Player Two
"His roommate's girlfriend keeps coming over for game nights. She keeps staying later. She keeps sitting closer. Some games are meant to be played with two."
The first time I meet her, Derek brings her to game night.
"This is Megan," he says, one arm around her waist. "She's into RPGs."
She's also into carbs, apparently.
I hate myself for the thought, but it's there—immediate and undeniable. Derek's type has always been skinny blondes, Instagram models, women who survive on salads and superiority. Megan is none of those things.
She's maybe five-six, easily two-forty, with purple-streaked hair and glasses that magnify her brown eyes. She's wearing a Triforce t-shirt that strains against her chest, stretching the fabric tight enough that I can see the outline of her bra. Her belly rounds beneath it, soft and unapologetic. Her thighs fill her jeans completely.
"Hey," she says, dropping onto our couch. "Derek says you're a healer main. Respect."
And just like that, I'm fucked.
She starts coming over every Thursday.
Game night. Pizza and beer and the same four of us—me, Derek, Tom, and now Megan. She brings her own controller, knows the meta, trash-talks better than any of us. She fits into the group like she was always supposed to be there.
She sits next to me on the couch.
Every time.
"Derek hogs the good chair," she explains the first week, settling into the cushion beside me. Her thigh presses against mine. She's warm through the denim.
"Makes sense," I say.
It doesn't make sense.
The good chair is objectively worse than the couch. Derek hates it. He sits there because Megan asked him to, and Derek does whatever Megan asks.
I don't point this out.
Week three, she leans against me during a boss fight.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" She mashes buttons, her character dodging fire. Her shoulder presses into my arm. Her breast—soft, heavy, impossible to ignore—brushes my elbow.
I lose focus. Miss my heal. She dies.
"Dammit, Connor!" She shoves me playfully. Her hand stays on my chest a beat too long. "You had one job!"
"Sorry." My voice sounds strange. "Got distracted."
She looks at me. Really looks. Something flickers in her eyes.
"By what?"
Derek answers from across the room: "He's probably thinking about that girl from his office. What's her name? Jennifer?"
"There's no Jennifer," I say.
Megan smiles.
It doesn't reach her eyes.
Week five, she texts me.
Not the group chat. Just me.
Megan: Derek's working late tonight. Still coming to game night?
Me: If there's still game night.
Megan: There's still game night. Just you and me though. Tom's got a thing.
I should say no.
I should suddenly remember a commitment, a date, a dentist appointment—anything to avoid being alone with my roommate's girlfriend in our apartment.
Me: I'll bring pizza.
Megan: My hero.
She's wearing a dress.
I've never seen her in a dress. It's black, stretchy, hugging every curve of her body. Her belly. Her hips. Her breasts, which look even bigger without the constraint of a t-shirt. Her thick thighs disappear under the hem.
"You look..." I stop. Swallow. "Different."
"Good different?" She does a little spin. Everything jiggles. "I figured, no Derek, no dress code."
"Good different."
She smiles—the real one this time. The one that reaches her eyes.
We play for an hour. Sitting closer than usual. Her bare thigh against my jeans. Her shoulder against my arm. Every touch feels intentional now. Electric.
"Can I ask you something?" she says during a loading screen.
"Sure."
"Why haven't you ever hit on me?"
I choke on my beer.
"You're—Derek's girlfriend. That's why."
"Hmm." She sets down her controller. Turns to face me. Her knee touches my thigh. "That's the only reason?"
"What other reason would there be?"
"I don't know." She shrugs, and her breasts move in ways that short-circuit my brain. "Some guys aren't into... this." She gestures at her body. "The whole package."
"Megan—"
"It's fine. I'm not fishing for compliments." She picks up her controller again. "I just wondered if that was it. If you didn't see me that way because of the weight thing."
"I see you that way."
The words are out before I can stop them.
She goes still.
"I see you that way," I repeat, because I'm already damned, "every Thursday. Every time you sit next to me. Every time you lean into me during a fight. I see you, and I want—"
"What do you want?"
Her voice is barely a whisper.
"I want to know what you feel like."
She puts down the controller.
She stands up.
She straddles my lap.
She's heavier than I expected.
Not bad—good. Solid. Real. Her weight presses me into the couch as she settles onto my thighs, her dress riding up. Her belly presses against mine. Her breasts are in my face, soft mountains barely contained by fabric.
"Touch me," she says.
I put my hands on her hips. Feel the flesh there, warm and yielding. I slide up, over the curve of her waist, the swell of her sides. She shivers.
"More."
I cup her breasts. They overflow my hands—heavy, perfect, her nipples hardening against my palms even through the dress and bra. She moans, low and needy.
