Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

I run my eyes over everyone on the floor close to her, but it’s either groups or couples, and she’s by herself.

She wiggles her ass, and a guy appears behind her. He’s moving with the music, getting closer to her, and she looks up, takes him in, then moves to the other side of the dance floor.

I laugh, sobering as she moves closer, and I take in what she’s wearing: a tight cream pencil skirt with a sleeveless baby-blue blouse, the top buttons undone enough to show the flush and sweat on her skin. Her pearls rest in the hollow of her throat—and my dick gets hard.

“New clothes,” I murmur under my breath, and for half a second it makes me sad, knowing she won’t be in mine.

It happens again—another guy, this one more determined when he puts his hand on her hip. She removes it, gives him a glare, and stalks off to another spot.

“It’s always the quiet ones. They’ll surprise you,” comes a deep voice as Aiden slides in next to me. He stares at Giselle.

“Aiden,” I say, nodding and lifting my beer. “Good to see you.” I mean it. We’ve been avoiding each other these past few days, but we need to get past it.

He grunts and orders a drink from Selena and swings his gaze back on me, his usual happy face flat.

“She dances like she’s high,” he muses.

“Don’t ruin her fun.”

His shoulders slump. “Dude, she never called me, I don’t have her digits, and you’re pissed at me.”

I scrub my face. “I overreacted.”

He exhales. “You blew up, man, over something I don’t really get . . . unless you’ve got something going on for Giselle and you aren’t telling me.” He narrows his gaze. “Is that it?”

I stiffen. “Do I care about her? Yes. Do I want you talking smack about her in my face? No. Nor do I want you dating her. She is not one of your flings.” My voice is firm and even, and I’m not going to lose my temper, not this time. I don’t even touch on the Jack issue, because he knows how well that would go over. Those two are friends and enemies.

Aiden sets his beer on the bar and stands up from the stool. “There’s another guy zeroing in on her. I’m going to help—”

Before he can finish, I’m up and gone, brushing past him, bumping his shoulder as I make my way to Giselle.

I hear him laughing behind me.

Her eyes open when my hands settle on her hips, a retort obviously on her lips until she sees it’s me; then she throws her arms around my shoulders for a hug.

“Thank God! You didn’t have to come, but I’m glad you did. Topher sprung this on me at the last minute,” she says. I guess she hasn’t checked her phone since she started dancing.

“Where’s your date?” I say, huskier than I intended, staring down at her. I pull her closer as the music ebbs into a slower song. We fit together, her height perfect against my body. Her arms slide around my neck, and the air in the club feels thick, my lungs tight as her pelvis brushes against mine.

She nudges her head to the rear upper left of the club, an area lined with cozy leather booths. “Back there. He didn’t want to dance, and I’m in a dancing mood. I told my advisor off.” She smiles. “My date is kind of perfect. He said my hair is the color of a summer sky.”

My hands tighten around her hips. “Let’s meet him, then.”

She gets a determined look on her face. “Right. You be the wingman, talk me up, catalog everything, kick me if I say anything atrocious.”

“Let’s go take a look at him,” I grind out, anger pulsing at this guy she thinks is perfect. I’m not being rational, and I’m aware, but I’m edging toward a steep cliff, step by step, as if pulled by an invisible force. Just don’t fall.

She whips around, her ass swaying, stilettos on her feet, legs damn near making me groan as I follow her to the back.

We arrive at the steps to the mezzanine level, the wall lined with red banquettes and cozy sitting arrangements. “Greg, this is my roommate, Devon Walsh.” She runs through the introductions as she slides in right next to him, and I take the seat across from him. She’s telling him how we know each other, but I’m barely listening, sizing him up. She didn’t have to tell me he’s her type; it’s obvious with the boyish good looks, the clean-cut haircut, studious glasses, and suit. Smart, business type, upper middle class—and his eyes are glued to her, following a trail of sweat that’s slowly sliding down her throat to her blouse.

“Slide over,” Aiden says to me, and I wrench my eyes off them.