Page 89 of The KING Review

I can’t feel my legs.

If Grant is fazed, he doesn’t show it. He groans into my pussy, lapping at me. His beard is soaked, his jaw flexing as he works me through the aftershocks, and I realize I’m still babbling, an endless stream of, “Oh my god, Grant. I’m so sorry, I’ve never—that’s so embarrassing, I can’t believe I just did that—fuck. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—” until he snaps.

He bites me, right at the sensitive inside of my thigh, then sucks, and I shriek, hips jerking, because that is definitely leaving a mark.

Grant lifts his face, beard slick and glistening, green eyes obliterated to black, and for a second, the only thing that exists in the world is the sight of him there, kneeling between my thighs, flushed and panting and utterly debauched, covered in me.

“Don’t you dare fucking apologize for that.”

I blink, stupid with it. He’s so gorgeous, so unhinged. His chest heaves, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but all it does is smear my slick around, making his beard glimmer. “Christ, Neve. How are you so fucking perfect? You nearly made me blow in my pants again. I’m forty-two, and it’s like you’ve turned me into a horny teenager again.”

My eyes drop because I can’t not look. The waistband of his sweats is straining for dear life, the fat, flushed head of his cock trapped by the elastic, peeking out from under the soft curve of his belly. The whole picture is so filthy I can barely look at it without blushing.

Still, I look and I look and I look, and I want to crawl down his body and take him in my mouth, taste his want, see if I can make him lose it for me again.

“Well,” I say with a breathy laugh. “You know what they say. You’re only as old as the woman you feel.”

Grant barks a laugh, and his thumb traces over the mark he just left on my thigh, gentle.

“You have no idea how fucking hot that was,” he whispers.

I can only whimper. It’s all I’ve got left in me.

He gets to his feet and hauls me off the counter, big hands all the way under my thighs, then he buries his face in my neck, breathing me in. I melt. My arms drape around his shoulders, dead weight.

The air smells like coffee and sex and him.

I nuzzle behind his ear. “You’re perfect. You know that?”

He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Not as perfect as you. Let me take care of you, baby girl.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Fuel on the Fire

Neve

Grant’s grip tightens as he carries me down the hallway to his ensuite. I feel his mouth at my jaw, beard scraping in a way that makes my toes curl even though I’m basically a pile of overcooked noodles right now. “You did so well for me, angel. I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful.”

I can’t help but preen, just a little, and he must feel it because he kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my forehead. “Can I get you cleaned up?”

“Only if you join me,” I murmur.

His mouth twitches as he sets me down just outside the shower, careful, leaning past me to flip the water on. Steam curls up between us, glass fogging. The light in here is soft, golden, and blurry. Grant crowds up behind me, stripping the Henley over my head and kissing the top of my spine as it comes free, then he nudges me into the shower tray.

He strips off his sweats and steps in after me, his cock fat and flushed, jutting out heavy between his thick thighs. I can’t stop watching it, how it bobs as he moves, the soft hair on the plush curve of his stomach catching the beading steam. He doesn’t try to hide from me this time, and I revel in it, in him letting me see him, enjoy him.

Grant gets the soap, lathers his hands, and runs them so slow, so careful, over my body. No rush. No hurry. He washes me like he’s just indulging himself in getting to touch me again, every curve, every inch, lingering at the grip stains he left on my ass, at the soft insides of my thighs where his beard burned me raw, and the mark he bit there, blooming dark red. It stings sweet when he thumbs over it, proprietary.

“You good?” he asks, not looking up from where he carefully washes me.

“I’m perfect. You’re perfect.” I swallow hard as the words clog my throat, but then spill out anyway, musical, tangled up with a nervous laugh I can’t hope to modulate. “I think we are perfect, Grant King.”

His gaze lifts, soft and searching, and his mouth parts. I’m powerless to resist leaning in to kiss him, slow, indulgent, tasting myself on his tongue. A low sigh rumbles in his chest as his hands slide around my back, pulling me closer, no space between us, the hard line of his erection trapped between the soft of my belly and the soft of his as the water thunders around us, rolling down the glass, steam sparkling in the air.

I think I mean it. I think we really are perfect.

He kisses me again, slow and sweet, almost shy, like he’s not sure how much I want, but he’s hungry to give it anyway. As if I haven’t made it clear that I want everything. But if there’s anything I’ve learned about Grant King, it’s that he’s terrified of wanting too much and being shot down. It’s almost like he’s the perfect mirror of me, and like I’m the perfect thing for him. He’s afraid of wanting too much—I’ve always been told I’m too much.