Page 32 of Game Over

“That’s it,” I growl against her slick flesh. “Stop fighting what we both know you want.”

Her breathing changes, becoming ragged and desperate. The chair creaks as she pulls against the restraints, her body arching. Our past selves perform in silent synchronicity on the screens surrounding us, but nothing compares to reality. The connection I feel transcends my careful planning.

I look up and see her face contort with pleasure. Her eyes squeeze shut, head thrown back as she tries to deny what’s happening. Her vulnerability reaches past my dominance, touching something primordial within—an instinct to protect and possess.

I pause just long enough to make her whimper at the loss. “Watch me while you come.”

Her eyes flutter open, glazed with conflicting emotions—shame, fear, and undeniable arousal. I smirk against her inner thigh before returning to my task with renewed determination, circling her clit with precise pressure. Beneath my confident exterior, something shifts again—a need for her to see me, to acknowledge what’s happening between us as more than just captor and captive.

The moment builds like a masterfully executed game strategy—every move precise, every response anticipated. Her thighs begin to shake, her chest heaving as she fights against the inevitable.

“Give in to me,” I demand, feeling her body tense on the precipice. “Tell me you belong to me.”

She breaks with a sharp cry, her body convulsing as pleasure rages through her. “Fuck, I’m yours!”

The admission snaps my control. I continue my assault on her senses, drawing out her orgasm as she trembles and moans, feeling an unexpected tenderness bloom alongside my triumph.

“Let me hear you say it again,” I command, looking up at her flushed face. “Who made you come? Who owns your orgasms?”

Her eyes are wide with horror at what she’s just said, but her body continues to pulse against my tongue. “You did,” she breathes, tears spilling down her cheeks—whether from pleasure or shame, I don’t know. “You do.”

Victory surges through me, but it’s accompanied by a fierce protectiveness, a desire to shelter her even as I break her down. Sweet validation of everything I’ve known, yet somehow more meaningful. This isn’t just about possession anymore. It’s about connection.

I rise slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, studying her face with newfound wonder. The dynamic has shifted. The game has changed. And I’m no longer certain who’s really in control.

12

KIRA

Iwake to my ceiling fan spinning lazily above me. My eyelids feel weighted with exhaustion that clings like a second skin. My head pounds with each heartbeat, making thinking difficult.

“What the hell?” My voice comes out raspy and foreign.

I’m in my bedroom. The blue comforter pools around my waist as I struggle to sit up. Dizziness washes over me, and I grab the edge of my nightstand. The wood feels solid beneath my fingertips. Real. But the fog in my brain refuses to clear.

The last thing I remember is...

The convention. Aloy costume.GhostDaddy.

Fragments flash through my mind but slip away before I can grasp them, like water in cupped hands.

I squint at my surroundings. My gaming setup sits in the corner. My clothes spill from the hamper. My Aloy poster hangs on the wall. Everything looks right, but the room feels... off.

The light coming through my window has an artificial quality. The traffic sounds lack the random peaks and lulls of actual city noise.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it. The room tilts, and my stomach lurches. I feel drugged.

“Hello?” I call out.

No answer.

I focus on the details of my room, catching inconsistencies I hadn’t noticed before. For example, the spine of my favorite gaming guide is a different color, the pattern on my area rug runs in the opposite direction, and the books are arranged by height instead of alphabetically.

This is my bedroom, but it’s not my bedroom.

I reach for my phone, but my movements are clumsy. My fingers feel thick and useless as I fumble with the device. The screen lights up with my lock screen image, but even that looks subtly wrong.

Suddenly, the door opens, andRykerstrides in. His tall frame fills the doorway, and the sight of him hits me like a punch. Everything comes flooding back in a nauseating rush.

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