Disclaimer: JKR owns all.

Intricacies

They've always played the game. Always, ever since they first met.

It's never been spoken of; they've never had the need to discuss it. But it's always underneath the surface, always challenging them, pushing them until tension reaches its peak and someone's resolution cracks.

And when the battle's over, they start all over again.

It's a never-ending cycle, one he's nowhere near tiring of yet. And needless to say, they've played the game innumerable times, ever since they were both chubby, pink-cheeked eleven-year-olds.

Discarding all rules, they've relied on sharp tactics and wicked schemes to guide them, often ending in her winning most of the time, and him silently being dubbed the sore loser. But there've been times (and quite enjoyable ones at that) when he's been victorious, and he's gloating inwardly about how the tables have turned and her bottle-green eyes are glinting and flashing perilously.

A little signal – a quirk of the eye on his part, perhaps, or a scowl on hers – and it would begin.

Between their First and Fourth Year, it was always a game of who would win their playful bickers. She thrashed him then, a wicked little smirk playing across her lips. It was never that he couldn't be as witty or as sharp as she was, just that he was rendered speechless around her. For some reason, her scarlet pigtails and the faint freckles adorning her nose had just Avada Kedavra'd his words before they'd even left his mouth. But it was always worth it to see her win, see that triumphant smile glowing on her face; it made him strangely happy and he didn't known why.

Fifth Year to Sixth Year, however, it was a game of who could aggravate whom the most. And he's proud to say he won most of them, beat her by miles. He'd been at his most arrogant then, most unyielding, most sharp, most unruly. And that in itself, he knows, irritated her to no end. The crap that flowed out of his mouth had amazed even him, but he knew it would get a rise out of her, and he liked watching her getting riled up. It was ridiculously sexy. And he told her that, too, only to get kicked very painfully in the groin – and Merlin, she struck hard; he remembers remaining in his crouched-over position for god knows how long after that. But it still satisfied him, though, because he won, and that was all that mattered to him then because he was an arrogant, cocky, good-for-nothing toerag – just as she labelled him.

In their Seventh Year, however, the game's been their most intense yet. It seems to be a combination of all the versions they've played in their previous years, and he doesn't know what it is, but there's something different about it that he just can't quite place his finger on. Maybe it's the fact that he's more attracted to her than ever before, because she's just so undeniably beautiful in the way she is, or the fact there seems to be that irrefutable pull when they get too close, and it seems as though he has to defy gravity to draw back from her. Whatever it is, there's something unquestionably different about their game, and he's unsure as to whether it's working in his favour.

He's watching her out of the corner of his eye as they finish off their rounds for tonight. Her skirt keeps bouncing dangerously far up her thigh and she keeps licking her bottom lip, and this isn't the first time he's had to grit his teeth in order to prevent himself from pinning her to the wall and having his wicked way with her – not that she'd let him anyway. Crimson locks fall down her back in a high ponytail, and she brushes a couple of stray curls out of her eyes as they round a final corner.

It's then that their eyes clash – bright, sparkling green against molten, fiery hazel. A wordless agreement passes between them.

Bring it on, Evans, he thinks confidently, watching as she smirks and tears her striking emerald eyes away from his.

Bring it on.

"Potter?"

"Hmm?"

He doesn't look up, too distracted by his thoughts to acknowledge the redhead sitting opposite him.

"Pass me those papers behind you."

"Mm..." He barely hears what she's saying, instead dipping his quill into the ink-bottle, attempting to drown out the noise of the incessant chatter in the Gryffindor common room.

"Potter!"

Irritation flashes through him. His eyes snap upwards, clashing with hers.

"Yeah, just —"

He stops abruptly, taken-aback by her proximity and momentarily mesmerised by the intensity of her exotic green eyes.

He doesn't need to try and drown out the noise any longer; it seems to have faded, and all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears and his heart smashing into his chest. His lips part unconsciously as his eyes absorb every inch of her, the irritated expression on her pretty features, the flush of her cream cheeks, her soft, pouted lips —

"Oh for God's sake..."

He blinks, attempting to regain focus as the din of the chaotic room crashes through his eardrums, though he's long since accepted that he can't focus – not when she's around.

Before he's gathered his bearings, she's leaning over him. He catches a whiff of her intoxicating scent as her luscious red curls cascade over her shoulder, brushing his arm, making him shiver visibly...

