TheXtra Path

The blazing sounds from the TV and the clicking of Ken’s controller were the only sounds in the room. Ken’s eyes burned, gritty and dry from weeks of sleepless grinding. This was it. The final boss’s health bar was a sliver of red. He leaned forward, the controller creaking under his white-knuckled grip.

As he timed his combo, a hint of a brush touched the back of his neck. A strange, heavy warmth settled over his scalp, cascading down his back like a scarf. Focus, he commanded himself, shaking his head. Don’t get distracted.

Then came the draft. A cool breeze kissed his inner thighs, confusing his senses. He knew he was wearing rough denim jeans, but instead, there was only the whisper of a light fabric brushing his legs. His hand flew up to scratch a sudden itch at his throat, his fingers grazing not skin, but the crisp, starched edge of a tight collar. No, DON’T get distracted for anything.

A pressure began to bloom in the center of his chest—not pain, but a rapid, undeniable expansion. It felt as if his chest was on fire, demanding space. The fabric of his top pulled taut, buttons straining against a softening, swelling torso. His breath hitched, shallow and fast, caught in a throat that suddenly felt smoother, narrower. The weight of his body seemed to shift, his center of gravity dropping into widening hips. Almost there… just one more hit…

The screen flashed a violent red. The music soured into a dissonant crash. GAME OVER.

“No!” Ken shrieked, throwing the controller across the room.

He froze. The sound that had escaped his mouth wasn’t his rough, sleep-deprived growl. It was a cry—high, melodic, and undeniably feminine. Trembling, he lowered his gaze.

The baggy hoodie was gone. In its place, a white blouse clung desperately to a silhouette he didn’t recognize. He stared in shock at the deep cleavage, the buttons struggling to contain the swell of a heavy, voluptuous chest that rose and fell with his panicked breathing. He brought a hand up—his fingers slender, the nails painted a soft pink—and pressed them against the soft, warm skin of his collarbone.

On the TV, the cheerful, mocking chime of the announcer repeated: Play Again?

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