"I've wanted this," she breathes. "Since that first night. The way you looked at me—not like Derek looks at me—"
"How does Derek look at you?"
"Like he's settling." Her hips roll against mine. I'm hard, and she knows it—I can feel her smile when she grinds against my cock. "Like he's waiting for something better."
"He's an idiot."
"Yeah." She reaches between us. Finds my zipper. "He really is."
She frees me from my jeans.
Her hand wraps around my cock—soft grip, curious, like she's memorizing the shape of me. She strokes slowly, watching my face.
"Tell me what you want," she says.
"I want to taste you."
She stands. Reaches under her dress. Pulls down her panties—black lace, damp in the center. She hands them to me like a trophy.
Then she puts one foot on the couch, beside my hip, and hikes up her dress.
"Then taste me."
Her pussy is pink and wet, framed by thick thighs, her belly soft above it. I grip her hips and pull her forward, burying my face in her.
She tastes like heaven.
She moans—loud, uninhibited, nothing like the careful sounds she makes when Derek's around. Her hands tangle in my hair. Her hips rock against my mouth. She's dripping, and I drink every drop.
"Fuck—Connor—right there—"
I tongue her clit. Suck it. Slide two fingers inside her while I work her with my mouth. She's tight—tighter than I expected—and she clamps down on my fingers like she never wants to let go.
"Gonna come—"
I don't stop. I worship her with my mouth until she shatters—screaming my name, her thighs shaking, her weight pressing down on me as she rides my face through her orgasm.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are wild.
"Your turn."
She doesn't ride me.
She drops to her knees instead, pulling me to the edge of the couch. She takes my cock in her mouth like she's starving for it—wet, sloppy, no technique but pure enthusiasm. Her head bobs. Her purple hair falls in her face. She looks up at me with those magnified eyes and I nearly lose it right there.
"Not yet," I manage. "I want to be inside you when I come."
She pulls off with a pop. Stands. Turns around.
"Like this," she says, bracing her hands on the coffee table. "I want you to see all of me."
Her ass is massive. Two round globes, dimpled and soft, jiggling as she spreads her stance. Her pussy glistens between her thighs. She looks over her shoulder, waiting.
I stand behind her. Line myself up. Push inside.
We both groan.
She's wet enough that I slide in easily, but she's still tight—her walls gripping me, her body pulling me deeper. I grab her hips, sink to the hilt, and she drops her head.
"Fuck, that's good—"
I start to move.
Every thrust makes her ass ripple. Every thrust makes her moan louder. She pushes back against me, meeting my rhythm, her whole body moving. The coffee table scrapes against the floor.
"Harder," she begs. "Don't hold back—I can take it—"
I don't hold back.
I fuck her like I've wanted to for five weeks. Hard and deep, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, my cock claiming her. She comes again—clenching around me, screaming into her arm, her knees almost buckling.
"Inside me," she pants. "I need to feel you—"
"Derek—"
"I'm on the pill. I'm clean. Please—"
I bury myself deep and let go.
We're still on the couch when Derek comes home.
Dressed, barely. Megan's underwear is in my pocket. The apartment smells like sex and pizza.
"Hey!" Derek tosses his keys on the counter. "How was game night?"
"Good," Megan says. Her voice is steady. "Connor's a much better partner when it's just the two of us."
Derek laughs. "I bet. You carry him in groups."
He doesn't see her hand on my thigh. Doesn't see the way she squeezes.
"Yeah," I say. "She definitely carried me tonight."
It happens again.
Every Thursday, plus the nights Derek works late. Megan finds excuses to come over. Study sessions. Dropping off Derek's stuff. Needing help with her computer.
We fuck in every room of the apartment.
My bed. The shower. The kitchen counter. Derek's desk chair, once, while he was on a business trip. Megan liked that one—rode me until the wheels scraped the floor.
"We should stop," I tell her afterward. Every time.
"Yeah," she agrees.
We never do.
Three Months Later
Derek finds out.
Not from us—from Tom, who walks in on Megan in my lap, her dress around her waist, my face between her breasts.
The fight is ugly.
Derek moves out. Takes his stuff, his anger, his friendship. Tom takes his side. The group chat goes silent.
Megan stays.
"No regrets?" I ask her that night, in my bed, her body warm and heavy against mine.
She traces patterns on my chest. Kisses the spot over my heart.
"I was never really his," she says. "I was just waiting for you to realize I was yours."
She rolls on top of me. Sinks down. Takes me inside her for the hundredth time, the thousandth, the first of forever.
"Now," she says, beginning to move, "are we gonna play, or what?"
I grab her hips.
"Player two ready."
She laughs.
Game on.