Does she know what she does to him?

Her graceful fingers have barely grazed the parchment he knows she initially wanted, and her warm breath crashes over the skin of his neck – he shivers. The goose-bumps are noticeably visible and he knows she's smirking that captivating, sexy smirk of hers, undoubtedly knowing his current state of mind.

She definitely knows what she does to him.

The aroma of vanilla fills his nostrils. He feels it wafting through his body, knotting through his heart, and he closes his eyes to savour their proximity.

And then in an instant, the familiar scent's gone, and the air around him seems so much colder as he opens his eyes and catches her climbing delicately out of the portrait-hole, stuffing the papers into her bag.

And he doesn't know how it all happened so quickly, but she's just scored, and at the rate it's going, she'll most likely win this one. In fact, he's completely sure she will.

He immediately scrambles after her. He knows people are gawking, sending him strange looks, but he doesn't care. She used her womanly wiles to score, and that's all that's rushing through his mind as he clumsily climbs out of the portrait-hole. She knows the effect she has on him and she deliberately used it to her advantage, and that isn't fair.

He's breathing heavily by the time he steps out, and the sight that greets him doesn't improve his temper.

She's leaning against the wall, chatting amicably to one of the members of his Quidditch team, Fabian Prewitt, who he knows fancies her. His chest tightens with rage, blood boiling at the way Fabian is grinning at her, standing far too close to her, leaning into her.

And the way she's smiling at Fabian doesn't help matters either, laughing that utterly teasing laugh of hers, pushing him away playfully by the chest.

He wishes she'd smile at him like that. He acts as though it doesn't matter most of the time, and he admits it himself, he does hide his wounds well. So well, in fact, that he himself sometimes gets sucked into his own little lie.

He strides over to them, purposefully grazing her arm with his; she half-glances at him, the action so subtle he wonders if he imagined it. Nodding at the other boy, he grits his teeth as he notes the way Fabian is watching her with a slight smirk.

Because, really, she's out of Fabian's league. She can do so much better than him, than any other boy in the school. With dark eyes, light brown hair and a crooked smile, Fabian's not the type of boy she goes for anyway. But she's a tease. She's too good for him – they both know it – but it won't stop her from flirting with him shamelessly just to anger James.

He clenches his fists, wanting nothing more than to punch his Seeker, cause the boy physical pain.

"See you," Fabian smiles, black eyes roving appreciatively over her form.

Fabian gives him a friendly nod but his eyes drift back to her, lingering on her before he turns and casually strides over to the portrait-hole, palms shoved deep into his pockets as he offers the password.

Someone's going to get substituted at Quidditch practice tomorrow, James decides, nearly fuming at the way Fabian tilts his head to send a grin her way before climbing through the open portrait-hole, a grin she returns with casual grace.

He waits until the portrait-hole swings shut and the Fat Lady disappears before rounding on an amused Lily, his jaw tense.

"What was that about?" he demands. If she hasn't figured out by his tone how insanely jealous he is, she certainly will with a glance into his eyes, which he's sure are portraying his envy all too easily.

"What's it to you?" she wants to know, a smirk passing her lips fleetingly.

"He's a git," says James, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Just like you, then." She raises her eyebrows, pursing her lips.

A jolt of pain rushes through him at her words but he disguises his hurt, slipping on a mask of indifference.

"He's more of a git than I am," he replies. She sighs in exasperation.

"What do you want, Potter?"

You, he wants to say, but shoves the thought towards the back of his mind.

"What on earth was that?" he demands turbulently, motioning fiercely towards the portrait-hole.

"What?" She's looking up at him innocently but he knows better than to believe her. He knows she's well aware that he's referring to the incident in the common room.

"You – you..." he struggles to gather his words. "You're not playing fair!"

It's the first time either of them has acknowledged the fact that they're playing a game.

"Right," she nods sceptically, a smirk gracing her lips. "How's that?"

"You can't just..." He stares at her, his expression indiscernible.

Her hand brushes his thigh, and by the sparkle in her eye he knows it's not accidental.

Because there's no overusing the scheme. He never sees it coming when she uses it, no matter the amount of times she's brought it into play.

He wonders why she does it. Why she tantalises him so, gives him faux hope, and brings reality crashing down with a snap of her soft, tender fingers. To win the game? If so, it's a brilliant tactic, one that always catches him off guard and if he dares admit it – has the potential to win her more of their little 'games' than he could ever hope to himself.

