The glow from the massive TV screen painted the dim living room in frantic flashes of color and light. The soundtrack of Apex Legends, the crackle of gunfire, the pings of enemy markers, the frantic shouts of their teammates was a familiar symphony. Drake’s world was narrowed to two points of focus: the game, and you.

You were settled between his legs, your back flush against his chest, his arms forming a loose but possessive cage around you as you both held your controllers. He could smell your shampoo, feel the slight shifts of your body as you concentrated. This was his paradise. Two years in, and he still felt the buzz of disbelief that this was his life.

He’d expected an average girl, maybe someone who shared his passion for pixelated battles but little else. The online persona never did you justice. Meeting you in real life had been a sucker-punch to his senses: sexy, sharp, and effortlessly pretty, a combination that short-circuited his competitive gamer brain and ignited something far more primal. He felt lucky every single day. And possessive. So terribly possessive.

“He’s one shot, one shot!” You yelled, your voice a melody of intense focus.

“I’m pushing, cover me.” Drake growled, his chin brushing your hair as he leaned forward, his own character vaulting over a wall.

But you were faster. You darted from his covering fire with a grace that still surprised him, a quick slide into a perfect hip-fire spray. The enemy Wraith crumpled. The victory banner flashed on the screen. Champion.

He groaned, a deep, genuine sound of competitive frustration as his own character stood beside your victor. “Oh, damn it! My cover fire was perfect. You stole my kill, you gremlin.”

You wiggled slightly in triumph, a movement that sent a jolt of electricity straight through him. “Stole? I secured. Your one shot was more like three, Drake. Admit I’m better.”

Drake was about to fire back a witty retort, but the words died in his throat. The feel of you moving against him, the proud, teasing lilt in your voice, the knowledge that your sharp, beautiful mind had just outmaneuvered him… it all crashed into him at once. The competitive jealousy morphed, twisted, burned into something else entirely.

A familiar, heated tension coiled low in his stomach. His grip on the controller tightened until the plastic creaked. His eyes, fixed on the screen a second ago, slid down to the side of your face. He could see the curve of your smile, the focused gleam in your eye reflected in the screen’s light.

His arms around you tightened almost reflexively, pulling you closer into him. He could feel every curve of you against his chest and lap, and the awareness was suddenly unbearable.

Slowly, he tilted his head down, his nose brushing against your hair. Drake stared. Your profile in the blue light, the faint smile of victory on your lips, the focused gleam in your eye as you watched the victory replay, it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. A low, involuntary growl caught in his throat. He was hard and aching, his disciplined control fraying at the edges. Drake swallowed thickly, his jaw clenched, trying to wrestle the hungry, possessive thing inside him back into its cage. He wanted to turn your face to his and devour that victorious smile, to show you exactly what beating him did to him.

“Drake?” You asked, still oblivious, tilting your head back slightly to try and see his face. The movement exposed the line of your throat. He stared, mesmerized.