Page 47 of Cross Check Daddies
“Yeah,” she says, grabbing the controller before I’ve even moved.
I boot the game, log in. She shifts closer on the couch, brushing her knee against mine without noticing. Her profile pops up in the corner of the screen. PixelVixen. The name rings familiar. Too familiar.
My jaw goes tight. “Wait. No. That’s you?”
She glances at me, smug. “You know me?”
I stare at the screen. I’ve been playing against her for months. Trash talk in the lobby. Clutch kill steals. Endless matches where I swear and sweat and fantasize about knocking her out of first place.
Holy shit.
She’sthatPixelVixen.
“You’re IceVice?” she asks suddenly, putting it together. “Wait—you’rethe one who rage-quit that ranked round last week?”
I exhale. “You glitched the extraction point with a grenade loop. That’s not skill. That’s petty sabotage.”
She throws her head back and laughs, full-on belly laugh now, no reserve. “You got so pissed. Holy crap.”
“I’m pissed now,” I mutter, my cock stirring hard against my zipper as she keeps laughing, that sound winding its way straight through me.
She’s right here. On my couch. Giddy, flushed, sharp-tongued, and barefoot, like she’s belonged in this room for years. I watch her tuck her feet under her again, scrolling through game modes like she owns the place.
And my cock—traitorous bastard—presses against my jeans again, thickening with every passing second.
Fuck.
PixelVixen is sitting next to me, laughing, cheeks pink, neck exposed. I want to reach out and tilt her face toward mine, press my mouth to hers until she forgets about the game and gives me something else to win.
And judging by the way she’s glancing at me now, mouth still curved, pupils darker, I’m not the only one remembering those dirty messages we typed once during a match at two a.m.
“Coach,” she says softly, eyes flicking down, then up again. “You okay?”
I shift slightly, clearing my throat, adjusting my jeans under the guise of leaning forward. “Yeah. Just... processing.”
“You gonna be a sore loser again?”
I look at her. Really look. At the curve of her thigh. The tilt of her smile. The glow in her eyes that wasn’t there at the burger joint.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, voice low, curling around the edge of a growl. “I don’t plan on losing.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Brooke
We’ve been playingfor four hours now. The controllers are warm in our hands, the food long gone, and I’m curled up sideways on Ace’s couch, legs tangled in a throw blanket I didn’t mean to steal.
He sits beside me, legs stretched out, relaxed in that quiet, masculine way that makes everything about him seem effortlessly composed. But I’ve caught the way his eyes slide to me when I laugh too hard. The little hitch in his breath when I trash-talk him mid-match. He’s into this—into me—and the tension has been crawling under my skin since we passed the second hour.
“You still hungry?” he asks, glancing over between rounds. “I could make us sandwiches.”
“No,” I say with a slow smile, setting the controller aside. “I should go. I’ve got to get up early and pick up my car. This was fun.”
“I know,” he says simply, eyes not leaving mine.
He stands first, offering a hand. His grip is strong, warm, rough in a way that shoots tingles up my arm as he helps me off the couch. The space between us is charged. My feet feel too light on the floor, like my body wants to drift into his.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