But it's unbelievably torturous. Honeydukes Best Chocolate being nibbled delicately before his very eyes. A Snitch fluttering directly in his reach, only to speed away when he lifts his hand to catch it. Adam and Eve's forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden.

She's his forbidden fruit.

"I can't just...?" She's closer now, and he watches as she brushes her hair off her shoulder, tilting her head at him innocently. The scent of vanilla permeates his senses and he swallows, clenching his jaw.

You can't just tease me like that.

The words are on the tip of his tongue and he draws a breath to say them, but the knowing glint in her eye makes him stop.

He stares at her indomitably, his jaw visibly tensing as he attempts to control himself. It's all he can do not to wrap his arms around her and kiss her until they're both breathless and panting and wanting more.

He shakes his head. "Forget it, Evans," he says darkly.

Knowing she's come out victorious here, her smirk widens.

"If you say so, Potter."

Her long lashes brush against her high cheekbone briefly as she winks, then sashays down the corridor with ease, leaving his insides lurching with longing.

It's clear she's won this one and he hates it. He hates that she has that kind of power over him when he's so strong in every other aspect of his life – apart from her. She has him wrapped around her little finger and she knows it. She knows exactly what she does to him.

Fine, he thinks furiously, watching her strut away from him.

Playing dirty, are we? We'll see about that...

Because no matter what happens, no matter how many games they play, he's always too captivated by her to stop taking part.

"Where the hell've you been, Potter?!"

At the sound of her furious voice, he glances up from a very 'intense' discussion in which he's partaking with Padfoot and Wormtail (Moony having excused himself for a Prefects' meeting). He spots her storming towards their beech tree, her scarf and robes billowing behind her, and his next words die on his lips just like all those other times.

Her dark crimson locks fly about her shoulders as the wind weaves through the curls, tangling them, and her cheeks have acquired a flush from the cold – and from her anger. Her emerald eyes have never looked brighter, and he'd stop to admire the view, he really would, if not for the fear of getting his balls ripped out.

"Lil," he says pleasantly, knowing it'll get a rise out of her. (He's still not over the way she won last time.)

"Where have you been?" she asks irately. "And don't call me that," she adds harshly.

"Missed me?" His eyes roam over her form appreciatively and he smiles at her, choosing to ignore her last demand.

"Don't flatter yourself, you bloody idiot," she snaps. "I want to know where the bloody hell you've been while I was at a prefects' meeting trying to control those bloody prefects!"

Score, he thinks smugly, observing her huffing.

If the game's this easy, he'll have it in the bag in no time.

Padfoot snorts, shaking his head amusedly as his mirth-filled eyes meet James's. He grins wickedly back at his best mate before looking up at her once more.

"I was right here, of course," he informs her charmingly.

She growls, a low, primal sound. It makes the knots in his stomach tighten considerably, though he's not entirely sure whether it's because he's afraid of facing her wrath or because of a reason entirely unrelated to that...

"Don't play smart with me, Potter," she snaps, and his ears perk up suddenly at the subtle reference to their game.

"And why ever would I do that?" James offers her an enchanting grin before turning to his friends, anticipating her next move.

Next thing he knows he's being jerked upwards with a shocking strength he didn't know she had in her. Losing his balance as he's pulled roughly to his feet, he grabs at her, his arms flying around her waist. Surprisingly enough, she doesn't squirm away, but instead glowers up at him dangerously. He doesn't think she's actually registered the fact that he's holding her right now.

"Fuckin' hell, Lily," he smirks down at her, hazel orbs intently following the path of her tongue as it traces its way across her pink lips. "Eager, aren't we?" Her emerald eyes narrow dangerously into slits but he's unaffected by her fury. He notices the slight pressure her hand is putting on his chest, the way her nose is so hazardously close to grazing his jaw line. He swallows.

"Hardly," she retorts angrily, glaring up at him.

"You..." His words evaporate into thin air and his gaze drops to her lips once more and it's now that they both become fully aware of their proximity.

All of a sudden Padfoot and Wormtail have faded away and so has everything else; it's just him, her, and the uncontrollable urge he has to kiss her, the blood pounding in his ears, the inability of his eyes to see anything apart from the gorgeous redhead in front of him...

