Page 52 of The KING Review

There’s a hitch of breath, a pause so loaded I almost come apart from it. I want him to break for me. Then his voice comes back over the line, rough silk and absolutely nothing held back.

“I’ve got my fingers wrapped around my cock, tight. Just like I’ll hold your wrists when I fuck you against your kitchen counter. Or mine.” His breathing stutters, like he’s just realized he said ‘when,’ not ‘if,’ and the sound is so real, so close, it’s like he’s in the room with me. I wish he was. “I want to feel how wet you are, baby, want to slide my fingers through you first, stroke your clit until you’re shaking and desperate. Need to get you there before you take my cock.” There’s a slick, rhythmic sound in the background, and my vision whites out for a second. I have to bite my lip not to make a truly humiliating noise.

Grant groans, drawn out. “I’d spread your thighs, fuck you open slow, and watch your face while I do it. God, Neve, I want to see you break. I want to ruin you. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

I can’t breathe. The urge to brat is volcanic, but he just keeps going, building and breaking me by inches.

“Fuck, I want to bend you over. Do you have a full-length mirror, baby girl? I bet you do. Want to make you watch yourself come on my cock. Would you like that, or does it scare you? Do you want to be fucked so hard you can’t walk straight the next day? I think about it. I think about making you come over and over, making you say my name.” He’s panting now. “I want everything, Neve. Every filthy, greedy, depraved thing I shouldn’t fucking want from you. God, you’re sixteen years younger than me.”

“Yes,” I gasp, unable to help myself.

Grant’s laugh is dark. “You like that?”

I slap at my chest, trying to grapple for my phone, clutching it so hard my hand aches. “I like it,” I breathe, but it comes out all warped and wanton. I’m not even pretending at this point, and he knows it. “I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t move in the morning. I bet you’re big. I know you are.”

A low, ragged sound vibrates through the line. “Fuck, I want to leave my mark on you.”

My pulse is a live wire straight to my clit. “Do it,” I whisper, shameless. “I want it to hurt, Daddy. Please.”

Grant’s laugh is a low, gravel-rough rumble. “You’re not shy, are you? Good. I want you marked up for days. I want you bruised from my hands, your thighs trembling so bad you remember me every time you move.” His voice drops to a dangerous hush. “But I don’t want you getting your hopes up too high.”

My breath catches, nerves and need fighting for top billing. “What— Why not?”

He huffs a laugh. “I’m not trying to set myself up as some urban legend, Neve. But I… I’ve never had any complaints.” There’s a pause, a wet, slick sound barely muffled by the speaker. “I’ll make you feel every inch. I’ll fuck you slow the first time, just so you know exactly what you’re in for. You’ll stretch for me, won’t you? Take me so deep you’ll be ruined for anyone else. Is that what you want? You want to be ruined, baby girl?”

“God, yes.” My hand is fucking soaked, my whole body shaking. “I want you. Please, Daddy, show me.”

Grant goes silent. “You want me to show you?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”

The line falls to dead air. For a breath, for a beat, for a whole damn geological epoch where my heart is a jackhammer and my whole body is molten, until finally my phone chimes.

Professor Daddy sent a photo

I swipe it open, thumb trembling, and the photo fills my phone, fills my entire brain, blanks the rest of the world.

Holy. Fuck.

It’s not the usual bathroom-mirror tragedy that dudes send. It is dark, like he’s illuminated only by the glow of his phone screen as he lies in bed. It lights the thick column of his cock, flushed and heavy, curving up hard against the soft, decadent round of his stomach. He’s got the kind of body I want to sink my teeth into—he said he wanted to leave marks on me, but I want to leave marks on him, too.

His hand is wrapped around himself, thick fingers squeezing. The head of his cock is swollen and so red it’s almost purple, leaking, ridiculously pretty. I’ve never thought a dick was pretty in my life, but here we are. Grant King is rewiring me.

A line of dark hair trails down from his navel, curling thick over the base. His thighs are huge, corded muscle under a layer of soft. I want to crawl into the frame and just… devour him. I want to touch. I want to grip and squeeze and bruise.

My mouth goes dry.

“Neve,” Grant’s voice rolls out of my phone speaker, jagged with want, and I realize I must’ve gone silent on the call for way too long. “You see what you do to me? This is all you. You want more?”

I make a sound, something between a whimper and a gasp. “Yes. Fuck, Grant, you’re beautiful.”

He laughs, low and shattered. “You’re the first person to ever tell me that.”

Heat hits low in my gut, but not the good kind. “What?”

Grant’s answering laugh is a rough scrape, like he’s embarrassed and trying to backtrack. “Nobody ever… told me that before. That I’m beautiful.” The word sounds foreign in his mouth. “Mostly it’s… you know. You’re so big, you’re intimidating. Or I get labeled with ‘dad bod’ like it’s a punchline. Never as a compliment.”

There’s an ache that transcends my chest; it’s everywhere. I want to grab this man by the face and shake him. I want to wrap around him like a blanket and refuse to let go until he gets it. I want to obliterate anybody who ever made him feel less than.