Page 53 of The KING Review

“Grant.” My voice is raw, and I don’t even care that I sound unhinged—which I definitely do. “You’re not just beautiful, you’re hot as fuck. Like, you literally haunt my waking hours, and I dream about you, too. Please, let me show you. I want you to hear how wrecked you make me, just from thinking about your body. Not just your body—you. All of you. Nobody else, just—only you.”

There’s a beat of silence, and when Grant finally speaks, his voice is so hoarse it’s barely there. “Yeah?”

I hear myself laugh, but it comes out thin. “I want you so bad it’s ruining my life a little. I can barely keep my hand off my clit when I think about you. Sometimes I think about your hands on my hips, holding me down. Sometimes I think about your mouth on my tits, or your cock splitting me open. None of it is gentle in my head, but I don’t want gentle—I want every version of you. I want to come, just from thinking about you fucking me. I want to do it now, so you can hear what you do to me. Please, Daddy, please, will you let me?”

Grant’s breath catches on the line. “You want me to hear you come?”

“God, yes.” My hand is moving again, slow, but the edge is so close. “Let me be loud for you. I want you to know how insane you make me. Can I? Please?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I can hear the way he’s breathing. When he finally speaks, it’s tight, a little bit broken, all the way command. “Go on, baby girl. Come for me.”

That’s almost all it takes. Three or four stiff circles on my clit and the rough sound of his voice over the line, and I break apart.

Pleasure detonates everywhere at once; I don’t even try to hold back the moan that rips out of me, obscene and helpless, echoing off the walls. I want him to hear it. I want him to know it’s him who did this to me.

As I ride out the aftershocks, fingers still moving on my clit, I gasp into the receiver, “Now you. Let me hear what you sound like when you come, Daddy. I need to hear it.”

He groans—a stutter-burst, deep in his diaphragm, like I punched the air right out of him.

I can hear the soft, bruised rhythm of his breathing, but mostly I hear the slick, obscene sound of his hand working his cock. My clit pulses with renewed arousal. My thighs are shaking, aftershocks still rolling through me. I want to crawl through the phone and crawl into his lap, lick the sweat right off his throat, make him say my name, ruin him.

“Neve,” Grant rasps, and I’m not sure if he’s warning me or begging me.

A laugh unspools out of me, then silence.

“Wait,” I gasp. “Don’t come—not yet. I want to see you. Please. Video call? I want to watch you come for me. Please, Daddy.”

The line goes dead for half a second, and my stomach drops with the violence of need. Then there’s an incoming FaceTime call. I fumble the phone, fingers slippery, and swipe to answer.

He’s there instantly, camera unsteady, light slanting across his chest and stomach. He’s got his fist wrapped tight around his cock, leaking and flushed, head thrown back against the pillows, hair wild, mouth open. God, he’s gorgeous. When I whimper his name, his eyes open, and the look that lands on me is pure destruction.

“Fuck, Neve,” he groans. “You want to watch? You want to see how badly you ruin me?”

I can’t talk, so I nod, frantic, legs spread, fingers sticky and obscene between my thighs as I try to position the camera so he can see me, too—fair’s fair, after all. He angles his phone perfectly, so I see everything—the long, slick pump of his hand, the sharp snap of his hips. Fuck, I want to eat him alive.

All I can do is stare, lips parted, eyes wide, probably looking like I’d auction off my soul for a single taste.

I can’t say I wouldn’t.

I’m not breathing right. My body’s still twitching, but the hunger doesn’t fade. It doubles, triples. I want to see him come for me. I want to ruin him the way he just ruined me.

“Look at you,” I breathe, words trembling. “You’re so fucking hot, Grant. I wish you were here. I want you so bad.”

He stares right into the camera, and I swear my soul leaves my body.

“Say it again,” he growls.

My whole body jerks.

“I want you,” I tell him, and I mean it in every possible way—want your hands, want your cock, want your mouth, want your goddamn laundry scent on my skin. “I want to watch you come for me. I want to see your face when you do it. Please.”

He bites back a moan, and I find myself growling.

“Don’t censor it,” I hiss. “I want it.”

Grant freezes.

So do I.