And then all of a sudden he's noticing little things, like how her eyes are so much more stunning up close, strikingly emerald, utterly intoxicating, and, again, the way she smells of vanilla, how unbelievably overwhelming it all is. He notices the way her skin looks so smooth and soft in the sun, the way strands of her flyaway hair fall into her eyes because they're too short to tuck behind her ear... The rosy tinge of her bottom lip when she bites it, how she's still holding onto his loosened tie, gazing up at him with blazing eyes...

He wants to move away – he knows he should – but something's glued him to the spot and he can't move an inch. She seems to be having a similar problem, for she, too, hasn't moved, and is staring up at him with an illegible expression on her striking features.

"Why...why were you looking for me?" he finally murmurs, faltering for a moment, unable to tear his eyes away from her lips as his heart bangs erratically against his ribcage.

"I..." She seems incapable of speaking, and suddenly he hears her breath hitching in her throat this time.

She wants this.

He can't help but smirk a little at the realisation.

"Yeah?" he prompts her, licking his own lips. Her eyes drop to his mouth.

"Because..." She falters once more and the hand on his tie tightens.

Almost subconsciously, he lowers his face, slowly, torturously, fraction by fraction, towards hers.

He lets a little smirk play over his features, elation bursting to the surface as he pauses, mere inches away from her lips. He feels her tug ever so slightly at his tie in protest, urging him to meet her lips halfway because they both know she's just too god damn stubborn to make the first move.

He's won this one – they both know it. Whether the kiss happens or not, he's won it, thrashed her just like she thrashed him last time.

And it feels brilliant.

He leans in again, a jolt of electricity charging through his veins as their noses graze ever so slightly. He hears her breath catch in her throat again and notes the intricate clash of emotions in her emerald orbs. His smirk widens as he recognises a familiar one: lust.

How's that for playing dirty, Evans?

"Lily!"

A female voice jolts them both out of their reveries. Struck by realisation, she takes a step backwards quickly, sliding out of his arms, her cheeks flaming. She turns to see her friend waving her over in the distance.

"I'm coming," she calls, her voice shaky. He can't help but feel a tad smug that it was he, James Potter, who had such an effect on Lily Evans. She turns back to him, still blushing. "This isn't over, Potter," she tells him defiantly, though he notices she doesn't maintain eye contact for very long.

He grins slightly, moving closer as he replies, "I agree."

She stops his feet with a hand to his chest (he wonders if she can feel the erratic thunder of his heart), and he catches the blush on her face as she whirls around. He chuckles to himself, following her with his eyes as she hurries over to her friends.

That, he congratulates himself, was a game well played.

He watches as she reaches her circle of friends, unable to help feeling smug at her uncertainty, at his victory.

He isn't aware how long he's been watching her until a low whistle snaps him out of his trance. Startled, he glances down to see Padfoot smirking up at him.

"Well, that was certainly something."

He grins as he settles himself onto the grass beside his friends. "It's so easy getting under her skin."

"It looked more like you wanted to snog her brains out," Padfoot snickers. "And she looked like she would have let you."

Wormtail lets out a laugh. James shrugs, a satisfied expression on his face.

"Anyway, Wormtail, you were saying earlier that you had an idea?" He deflects the subject, not wanting to humour the discussion.

He glances away as Wormtail starts sharing with them one of his ridiculous ideas for a prank.

His eyes find her sitting under a tree, her unmissable crimson hair flying away with the wind.

She wants him – just as much as he wants her. Of that, he was now certain.

Coincidentally, she, too, looks up, and their eyes connect across the grounds.

This is far from over.

She's not here.

His eyes roam the common room, searching frantically for a flash of red.

She's not here.

He's been looking forward to this all night. Celebrating their first win of the Quidditch season isn't at all enjoyable without her in the vicinity. And as much as he doesn't want to admit it, he's disappointed. He's actually disappointed that she's not here.

But she said she'd be here. He distinctly heard her say to her friends that she would be here —

No. He's not doing this.

Sighing exasperatedly, he grabs a bottle of Firewhiskey and heads towards the centre of the room, ready to get completely smashed.

It's probably just another tactic; he shouldn't work himself up over this. She just wants to win, he tells himself angrily. She just wants to prove that he cares about their little contest. About her.

Well, he doesn't. And he's not going to let this affect him so badly.

