Page 35 of The KING Review

Me:

Do you actually know what my research is?

Don’t

no??

Should I?

Pop quiz?

I can practically hear the sarcasm in her voice.

Me:

You know your sister got the idea for the name acronym from me, right?

There’s a beat. I can see her thinking. I can feel her thinking, the way she holds her breath behind digital dots.

Don’t:

you’re shitting me

Me:

Not even a little.

I wish I could see her. I want to see the cogs turning as she tries to figure me out. I want the body language cues I’ve told her would be an extra weapon in my hands.

The next thing that comes through is a voice note. I hesitate before I tap play, knowing we’re moving into dangerous territory.

I can’t find it in myself to care.

Her voice is lower. Strained at the edges, even though I can tell she’s trying to keep it steady. “Okay, fine. I’ll bite. At least, if you ask nicely.” A breathy laugh rolls out of her at her own lewd joke. My dick twitches in my sweats. “Tell me about your research, Doctor King. Please?”

It’s the “please” at the end, just a little tacky from her tongue, that nearly melts my spine.

I can’t voice note back. Not if I want to avoid embarrassing myself. So, I type it out instead, in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control—even though I can feel it slipping fast. Part of me doesn’t even want to try to hang on.

Me:

Kink Imagery in Non-Group Settings. That was my PhD thesis.

Neve goes radio silent, but only for about thirty seconds.

Don’t:

sorry I’ve been spelling your name wrong all this time Doctor Kiings

The sound that leaves me is a full-body groan. I can practically hear the low, lilting deadpan in her voice. I rest my head in my hands, laughing into my palms, feeling every muscle in my body coil tight with wanting.

If she thinks this is a game, she’s got another thing coming.

My pulse hammers in my ears. My body is electric, keyed up with the kind of hunger that’s half adrenaline and half something else I’m not even sure I know how to name. I’m a textbook case of telegraphing arousal. Posture open, flushed all over, and I’m sure if I looked in the mirror, my pupils would be like black holes.

Neve Hart is merciless in the best possible way, and it’s clear she knows exactly what she’s doing. I can see it with razor clarity—her, stretched out on her sofa, toes curling, mouth twisting around something clever and obscene as she dangles me on the fucking hook.

She’s taunting me. I kind of love it. I also kind of want to prove a point. I hold down the record button before I can overthink it.