Page 69 of The KING Review

A breath shakes out of me, and my next inhale goes absolutely nowhere. Grant smirks, then slides one thick finger inside me without preamble.

“Fuck—” I bite my lip hard to cut myself off, almost biting straight through it.

He curls his finger, and my chair creaks as my back bows. I look around, trying to check if there’s anyone anywhere near us, but Grant clears his throat loudly, and my gaze snaps back to his face.

“Eyes on your notes, Miss Hart.”

I force my head down, focusing on a line I’m definitely not reading. I’m not even sure if I remember how to read. I rock down against his hand, where his palm provides broad pressure on my clit.

“Greedy,” he chides, but there’s a smile in his voice. I want to look up and see, but I’m a little afraid of what’ll happen if I disobey him.

“Yes,” I hiss. “For you, baby.”

His hand freezes. I watch his whole body go still in my peripheral vision. My heart plummets, thinking I might’ve fucked it up, but he doesn’t recoil.

“I—”

“It’s okay,” he cuts me off, voice barely more substantial than breath. He moves again, finger sliding out of me, torturously slow, then back inside—this time, accompanied by a second.

His hands are so big—his fingers are so thick—I’m having a hard time not letting my eyes roll right back in my skull. Grant’s thumb finds my clit, just a glancing pass, and I jolt in the chair, the metal feet scraping the thin carpet.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers, but I think he knows the answer. “Just say the word, angel. You want a bag of that candy you like?”

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss.

He huffs a soft laugh, leaning slightly closer. I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and rough, like vetiver and pine. I’m instantly obsessed with it. I want it all over me.

His fingers slide deeper, and the air shoots from my lungs. I grip the edge of the desk with one hand, my highlighter with the other, so the barrel of the pen creaks.

“Please,” I whimper, hips rolling.

Grant hums, as if he’s reading lines in an article or in his paperback. I’ve read Maya Mercy books before—I know they’re open-door. I would say that I can’t believe this man reads smut, but I totally can.

“Please what?” he murmurs, voice like black ice.

“Let me—” My voice breaks, and I choke on the words as he curls his fingers, thumb pressing hard into my clit. “Let me come, please. Please.”

He smirks, fingers speeding up, and for a second, I really think he’s going to let me. Fucking stupid of me to think that. “You want Daddy to make you come right here, baby girl?”

I swallow my whimper, but I’m nodding.

“Please, Daddy,” I whisper, voice barely sounding like me. “Please, please⁠—”

Then his hand is gone.

The sudden emptiness is violent.

I snap my head toward him, stunned and completely breathless. Grant keeps his eyes on his paperback, open on the desk with the spine cracked brutally. I blink, unsure of what to say.

My mouth opens, but he beats me to it.

“Only good girls get to come, Miss Hart,” he mutters, still not looking up.

A breath soughs out of me, a truly humiliating sound. “You’re a monster.” I legitimately sound as if I’m about to burst into tears; I actually might.

“You’re dripping down your thighs,” he counters, as if that means jack shit.

He finally glances at me. His green eyes are dark, but his expression is totally unbothered. “Clean yourself up,” he says, voice rough and low. “And maybe next time, behave, and you’ll get what you want.”