Red. A flash of red.

His eyes dart around the room frenetically. Is it her?

His heart leaps to his throat, his frustration all but disappearing as he watches her trek in through the portrait-hole, smiling at a few people who greet her.

All that's left is an enormous, joyful smile on his face, and the erratic beating of his heart as he watches her halt at a drinks table, pick up a glass of Firewhiskey and down it in one go.

Nice, he reflects with a smirk.

He weaves through inebriated students and sneaks up behind her stealthily, stopping just inches before his muscular torso grazes her back. He leans in, his lips barely brushing her ear.

"Evans," he murmurs, his voice low and deep.

He smirks as he hears her breath catch in her throat. She whirls around rapidly and, taking a few, quick steps backwards, glances at him nervously.

"Potter," she says, and he takes in her flushed face with satisfaction.

Score.

All's fair in love and war, Evans.

She clearly remembers all too well what happened yesterday, he thinks smugly.

"Nice party." Her eyes dance over his form momentarily before they drift up to his face once more. He smirks, and it takes a moment for him to realise she's complimenting him.

His lips part, but his conceited remark dies on his tongue as he observes another boy approach her.

"Hi," he says uneasily, his eyes darting to James for a brief second.

"Hey," she smiles warmly, turning to face him.

"D'you, er...d'you want to dance?"

It's clear he's unsure as to whether she'll say yes, James contemplates, observing the boy's demeanour carefully. And it's not like she will, anyway. Sure, to the eye, the guy looks good enough, but if someone analyses him carefully (like James is doing), they'll notice that his eyes are just too close together, the shirt he's wearing too large, his hair literally dripping with gel.

In all honesty, James concludes, scoffing internally, he's just trying too hard.

There is no way she will say yes.

"Sure," she takes the boy's hand, throwing James a triumphant grin as she strides towards the middle of the room.

His jaw tenses, eyes glowering in her direction.

What is this, revenge?

Scowling, he grabs a drink off a startled Sixth Year and downs it all in one go, feeling the cold liquid scald his throat. The alcohol has little effect on him, but it affects him enough to let go of rational thinking. His eyes land on the pair dancing intimately in the centre of the room and jealousy explodes in the pit of his stomach.

Still playing dirty? Well then...

Growling under his breath, James purposefully swaggers up to the first girl he spots and grins dashingly, making sure they're in full view of Lily.

"Would you like to dance?" he asks chivalrously (though loudly, just so that it carries over to the dance floor), offering his hand to the girl. She giggles and nods, gripping his fingers tightly. She's tipsy, James notes with satisfaction.

Good.

Leading her across the room and into the centre of the room, he makes sure to bump awfully hard into Lily's partner on the way.

"Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry," he sneers as the boy tumbles forwards, nearly knocking Lily over in the process. Smirking at a furious Lily, he tugs on the arm of the girl he's with, pulling her in.

He wraps his muscular arms around her waist and they begin dancing wildly. A few people hoot and wolf-whistle, stopping to watch them dance, and he can't help but feel a sense of pleasure at the glare he can feel Lily burning into the back of his head.

Score.

And that, he notes complacently, is how it's done.

More cheering follows, accompanied by shouts of, "Go, Evans!" and James whirls around with his partner around to see Lily and her partner dancing every bit as outrageously as they are.

That ferocious feeling erupts to the surface, grabbing, twisting his insides painfully, and his chest tightens as he watches the boy touch her in places she would not normally permit – he's groping her, for Christ's sake! It doesn't matter that her curls are bouncing captivatingly, that her emerald eyes are sparkling with mirth as they smugly meet his – he just wants to wrench the boy off her and beat him to a pulp because he shouldn't be allowed to touch her like that.

In fact, he should be thrown into Azkaban for even looking at her the way he is, James thinks, seething. He pulls his partner even closer, knowing that if he so much as lays a finger on Lily's partner, harms so much as a hair on his greasy head, Lily will castrate him then and there.

So he's unable to do anything but fume and watch this unfold in front of his eyes.

Whatever he does, she always seems to be a step ahead of him, always has an immediate retort or reaction. And it's so unbelievably aggravating.

He growls angrily, eyeing the two before him, and even his intoxicated partner recognises something's wrong.

"What?" she slurs, looking up at him innocently.

