Page 36 of The KING Review

“You’re a brat, aren’t you, Miss Hart?” My voice comes out low, rougher than I mean, but I don’t care. “I don’t know why that surprises me. It shouldn’t.” I let a slow, dark laugh rumble out, because I know what it’ll do to her. I want her to feel it all the way down, a dark pulse between those sinful thighs. “You have no idea what you’re asking for. God, if I could put my hands on you…”

I catch myself just before I say something I can’t take back—as if I haven’t already—and my thumb hovers over the delete button. I debate for a second.

Fuck it.

My hands tremble as I watch the sent icon pop up on the thread. The seconds drip like cold molasses. I’m already regretting sending it. I shouldn’t have. It was dangerous before, now I don’t know what happens next.

Then her reply hits.

Don’t:

I’m soaking through my underwear right now and it’s all your fault

I grab the edge of the countertop on reflex. The words are like a straight shot of something stronger than straight liquor, hot and dizzying. I know she’s not bluffing. Neve doesn’t just say shit like that. Sure, she says shit for effect, but she doesn’t lie.

I can see her. I wish I really could. Stretched out, wearing a soft old tank top and lace panties, that yellow-gold hair wild, thighs spread, fingers absently tracing circles over the fabric, just to take the edge off.

Fuck.

I wonder if she is—if she’s actually touching herself right now?

I clench my jaw. I consider deleting the whole thread, then her number, but I know I’m not strong enough to do it.

Instead, I give in.

Me:

Send me a photo. Not everything. Just enough.

The dots chase each other for a few seconds before her answer pops up.

Don’t:

you want proof?

The sound I make comes from deep in my chest. She wants to play? Fine. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to see her. I want all of it. I don’t give a shit about some dumb challenge about begging to see her, begging to touch her. I’d beg on my knees right now. I want to possess her. I want her in the palm of my hand, blushing and wet, desperate for me. I want her to know exactly what she’s doing to me.

Me:

No. I want permission. I want to see what I do to you. Show me, Neve. Now.

My hand is shaking. I stare at the screen, every muscle tense and expectant. Six minutes crawl by. I’m rock hard, keyed up, every sense dialed to eleven, waiting for the next move. I want her to give up control, just for a second.

The photo comes through after the seventh minute.

My breath punches out of me so sharply it’s almost painful. My mouth goes dry.

It’s all tease, every pixel curated for maximum ruin. The inner sweep of her thigh is luminous with arousal, the edge of dark blue lace, clinging to skin, the shadowy dip where the fabric meets the curve of her pussy. Just the tips of her manicured fingers are hooked in the hem, not pulling it down, not even baring anything that would be considered explicit. But it’s enough to make my pulse spike so hard I see stars for a second, no joke.

Don’t:

all your fault

It’s not enough, not by a fucking mile. But my body reacts like she’s right here in the room, sprawled out on my kitchen counter, waiting for me to put my hands (and mouth, and teeth, and everything) on her. Fuck, I wish she was.

I grin despite myself, even though I feel utterly helpless against this woman. My reply goes almost without thinking.

Me: