"It's an analytical game, just like this one. Most games require strategy. It's a thought process." I studied the board, already seeing my next three moves. "That's the way I see this shit."
"I've never lost to a game of Connect Four ever in my life," she said confidently, a sly smile on her lips.
"Uh-huh." I leaned back slightly, my eyes scanning the board one more time.
Then I placed my chip.
"Connect Four," I announced, drawing an imaginary line across my winning row.
Synthia's mouth dropped open. "H-how the fuck..."
"Everybody's a winner until they lose," I said, unable to hide my grin.
"You got me in a two-way! Nigga, I think you cheated." She leaned forward, examining the board like there was some hidden trick.
I burst out laughing. "How the fuck can you cheat in Connect Four? Just admit that I tapped that ass and fucked up your losing streak. Players fuck up too, Synthia. You'll be alright."
"Nuh-uh, fuck that!"
Before I could react, she grabbed one of the decorative pillows from behind her back and launched it at my face. I ducked, and it hit me on top of the head instead.
"You're a sore loser," I taunted, still laughing.
"You cheated!" she insisted, her voice rising with mock outrage.
Then she charged at me.
In her haste, her knee knocked into the Connect Four board, sending plastic chips scattering across the hardwood floor in every direction—red and yellow discs rolling under the couch, the coffee table, everywhere.
She climbed on top of me, straddling my waist, and started playfully punching me in the sides. Her hits weren't hard—just enough to be annoying.
"Sore ass loser," I repeated, laughing. "'Ole sorry ass!"
"You cheated!" she kept saying, over and over, her voice a mix of laughter and frustration.
Every time she moved, her loose crop top rode up, exposing the bottom curves of her breasts. My hands instinctively snaked around her waist, and I began to caress her ass through the thinpajama shorts she was wearing. The fabric was so flimsy I could feel every curve, every dip.
Her ass was spilling out of the bottom of the shorts, and I gave it a firm squeeze.
"Ain't nobody cheated, mane," I said, my voice dropping an octave as my eyes roamed over her body. "That's the shit you choosin' to stick wit' 'cause you don't want to believe that you're slow as fuck at a game that don't take much thought."
Synthia was bad to the fucking bone.
I'd always known that, but being this close to her—feeling her weight on top of me, her warmth seeping through our clothes—it hit different.
Trecee used to clown her all the time, making fun of her weight, her style, her everything. But Synthia never let that shit break her. She'd go blow for blow with Trecee, never backing down.
That's what I loved about her.
She didn't have to be draped in designer shit to look fly. She could throw on some leggings and a crop top from Pink and still be the baddest bitch in the room. She knew how to carry herself.
That confidence—that effortless sex appeal—was something Trecee would never have. No matter how much money I spent on her, no matter how many designer bags and red bottoms I bought, Trecee would never have what Synthia had naturally.
"Whatever, nigga," Synthia giggled, her hands pressed against my chest now. "You ain't shit."
She started to climb off me, but I tightened my grip on her waist, holding her in place.
"Hold on," I said, my voice low and serious now. "What's the rush?"