"I, erm," James glances down at her, taking in her blue eyes and dark brown hair. She's rather pretty, he decides. Her looks are nowhere near Lily's, he knows, but she's still pretty enough to distract him for now. "Nothing," he shakes his head, flashing her one of his heart-melting smiles.

Pulling her closer, they resume dancing once more, but his hazel eyes harden almost immediately as they clash with Lily's emerald over the dance floor. She smirks.

She's won.

Again.

They've got rounds tonight. Rounds they've been doing ever since the beginning of the year. Routine. Nothing to be worried about.

These butterflies thrashing their wings inside his stomach, however, tell a completely different story. He's finding the jittery feeling they're giving him exceedingly irritating, and he can't think straight, not one bit.

This is silly, he tells himself. It's only a damn patrol, nothing else.

And that's what he keeps telling himself over and over again, but he just can't shake these nerves.

He's never nervous, never. Having built up a casual, cool (and just a tad conceited) exterior, he's always made sure to let in no one save for the Marauders behind this wall. He's a brilliant actor, even if he does say so himself, because hardly any one can ever tell when he's upset or anxious, unless he shows it, of course – which he never does.

Then why, why in the name of Merlin's left sock is he nervous? There's nothing to be nervous about, and yet he's jumpy and fidgety and the wall he's spent all those years constructing has fallen to rubble at his feet.

Maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the fact that tonight will be the first time he'll be alone with Lily after his humiliation at the party last night. Or maybe, it's the fact that Padfoot keeps commenting on it mockingly every two minutes. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that Lily herself keeps sending him furtive, triumphant smirks from across the common room.

There's just something different when their eyes meet, a shift in the atmosphere. It's the way she bites her lip, stares at him steadily with something indiscernible in her eyes, the way his heart begins to rocket the moment he sees her.

It's only a flipping patrol, he reassures himself for the twentieth time. Just a patrol.

And it is. It's just a patrol. Nothing but a patrol, and he can't get humiliated (again) if he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't do anything silly. He'll be fine. He'll be —

"We've got rounds, James."

And there she is. Standing right in front of him with that 'devilish angel' look of hers that she's perfected so well, with her skirt hitched up high, but not too high, and her lips formed into that innocent little smirk.

She's waiting for him, he realises suddenly, for him to get up and accompany her on their patrols. The patrols he's been dreading all day.

"Right, of course..." he says, and his voice cracks from lack of use during the past hour and a half he's been sitting there, contemplating it all.

Slowly, he stands, and he's quite soon towering over her slim frame, with her eyes right on his and his eyes right on hers.

"Let's get going then," she says, her voice as steady as ever.

And as he follows her out of the portrait-hole, he realises: she called him James.

Merlin, never in his eighteen years of life had he heard his name sound so good before. He wants her to say it again, and again, and again, and his mind wanders to a completely different situation, maybe in an empty classroom, and he wonders how she'd say his name then...

James, she said. She called him James.

They're walking now, in silence, a silence so thick with tension he could cut it with a knife. He walks a few paces behind her, not beside her as he usually does, and he watches as she reaches up and unconsciously musses up her hair, flicking it over her shoulder. She hums a tune as they round a corner, and she seems completely unaware of him and of the fact that he's becoming increasingly ill-at-ease with – well, with whatever this is between them.

He needs to talk.

Yes, she did call him James, and yes, she does look particularly ravishing tonight, but that doesn't stop the fact that he needs to mask how apprehensive he is. It doesn't stop the fact that she utterly tarnished his reputation at the party, and it definitely doesn't stop the fact that he needs to get back at her for it.

"You know, if that skirt were any shorter, you'd be wearing nothing at all," he says, smirking, knowing it'll infuriate her. He's picked up a few broken pieces of his wall and slotted them together, using it to shield his uneasiness.

Her skirt, to be fair, is fairly short, falling a good few inches above her knees (not that he's complaining – at all). He expects her to grab the bait, whirl around and let her anger explode at him, and he slows, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters behind her lazily.

"Mm..." is the only noise she makes, and he halts for a second, taken-aback, then decides she couldn't have heard him properly. Just as he opens his mouth to repeat his observation, she speaks. "You know, I don't remember you ever being this sore about losing."

He slows down again, groaning inwardly. He needs to win this one – his pride's at stake here, and he can't win, not if she's being like this.

