Page 19 of Next Level Up
Me:when this game’s over, I’m going to let you choose which hurts more, your pussy or missing me
I watch her lean back, bite her lip, try not to react. Try being the key word. Her camera flickers, she clears her throat, says something about needing a break. Chat spirals. People assume it’s lag again. Idiots.
I close my phone, kill the monitor. Shut off the feed, the glow of her face on my screen. Cutting the feed should help. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it worse—no visual, no distraction, just my brain filling in the blanks with whatever it wants. And what it wants is her, apparently, on repeat. Clawing at my fucking self-control like she owns it, which to be fair she almost does.
I stand, needing something to do with my hands, I drag them through my hair as I pace toward the corner shelves. My masks stare back at me. This used to be enough. Structure, control, clear lines between who I am on-screen and who I am off it. Now it all feels a little thinner, like something’s bleeding through the cracks and I’m the only one who notices it. Or maybe I’m the only one who cares.
Half on stands, half leaned against books, one still lying flat from the last time I ripped it off mid-stream and forgot to put it back. I pick it up, adjust the straps and wipe down the visor.
I’ve got a half-dozen of them, each one more custom than the last. Neon-trimmed, matte black, tactical-grade ones, the whiteout one that makes my fans feral. The one she likes best is hanging off my desk chair, the one she tugged on when she wanted to see my face when I fucked her.
The edge of my desk gets wiped, I straighten my monitor angles. My keyboard cable gets coiled and tucked behind the second screen. I rearrange the three knives next to my headset dock until they’re evenly spaced. All that and the restlessness doesn’t go away, not even close.
So I call for Carter.
He drags his feet from the hallway like he was mid-scroll and couldn’t be bothered. Typical. “What?”
I don’t look at him when I ask it. I keep adjusting the masks, pretending I’m not dying to know. “She say anything to you yet?”
He pauses. “About what?”
I look over my shoulder, one brow raised. “About when we’re seeing her again.”
He shrugs, shaking his head. “No, not yet.”
“Let me know when she does.”
Carter leaves, mumbling something about leftovers, and I let the quiet settle again.
I don’t like waiting. Never have. I’m good at it when I need to be, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. This—this in-between where I don’t know what she’s thinking, what she’s going to do next, it sits wrong under my skin, like I’m missing a piece of information I should already have.
I go live again before it pisses me off. A late-night stream, like the old day. No overlays, no music. Just gameplay and my voice.
The chat barely has time to catch up before I’m dropping into ranked solo queue.
“Let’s play,” I mutter, shifting into predator mode. Every kill is cleaner than the last. The aggression in my movements makes the chat spiral, but I don’t read it, barely even acknowledge it. I’m not doing this for them. I’m doing it because my hands won’t stop shaking unless they’re on a keyboard or in her hair and right now, one of those isn’t an option. “Headshot,” I grin when the final round ends in a perfect collapse.
The silence afterward feels like a bruise and I wonder if I’m gonna be that guy tonight. Apparently I am because I’m hitting call, it rings twice. She answers on the third.
Her voice is sleepy, caught between curiosity and suspicion. “T-Tate ?”
I grin. “Surprised?”
She laughs softly. “A little, you don’t call. You text, or say something that makes me blush in the middle of a live match.”
I lean back in my chair, letting her voice wash over me. “Thought I’d switch it up.”
There’s a pause, not a bad one. AHavenpause, the kind where she’s smiling, even if I can’t see it. “You calling to say goodnight, or to make it worse?”
“Both,” I say. “Maybe I just needed to hear your voice, or maybe I wanted to imagine the way it’d sound if I slipped my hand under your shirt while you were half-asleep…”
Her breath catches.Gotcha.
“Bet you’d whimper,” I dip my voice lower, “even if you were too tired to move. Bet you’d let me ruin you right there, soft and slow, one hand over your mouth just to keep you quiet. You’d take it, wouldn’t you?”
“Tate —” It’s barely a whisper.
“You thinking about me tonight?”
