Page 46 of The KING Review

Grant King, tenured PhD professor, man who probably spends his mornings reading postgrad dissertations, is sitting, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, on my thrifted sofa, wearing nothing but slacks and a white undershirt (the less said about how that is affecting me, the better) and a look of pure, abject panic.

I am naked as the day I was born. Not artsy, implied-nudity naked. Not tasteful-side-boob naked. Full-frontal, “the anatomy coloring book wishes it had this much detail” naked.

My nipples are peaked, half from the cool kitchen air, half from the dad-bod-in-an-undershirt situation. Droplets of water sketch a path down my sternum and over the soft curve of my stomach, pooling dangerously close to the triangle of dark hair between my thighs. This could be the opening scene to a sexy little porno, if it weren’t for the fucking moon boot.

For a second, neither of us moves. I can hear the clock ticking above the TV. I can hear my own pulse in my ears, but I remain carefully placid. I don’t cross my arms or move to get a towel. There’s a sly, predatory thrill at the way his eyes can’t decide whether to run away from my frame or devour me whole, but when he decides on the latter, he’s not even pretending to look away.

Ha. Good.

His gaze tracks over my body in jagged, hungry sweeps, like it’s physically painful for him to try and decide where he should let his exploratory perusal settle.

He makes a sound, but it’s less a word than a soft little death rattle. I bite down on a smile. His hand braces hard on the edge of the couch, knuckles white. He’s holding on for dear life.

I turn to the coffee pot, flicking it on, and the familiar whir fills the silence. I glance back over my shoulder. “Want coffee?”

Grant doesn’t answer—he might not be capable—he’s still in some kind of psychic fugue state, green eyes huge and pupils so blown I feel more than a little victorious. I broke his brain. It’s over for this man.

I lean against the counter, hand braced, ass cocked, watching him try to reboot his operating system in real time. “Are you doing okay over there, Doctor King?”

“No,” he says, and his voice cracks. “No, I am not okay, Neve. I⁠—”

He cuts himself off, and a lightning bolt of glee shoots down my spine.

I go for the knife twist. “Do you want to take a picture? They last longer.”

He blinks. The brain reboot is failing. I can see it. His jaw works, and I am intoxicated.

The coffee pot wheezes to life, spluttering, but I don’t think I need caffeine anymore. I’ve never been more awake in my life.

I turn, leaning on my elbows, breasts pressing together. I see him clock the movement, and his lips part, breath going visibly shallow. “Thank you for picking me up from the ER. Genuinely. I might have died in that sad little curtained room if you hadn’t come. You’re my hero.”

He still doesn’t speak, but I sense him watching me as I rattle the pot, making sure it’s under the spout when it begins to drip. His gaze is hot, almost chemical, burning over every inch of me.

When I glance back, Grant doesn’t even blink, but his eyes slice down my body and take me apart, clinical and starved at the same time. The silence between us is so loaded I can feel it humming in my molars. The pulse at his neck is frantic, rippling like a bird’s wing.

Then suddenly, he lurches up from the couch, hands scrambling for his discarded shirt from the arm of the sofa. He wrenches it on, fingers flying on the buttons. It shouldn’t be attractive, but weirdly, it is. Then again, I think I’d probably find this man buttering toast attractive.

He’s seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Well, now you’re okay, I’ll go.” The words come out strained. He’s already moving toward the door, the line of his back rigid, every muscle so tight you could bounce a coin off it.

Panic spikes in my chest, then the meaner, dripping sting of disappointment. I try to shove it down, but then I’m closing the distance in three bold steps, ignoring the cold air on my skin, ignoring how the chaotic wet of my hair is dripping down my back, ignoring even the fucking moon boot because my body is all forward drive right now, electric and hungry and reckless. I catch him before he reaches for the doorknob, hand flat to his chest.

“Hey. Wait.” I want it to sound playful, but it comes out thick. I can hear the need in it. “Just… hang on. Tell me something.”

Grant stops, gaze dipped.

I tilt my chin up. “Why did you stay last night?”

My fingers curl against the warm cotton of his shirt. I can feel his heartbeat jackhammering under my palm. He swallows hard, then his eyes drop to my mouth. His expression turns molten, hunger reshaping every angle of his face. “Neve.” It’s almost a gasp. Not a warning, not a reprimand. An invocation.

Do it. Kiss me.

I stand my ground, unashamed, every nerve in my body zinging with anticipation and the impossibility of this drawn-out stalemate. I watch the internal war flicker across his face—the brief, wild moment where he almost caves and gives us what we both want.

But then he steps back just enough to reestablish the invisible line between us. My hand slips from his chest. His eyes close, jaw flexing, and when they open again, the moment is gone. There’s only that endless, disciplined restraint, and the ache of the almost.

I huff a tiny, incredulous laugh, half admiration, half go-fuck-yourself; I can’t help it. “Thanks again. I’ll see you at our next session, Doctor King.”