"You're acting like such child, you know," she comments, turning to face him. She's smirking that delectable smirk of hers as she strides up to him slowly, and he can tell she's fighting back a laugh.

"I'm not acting like a child," he retorts sullenly.

"Oh, really?" she says smoothly, amused. "You're sulking."

"Why would I be sulking?" he frowns, shrugging. He attempts to make the notion sound absurd, but somehow, he doesn't think it's working to that effect.

"Oh, I don't know," she, too, shrugs. "It obviously wouldn't have anything to do with being humiliated at your little party, would it?"

"I'm not sulking," he says defensively, putting his guard up. He's not sulking. He was nervous at one point, but not anymore, and he's definitely not sulking. In fact, he's getting more annoyed by the second.

"It's typical male behaviour – you lot can't stand to lose, especially not to women," she comments airily, examining her nails innocently.

"I'm not sulking," he repeats, scowling. He refuses to believe she's right, because, really, she's not.

...is she?

"Ok," she says simply, smiling sweetly. He doesn't answer, glowering at her.

He can't even begin to understand why he's getting so riled up about it – it's not even true, after all. But there's just something about the way she's saying it (with that triumphant grin and seductive look) that makes him want to flee from the scene, and he can't do that – it's frustrating him.

She's silent for a moment, letting hope that she's finished with this conversation thrive inside of him for a fraction of a second. He chances a glance down at her, but she's looking up at him with small, sly grin. She takes a step towards him, and he wonders what the hell she's doing, because she's too close now, far too close, and if he's to control himself, then she has to take at least one step backward. She licks her lips before speaking, and he swallows, his jaw tensing, willing himself not to look at her lips, but it's a battle he's losing.

"If," she says unhurriedly, keeping her glinting green eyes on his, "I asked you to kiss me right now," she pauses, and his heart quickens. She's straightened up now, and her lips are so close to his, so close, and he could just lean down, and — "Would you do it?"

Would he?

He wants to. So badly...

His gaze is firmly locked on her lips but he shakes his head slowly nevertheless. He inhales shakily as the pink tip of her tongue darts out again, wetting her bottom lip.

Bad idea – her scent fills his nostrils and he feels as though he's drowning. He finds himself leaning towards her until their noses are a hair's breadth away from touching. He needs to gain the upper hand – and fast.

His mind's telling him to blink, step back and continue with the rounds, but his limbs don't seem to obey. His hands curl to fists as he attempts to stay in control of his urges and stand his ground. She's still smirking, and he can tell she got the answer she was expecting.

"Why not?" she asks, and her voice is soft and seductive and he's just so tempted... He shakes his head, his eyes fluttering shut as she draws even nearer, and he knows she's winning this little game, but he doesn't care.

She's teasing him again, but he won't give in – not this time. He's wanted to kiss her for the better part of six years, but not when his pride's this close to being reduced to cinders.

He won't kiss her.

His body's not satisfied with that, though, and one way or another, he wants to kiss her. But he can't, he knows he can't, not without losing again.

Slowly, he opens his eyes again, until hazel clashes against emerald.

"No..." His voice is hoarse, a sign that his resolution is cracking – fast. "Why should I?"

"Why not, James?" she purrs, putting his given name into play. He almost groans and loses it then and there from the way his name rolls off her tongue.

He can almost taste her as her breath crashes over his lips and he swallows, wondering where she's going with this, but a split-second later, he realises he doesn't give a fuck.

Why should he make the first move?

She wants this – that day by the lake proved that. Why on earth should he give in when she wants this to happen just as much as he does?

No, he decides, raising a hand to her chin and tilting her head upwards towards his slightly. Her eyes flash in surprise at the suddenness of their contact. He's not giving in, not without a fight. His pride has been beaten to a damn pulp, so he's really not going to let her walk away from this with the triumph she's seeking from him.

"How about," he says quietly, "you kiss me." He watches the grin on her face falter as he runs his thumb across her bottom lip, hears her breath catch in her throat at the intimacy of his touch. "You want me," he murmurs, the ghost of a smirk playing on his features. The backs of his fingers trace tracks along her jaw, down the slender slope of her neck, slow and sensuous.

"You're deluded," she whispers, eyes fluttering shut as he brushes her hair off her shoulder, tracing her collarbone. Beautiful.

