Gambling on no

"Nah, I'm finna stay in tonight. Keeping it relaxed," Darrell says looking at you first.

"Okay okay Big D," Nelson says, his tone shifting back to casual. "Just so you know, Tyreek and Ahmed are throwing something at their place. You and your girl should roll through."

Darrell considers this for a moment, his hand still resting on your hip. "Yeah, maybe. I'll think about it."

"Cool, cool," Nelson says, nodding. "Just let me know. Should be a good time." He gives you one last lingering look, his eyes traveling down your body and back up again. "Real good time."

"Aight, man," Darrell says, and there's a note of finality in his voice. "I'll catch you later."

"For sure." Nelson steps back, still grinning. "Nice meeting you, Joan. Hope to see more of you around."

The way he emphasizes more makes your face heat up all over again.

As Nelson walks away, Darrell's hand slides from your hip to your ass, gripping it firmly. Not roughly, but possessively—his fingers digging into the soft flesh through your shorts as he guides you toward the nearest building. You can feel him squeezing, kneading, his palm warm and heavy against you.

And everyone can see it. The men still watching from the parking lot, the ones leaning against the railings on the second floor—they're all seeing Darrell grope you openly, casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Your face burns. Not just from embarrassment this time, but from the heat spreading through your body. From the way your pussy clenches every time his hand squeezes your ass. From the knowledge that all these men are watching you get touched, that they're imagining doing the same thing.

I shouldn't like this, you think desperately. I shouldn't be turned on by this.

But you are.

Darrell's hand stays on your ass the entire walk to his apartment—groping, squeezing, occasionally sliding lower to brush against the sensitive spot where your thigh meets your ass. You don't stop him. You don't even try. You just walk beside him, your face red, your thighs pressed together, trying not to think about how wet you're getting.

His apartment is on the first floor, near the end of the building. He unlocks the door with one hand, the other still firmly gripping your ass, and pushes it open.

The smell hits you first—weed, strong and unmistakable, mixed with something else. Air freshener, maybe, or cologne. But underneath it all, the apartment smells lived-in. Masculine.

You step inside, and Darrell finally releases your ass to close the door behind you.

The apartment is... surprisingly clean. Not spotless, but tidy. The living room is small but organized—a worn leather couch facing a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a coffee table with a few magazines and an ashtray, a bookshelf in the corner. The carpet is vacuumed, the surfaces dusted. There are no piles of dirty clothes or dishes stacked in the sink visible from here.

It's not what you expected.

Your eyes drift to the bookshelf, and that's when you see them—rows of video game cases, neatly arranged. Xbox games, mostly. Sports titles, shooters, a few RPGs. And there, on the top shelf, still in its shrink wrap, is a copy of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare XXX.

Your heart skips.

Oh my God.

You can't help it—you move closer, your eyes locked on the game case. It's the new one, the one that just came out last month. You've been dying to play it, but you haven't had the chance yet. And here it is, just sitting on Darrell's shelf, unopened.

"Holy shit," you breathe, and then immediately regret it as Darrell observes what you were looking at before smiling.

You try to play it off, stepping back from the shelf and crossing your arms over your chest. "I mean... that's cool. I didn't know you were into games."

But it's too late. Darrell's already noticed.

"You know that game?" he asks, and there's genuine surprise in his voice. He's standing by the door, watching you with raised eyebrows.

"I mean... yeah," you say, trying to sound casual. "I've heard of it. Everyone has."

"Nah." He walks over to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You got excited. I saw your face."

Your cheeks burn. "I didn't—"

"You did." He's grinning now, amused. "You play?"

You hesitate. Part of you wants to lie, to pretend you're not that into it, that you're too cool to care about video games. But another part of you—the part that's still you, still the person you were before all this started—can't help but be honest.

"Yeah," you admit quietly. "I play. I'm... actually pretty good."

Darrell laughs—a genuine, surprised laugh. "Damn. I did not see that coming."

"Why not?" you ask, a little defensive now.

"I don't know." He shrugs, still grinning. "You just don't seem like the type."

"What type do I seem like?"

He doesn't answer right away. His eyes travel down your body—slowly, deliberately—and when they come back up to meet yours, there's heat in them.

"The type that's good at other things," he says finally, his voice low.

Your face burns hotter, and you look away, back at the shelf of games. But before you can retreat entirely into shame, you find yourself talking.

"My brother got me into it," you say quietly, the lie coming surprisingly easily. "We used to play together all the time when we were younger. He was really into shooters, and I'd watch him play at first, but then he let me try and... I don't know. I just got good at it. We'd play for hours."

It's a good lie—detailed enough to be believable, personal enough to sound genuine. Darrell's expression shifts. The smirk softens slightly, replaced by something more genuine—surprise, maybe even respect.

"That's cool," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "Your brother teach you well?"

"Yeah," you say, still looking at the game case. "He did. I beat him at most games now, which pisses him off."

Darrell laughs—a real laugh, not the condescending kind. "I like that. Competitive."

There's a pause, and then he moves closer to the shelf, standing beside you. His shoulder is almost touching yours.

"You wanna play?" he asks, and there's genuine interest in his voice. "The new one? We could run a few matches right now if you want."

You look at him, surprised. This isn't what you expected. You expected him to make another sexual comment, to pull you toward the couch and remind you what you're really here for. But instead, he's asking if you want to play a game with him. Like you're a person. Like your interests matter.

It's disorienting. And it makes something in your chest tighten—not just arousal this time, but something more complicated. Something that feels dangerously close to connection.

"Yeah," you hear yourself say. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Darrell grins, and for a moment, he looks almost boyish. He reaches up and pulls the game case from the shelf.

"Aight," he says. "Let me get this set up. You can grab a controller from over there—" he points to a small table beside the couch "—and we'll see what you got."