Page 109 of Glitched Play

"I’m not looking for perfection." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I’m looking at perfect for me."

Everything inside me melts.

Before I can find words, he pushes my pajama pants down and they pool on the floor around my feet. His hands skim over my full hips and waist but I’m not thinking about how I look right now. I’m thinking about how intimate this is, for both of us.

By the time he lowers me onto the bed, my lips feel swollen and my thoughts have scattered somewhere beyond reach. His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing too hard, neither of us saying what we should probably say.

Then Witt’s mouth brushes my ear, his voice low enough to make my whole body go still.

“Game on.”

twenty-two

. . .

Witt

Game Chat Glitch

Real partnership begins when someone decides to trust.

My hand is steady in hers despite the unfamiliar storm inside my chest. No one has ever crossed this threshold—not staff, not family, not the fleeting connections of my past. Yet here she is, my brilliant, curvy, gorgeous employee who has infiltrated my thoughts for weeks.

“You cracked the code… again,” I whisper, voice low and raw with the weight of that truth. I hover over her, my lips tracing slow, reverent kisses along the soft fullness of her neck, her shoulders, down the generous swell of her breasts and the beautiful curve of her belly. Every inch of her feels like warmth and safety, a sensory haven I never knew I craved.

“That’s what I do best,” she says with one corner of her mouth tipping up. “I found a glitch in the hardware.”

“Yeah?”

“Your pants are still on.”

I still for a half-second. Her saying glitch immediately made me think of Rune. That’s what she called me. I shake it off because it’s commonplace in any computer industry.

Maci reaches for my belt buckle, but I shake my head no. “I’ll do it.”

Why? Because I need some semblance of control. Right now, I’m not feeling like I have any. My body and mind reacting in ways I’m unfamiliar with.

A shy smile tugs at her lips as I stand up, immediately feeling the loss of our body heat. My hands move to my belt, fingers steady even as my pulse races with sensations I’ve never allowed myself to fully feel. I slide my pants and boxers down and step out of them, exposed in every way—body and mind.

Now I’m the one exposed, and somehow that feels less dangerous than the way she watches me. She’s still in her plain black bra and those ridiculous panties covered in tiny ice cream cones, and I shouldn’t find them endearing.

I do anyway.

I press one knee onto the mattress and let my hand skim lightly over her stomach. She goes still beneath me, not from fear, but from something sharper. Self-consciousness. I recognize the pattern.

The way her fingers tighten on my shoulders.

The way her breath catches.

The way her cheeks turn a deep, tomato red the second I lower my mouth to the soft skin below her navel.

I feel her suck in a breath like she can make herself smaller if she doesn’t breathe.

“Don’t.” It comes out more like her boss telling her not to change the system dynamics.

Her eyes widen. “Don’t what?”

"Don't re-engineer yourself," I say, my gaze entirely fixed on her. "You view your body as a bug, but to me… it’s an optimal feature. The design is flawless."