His eyes follow the movement of her neck as she shifts her head slightly towards his. His heart is jolting at the audacity of his movements, leaping at the fact that she's letting him touch her like this. He leans into her ear, lips just barely brushing the skin of her earlobe.

"Am I?" he asks softly. She releases a shaky breath that washes over his neck and he feels goose-bumps rising on his skin.

Fuck.

He's really not as in-control of this situation as he thought he was, and he hates it. He hates what she does to him. He hates that he can't help but be affected by her this much. Swallowing, he drops his hand and leans back, putting a few inches between them for the sake of his wavering will-power.

Her eyes flutter open to meet his, dark emerald and clouded with lust. His jaw tenses, a movement she follows with her eyes, biting her lip.

"Yes," she breathes, her tone laced with uncertainty. He smiles slightly, brushing a curl away from her face.

"I think you're lying," he murmurs.

Her cheeks flush ever so slightly pink. He's still watching her, her every movement, every inhalation, the slight smirk that graces her lips, and he just finds it all so unbelievably sexy.

"Prove it." Her tone is soft, defiant, daring.

There's a pause, slow and torturous, the tension around them sizzling and crackling as her tongue dances along her bottom lip and —

Fuck it.

Capturing his lips with hers, he kisses her firmly, twisting his fingers in her hair.

He feels her breath hitch in her throat and she responds just as intensely, lips sliding against his with a desire he couldn't have foreseen, her hands gripping his shirt as she pulls him closer to her.

He's kissing her.

He can't believe it – it just seems so surreal and it feels so good he actually wonders if he's dreaming (it certainly wouldn't be the first time).

The softness of her hands brush against his skin, toying with the back of his neck before she slides her fingers into her hair, pulling his mouth closer to hers – it's overwhelming, the way they want one another. His tongue runs along her bottom lip slipping into the caverns of her mouth and entangling with hers, stroking, wanting, and she sighs, pressing herself to him.

And the realisation dawns on him: this is what it's always been about, ever since they began playing the game, even when they had no clue what the hell they were doing or why they were playing the game in the first place.

This is it, because it's always been about this, about them, about riling each other up and making each other jealous and teasing each other until one of them just couldn't take it anymore. This is the release of every little battle they've ever fought, every game they've ever played with each other, a release of all the sexual tension they'd bottled up over the years.

This is it.

He pushes her against the wall, this close to spiralling out of control now with every little noise she's making in the back of her throat and the soft feel of her against him. His fingers rub the smooth skin just under the hem of her blouse and he needs air, but the desire to continue kissing her is far, far more overwhelming, so he pays no heed. Her arms are locked too securely around his neck for him to move anywhere but closer towards her, so he does, sliding her up against the wall and closing the gap between them, feeling her soft curves against the hard ridges of his chest, the smoothness of her legs as they wrap around his waist.

He's far too close to letting his hands stray too far now, too close to doing something inappropriate when anyone could walk around the corner at any minute. But then, what else could he have expected when she looks like she does, teasing and sultry and willing him to lose his mind? The way she's responding to his touch along the backs of her thighs, he thinks she probably doesn't even care as long as he keeps doing this. To be honest, neither does he.

Nevertheless the need for air overwhelms them and they slow down, his hands sliding from her legs up into her hair, his thumb stroking her cheek as he regretfully parts his lips from hers.

Breathing hard, he drinks in her appearance as he pulls away slightly, taking in her swollen lips, her tousled, crimson locks, her crinkled and creased blouse. He knows he doesn't look much better; he can feel his hair sticking up from the back and he's pretty sure his shirt looks worse than hers.

She's smirking at him again and his insides tighten at how much he wants her right now.

"So who wins this one?" he whispers as she runs her fingers through his mussed hair in an attempt to smoothen it down even the slightest, tugging him closer in the process.

"I do," she breathes into his ear as his head falls beside hers.

"I beg to differ," he scowls, pulling back.

But she doesn't let him finish, instead placing her mouth over his again. And he shuts up, because he'll never, never get used to this feeling, this mind-blowing feeling of kissing her, of this intense, burning want and so much more he's afraid to put into words.

So what if he lost? So what she lost? Does it even matter?

Because the game's over now, and to be frank, he doesn't mind one bit. Technically, they've both won – she's won because he kissed her, just as she intended, and he's won because he's proven that she wants him.

He's won because after Merlin knows how long, he finally has her.

And really, victory couldn't taste sweeter.