Page 85 of Hot Chocolate & Hitmen

“You got it, Little One,” I laugh, adjusting in my seat as we dive back into the chaos, both of us letting the ridiculousness of the game wash over us.

Grace, after a solid twenty minutes of watching me wipe out squads with ease, cracks her knuckles and mimes for me to hand over the controller, like she’s ready to take on the world. She gives me a confident smirk, that competitive glint in her eye that sends a little spark through me. She’s adorable when she thinks she’s got this.

“Alright, Teddy. Move over. Time to show you how it’s done.”

“Oh, darling, I can’t wait,” I say, handing her the controller with a smirk of my own. I lean back, watching her navigate the menu with the kind of determination usually reserved for holiday baking contests.

For a few minutes, it’s innocent enough. She’s learning the controls, and I’m offering tips here and there. You know, just to be helpful.

“Okay, so aim with this...shoot with that...and that button is–oh crap!” She lets out a little squeak as her character is immediately gunned down in a hail of bullets.

“Hey! I just spawned!” she huffs, glaring at the screen. “That’s cheating.”

I snicker. “Welcome to Call of Duty. No mercy.”

She grumbles, respawns, and this time lasts a little longer. But then she’s sniped again from what seems like nowhere.

“Oh, come on! Who hides in a corner like that? Total noob behavior,” she mutters, her eyes narrowing as she respawns yet again.

I lean in closer, trying to hide my grin. “It’s tactical positioning, Little One.”

“Tactical positioning, my cookie! They’re camping like cowards!” she snaps, jamming the controller buttons furiously as she respawns for the umpteenth time.

I try to keep my focus on the game, but the sight of Grace–a sweet, sunshiney girl in her Christmas sweater–creatively cursing out random gamers is making my heart race in all the wrong ways. It shouldn’t be this hot, but God help me, it really, really is.

“You okay over there?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady as I adjust myself.

She growls under her breath as her character gets killed again, this time by a guy with an RPG. “What the hell was that? Since when do people get those?! That’s cheating. I’m calling it. Total hacks.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That’s the game, Grace. You gotta be prepared for anything.”

“Oh, I am prepared,” she mutters darkly, her eyes narrowing on the screen. “Prepared to call out all these cheating, camping, lag-switching losers.”

Her hands are flying across the controller now, and every time she dies, she lets out a string of curses that makes me want to kiss her senseless.

“They shot me through a wall! Teddy, did you see that? This game is rigged!”

I try to keep my cool, but she’s leaning into it so hard that I’m honestly starting to get ridiculously turned on. Like, embarrassingly so. It’s something about the way she’s completely lost her cool, that fire in her eyes, her fingers moving with this ferocity like she’s ready to throw down with the game itself.

“You–ugh, what is this?! How is that even fair? That guy jumped, spun, and shot me all at once? What is he, Neo from The Matrix?! I call hacks. Hacks!”

The longer she plays, the more she devolves into this fiery, competitive rage. And damn, it’s sexy as hell.

“They’re all cheating. Every last one of them. There’s no way I’m this bad! The game’s out to get me!” She slams the controller onto her lap, glaring at the screen like it personally insulted her.

“That’s right, blame the lag,” I tease, voice low. “Classic move.”

“Oh, don’t give me that smug look. I’m getting better! Watch!” She picks the controller back up, determined, her fingers flying over the buttons.

But no sooner has she respawned than she’s gunned down again. Grace throws her hands up in frustration. “Are you kidding me?! There’s no way he shot me that fast. It’s like he knew where I was!”

“Maybe he’s just that good,” I say, trying not to laugh, because at this point, I’m seconds away from tackling her onto the couch and kissing her until we forget Call of Duty exists.

She glares at me, but it’s hard to take her seriously with her reindeer sweater flashing its little red nose every time she moves. “I swear, if one more of these cheaters gets me...”

I watch her get more and more worked up, her hands clenching around the controller, her face flushed with frustration. And for some reason, the more she rants about lag and cheats, the hotter I get.

“You good?” I ask, my voice lower than I intended.

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