Page 49 of The KING Review

not even when I suggested it

The laugh that escapes me is soft, more exhale than sound. My head tips back against the kitchen cabinet, and I stare up at the ceiling. She’s relentless, but I think I like it. I know I do. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been wanted like this. In fact, I’m not sure if I’ve ever been wanted like this. Every message from her is like a shot of adrenaline, but also a dare—the kind that makes you want to throw caution out the window and see what happens when you stop pretending that you’re strong enough to resist.

I should stop pretending, because I know I’m not strong enough to resist her.

My thumb hesitates over the keyboard. I could play the game, pretend that I’m above it. But I’m not, and I don’t want to play games with Neve. I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’m a grown man—sixteen years older than her—who loses all executive function the second this woman so much as breathes in my direction.

I don’t even have the drunk excuse—I’m not drunk. I’m of sound mind and body, give or take a cocktail, and almost a decade of being utterly touch starved.

The only intoxication blurring my impulse control right now is her.

Me:

If you’re genuinely insulted, you’re welcome to send me a photo now. I’ll make sure it gets my undivided attention.

As soon as I hit send, my heart stutters, then goes triple time. It’s a terrible idea, and the best idea I’ve had all week.

Chapter Sixteen

Daddy’s Baby Girl

Neve

Professor Daddy:

If you’re genuinely insulted, you’re welcome to send me a photo now. I’ll make sure it gets my undivided attention.

I’m grinning like a maniac at my own phone, sprawled sideways on the couch. I’ve got him, and if Grant King thinks he can fluster me with a single command, he’s got another thing coming. Give as good as you get, right? That’s the fun part.

I can’t wait to play.

Me:

I have a better idea

I want you to break down my body language when I was standing in front of you naked

I know it’s burned into your brain whether you took a photo or not

teach me, professor

I watch the little “delivered” dots with unhinged satisfaction. The thread sits quiet for a long time. Thirty seconds, then a minute, then another. I imagine his face when he reads it. I wish I could see him.

Finally, the dots appear. Then stop. Then start again. The anticipation is its own kind of delicious torture. Then eventually, the message comes through—but it’s not text, it’s a voice note. My traitorous hands are trembling as I hit the play button.

“All right, Miss Hart,” Grant’s gravelly timbre rolls over the line. Something creaks in the background. “You want a breakdown? So be it.”

The sound of footsteps starts, then stops, soft-socked padding on wood. A door opens, then closes with a click. “Let’s start with when you walked in and saw me in your living room. Totally at ease—at least, when you thought you were alone, and after you realized it was only me. You didn’t try to cover up, you didn’t try to hide.” He chuckles, low and rough, and I hear the distinct sound of mattress springs. My heart jumps into my throat when I realize he’s in his bedroom.

“You were in control from the second you had my eyes on you,” he continues. “Shoulders back, chin up, hair wet, your entire perfect body still glistening from the shower. You wanted me to look.” He sounds almost angry about it. “You didn’t get embarrassed when you realized I was there, even when I couldn’t take my damn eyes off you. You watched me watch you, and you enjoyed it, like the little fucking tease you are.” He makes a breathless noise, then the voice note cuts abruptly.

My heart knocks as I listen again. He’s right; I did want him to look. That’s exactly what I wanted. Whether I was cognizant of what I was doing or not, yeah, I wanted him to see me. I didn’t care if he did. I’m comfortable with my body—marks, lumps, bumps, and all.

Me:

how did you know I wanted you to look at me?

I wait to see if he’ll send a text or a voice note back, and much to my delight, it’s a voice note again.