Chapter 1: trying to pay attention to the game
The apartment thrummed with the tinny, hyper-active soundtrack of Mario Kart. Owen held the controller so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He was painfully aware of every point of contact: the warm weight of Aiko’s thighs under his own, the soft pressure of her stomach against his back.
“Left! Hard left, you idiot!” Hana shrieked from her cross-legged position on the floor, jabbing a finger at the screen. Her sparkly nail polish caught the light from the TV.
“I’m trying,” Owen squeaked, his voice barely audible over the rumble of virtual engines. He tilted the controller, sending his character – Baby Peach, which the girls had insisted he play – careening off the edge of Rainbow Road for the third time. His fifth-place position glowed a taunting red.
Aiko’s laughter vibrated through him. Her chin rested on his shoulder, her bleached hair tickling his cheek. It smelled of coconut and vanilla, overwhelming and sweet. “You drive like my grandma, Owen. And she’s dead.”
She shifted slightly, adjusting her grip around his waist. The movement was subtle, but it made the soft, unmistakable swell of her breasts press more firmly against his shoulder blades. He froze, his thumb slipping off the acceleration button. Baby Peach coasted to a stop, letting a green shell slam into her back.
“Oops,” Aiko murmured, her lips now dangerously close to his ear. Her breath was warm. “Distracted?”
He couldn’t formulate words. His entire world had narrowed to the sensation at his back and the frantic hammering of his own heart. He prayed the loose fabric of his jeans was enough of a shield. It wasn’t.
Aiko went still. Her teasing breath hitched, then resumed, slower, more deliberate. She had noticed. Of course she had noticed.
“Uh-oh,” she whispered, the words a private, humid secret against his ear. “Someone’s excited about finally hitting a booster pad.”
He was stiff as a board, mortification flooding his system. He stared straight ahead, unseeing, as his character respawned in last place. Hana was busy trash-talking Rin, whose quiet focus had her Toadette solidly in first. Rin simply smirked, executing a perfect power slide without glancing away from the screen.
Owen felt a shift. Aiko’s right hand, which had been loosely draped across his stomach, began to move. Not away, but downwards, her fingers tracing a slow, idle path along the seam of his t-shirt. Her other arm tightened around him, anchoring him in place.
Then her finger dipped. Just a single finger, slipping under the waistband of his jeans, resting against the heated skin of his lower stomach. The touch was a lightning bolt. He jolted.
“Shhh,” she cooed into his ear, her voice a low, playful hum. “Don’t want the others to know our little secret, do we?”
He was paralysed. The chaotic sounds of the game, Hana’s giggles, the colorful explosions on the screen – it all blurred into a distant, meaningless haze. All that existed was the point of contact, a secret inch of skin being stroked by the pad of her thumb in a slow, maddening circle.
Her mouth found the sensitive ridge of his ear. He felt the wet heat of her tongue first, a shocking, intimate swipe along the outer edge. Then her teeth closed, gently, on his earlobe.
“You’re so tense,” she whispered between soft nips. Her finger pressed a little harder. “Just relax. Enjoy the game.”
But there was no game. There was only this exquisite, terrifying trap. He was hyper-aware of every detail: the chipped black polish on her thumbnail against his skin, the slight stickiness of her lip gloss on his ear, the way her body molded to his back as if they were one shape. A low, pathetic sound escaped his throat, half-gasp, half-whimper.
On screen, Baby Peach plodded across the finish line in eighth place. The results screen flashed, colorful and bright.
“Ugh, you suck, Owen!” Hana cried, throwing a playful punch at his knee. “We would’ve won if you hadn’t fallen off the map every five seconds.”
“Yeah,” Rin said dryly, not looking up as she set her controller down. “Your performance was… notably shaky.”
Aiko’s finger slowly withdrew from his waistband. She gave his stomach one last, flat pat through his shirt before releasing him entirely, stretching her arms above her head with a theatrical yawn. The moment was severed, the spell broken, leaving him cold and desperately disoriented.
“His mind was on other tracks,” Aiko said, her voice now normal, loud enough for everyone. A knowing, mischievous glint shone in her eyes as she looked down at him. “Wasn’t it, Owen?”
He scrambled off her lap, his movements clumsy, and mumbled something about needing a drink. He fled to the tiny kitchenette, his face burning, his body still humming with the ghost of her touch. He gripped the edge of the counter, staring at the sink full of their empty soda cans, trying to steady his breathing.
From the living room, he heard the game music start again. Hana’s cheerful voice. Rin’s quiet laugh.
And Aiko’s, light and conspiratorial, saying, “My turn to pick the character.”
He knew, with a sick, thrilling certainty, that the night was far from over. And he was utterly powerless to stop whatever was coming next.