we’re going to do this,” I murmur.

He seems to come to a decision and guides me to a huge modern kitchen, where he pulls a few pieces of paper out of a drawer and lays them down on the white marble countertop.

I do my best to focus on the papers, but it’s difficult when he moves behind me, his body pressed against mine as he lifts my hair to the side and brushes his lips lightly over the sensitive skin on the back of my neck.

Fire licks at me, rising higher and higher, from the brief contact. We haven’t even kissed for real yet, and I’m already incinerating from the outside in.

With a shuddering inhale, I give the papers a cursory look. A nondisclosure agreement. Gross. I’m a trustworthy person. I’d never share my dalliances with anyone. Good grief, I have my own secrets to keep! Hello, sexy lingerie.

His hands are undoing the clasp on my pearls, the soft graze of his hands against my skin making my legs weak.

“Hurry up, Elena.”

The soft words shoot straight to my core, heat pooling as I shiver. I grab the pen and scribble in a name and address.

I turn to face him, chewing on my lip. “All done.”

He wears that wild look in his eyes again when I face him, his chest rising rapidly as he takes me in from head to toe. I don’t know what he sees except that my hair spills around my shoulders, and I’m pretty sure my nipples stand at attention.

I put my hand on his chest. “First, tell me three things about you.”

His fingers unbutton the top button of my shirt. “Let me see. My middle name is Eugene, and coupled with the fact that I didn’t hit my growth spurt until sixteen, it got me beat up a lot in middle school.” He undoes the second button. “Secondly, I’m absolutely terrified of water. You’ll never see me swimming or on a beach vacation.”

He’s so athletic looking. “Why?” I breathe as he goes for the next pearl button.

He puts his face in my neck, inhaling. His lips brush at my ear. “Not telling you. Fuck, you smell good. What kind of perfume is that?”

I let out a ragged breath. Something Topher gave me. “I can’t recall, and third?”

He fingers the last button on my shirt, not quite undoing it. “You really need to know?”

I nod, my body tingling when his hand pulls at my hair, the hold making me arch my neck up. It’s a little commanding and sharp, that motion, but it only sends sizzles of electricity down my spine.

“I like my sex hard and dirty. Does that scare you?”

“As long as you don’t pull out the handcuffs.” I must be drunk because I might not mind those one little bit.

He kisses my collarbone. Barely. “And you didn’t ask for a fourth, but the truth is I may have to jack off in the bathroom before I fuck you, Elena.”

A long breath comes out of me. “Greg . . .”

He winces and drops his hands. “Don’t call me Greg.”

“Okay, Eugene.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Tell me about you.”

“My middle name is Michelle.”

He gives me a long look, his eyes darkening as I undo the last button on my shirt, picking up where he left off. I’m doing this. And the freedom of it, knowing that this man wants me, makes me bold.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs, eyes low, watching me like a wolf might watch its prey.

“I love books—the smell of them, the weight of them in my hands. Before I was a librarian, I used to edit romance books in New York.”

He holds my gaze, his mouth deliciously close to mine. “Nice. What else?”