Page 54 of The KING Review
I swallow hard. “I—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want your sounds,” I admit. “I don’t want you to temper it.”
There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable, just heavy as hell, like a weighted blanket smothering everything except the pounding pulse in my throat.
Grant’s eyes don’t leave the camera. He’s so dialed in, it’s almost menacing. “You don’t want me to hold anything back?” His voice is barely a sound, but it’s an earthquake in my head.
I shake my head, hair sticking to my cheek. “No.” It comes out too desperate, but whatever, I’m past pride. “I want the real thing. I want you, Grant, not the version you think I want.”
He laughs, but it’s more like a single, disbelieving exhale. “You’re going to be the fucking death of me.”
I’m so wired I could scream. Instead, I lock eyes with him—even through a screen, it’s like getting hit by a truck—and I push, because I know he wants to be pushed. “Isn’t that what you want? I want to see what you look like when you let go. I want you to come to pieces for me.”
His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking just above his beard. For a second, all I get is the sound of him working his cock, and it’s so loud, so wet, I squirm, thighs clenching, desperate and unashamed.
“You want to see how bad you already have me?”
“Show me, please,” I whisper. My fingers dig into my leg, nails leaving moon-shaped marks.
Grant’s eyes pin me, green fire and hunger so hot I can feel it like acid on my skin, even through the low-res wash of his phone camera. Every muscle in his forearm stands out, corded and flexed, veins like power lines. His fist works his cock in ruthless rhythm, and he looks right at me as he does it, not blinking, barely breathing.
I whimper his name again as I watch, and the effect is seismic—a full-body shudder, a harsh groan from the back of his throat. I can practically taste it, can almost feel it melt on my tongue.
I want it everywhere, his sweat and salt and heat. I want to lick it from his skin and take it into me, until I’m drunk on nothing but him.
“Come for me,” I whisper. “I want to watch. Please, Grant. Let me see your face.”
He bites down on a moan, and his eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his cheeks. He’s close—I can see it in the way his whole body goes tight, veins popping along his arms, the pulse in his neck a strobe.
I can’t move. I can barely even breathe. I need to see this more than I’ve needed anything in years. “Grant,” I urge, and the sound of his name does something nuclear to him.
He shudders, every muscle in his body going rigid, and then he’s gasping, loud and raw and not at all censored. “Fuck, Neve, oh fuck, baby girl, I’m—I—fuck, you’re perfect, and I—”
He cuts off, the rest of his sounds just noise more than words.
I watch it roll through his body, blacking out everything else. All his muscles seize, the look on his face is one of pure bliss, and he comes hard with his head thrown back, hot ropes of his release coating his stomach and chest.
I don’t realize I’ve moaned again until the breath shoots out of him in a tortured gasp. “Baby girl, the sounds you make—”
“Sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize to me,” he cuts me off, still breathless from his climax. He hasn’t looked at the camera again yet, face still turned up to the ceiling. “You don’t need to apologize for enjoying this, for enjoying—” He cuts himself off, choking on the words. “For enjoying me.”
He says it like it’s such a foreign concept, and it makes my chest hurt.
“I wish I was there,” I say quietly.
Grant swallows so hard it’s audible, then his eyes finally find mine through the camera lens. “Yeah?”
I hate that he asks like he doesn’t believe me.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Not just… I mean, not just for the dirty stuff.” I giggle, unable to help myself. “Fuck, I’d love to lick you clean, but—”
I break off, letting the words hang. I don’t know if it’s too soon or too weird or too much to say I’d want to curl up with him after—to say that I want to curl up with him now.
He doesn’t break that digital eye contact, though.
