Page 68 of The KING Review

Unless you want to celebrate a small victory, baby girl, I’d suggest you spread your legs for Daddy.

My throat goes dry, all the air rushing from my lungs so fast it’s almost a wheeze.

I slide a glance at him, and his eyes burn into me. The green of his irises is almost entirely eaten up by his blown-black pupils, but in the little bit of forest I can see—wildfire.

“Here?” I breathe.

His beard twitches, and he taps away on his phone again. I almost roll my eyes.

Professor Daddy:

Don’t make me ask again.

You want to be good for me, don’t you?

I promise I’m going to make you feel incredible, angel.

I try not to preen at the fact that I’ve managed to make the Doctor Grant King so unhinged that this is happening right now. I lean back in the chair, letting my knees fall apart. A soft breath soughs out of him, and I revel in the little catch. He might ostensibly be in control, but I still have him in the palm of my hand.

His big shoulders shift as he adjusts himself in his chair, leaning incrementally closer. My highlighter is still hovering half an inch above the page.

“Keep working, angel,” he murmurs. “You don’t want to fall behind.”

His voice stays measured, even as rough-tipped fingers slide over my bare thigh.

“Grant—”

He tuts, cutting me off. “Quiet, now.”

A single fingertip brushes over the fabric of my panties—wet already, because if there’s anything I have none of, especially concerning Grant King, it’s chill. A low, seismic groan rumbles in his chest, and he shifts in his seat again.

I glance over to see that he’s hard, straining the placket of his dark, well-worn jeans. They fit like sin. The whole man is built like sin. I want to climb him like a tree—I want to climb into his lap right now and ride him like I did in his office, but with nothing between us this time.

“Oh—” I cut myself off with a hiss when Grant pinches, unforgiving.

He hums, clearly amused, and I slide a glance at his face to see he’s trying to hide a smirk. “What’s wrong, baby girl?” he says, voice husky. “I thought you said you wanted it to hurt?”

A low sound rolls out of me, perilously close to a growl.

Grant’s eyes flash at my supposed defiance, and he pinches again, harder this time, rolling my clit between his thumb and forefinger through the soaked gusset of my panties. My hips buck against my will, and his other hand snaps over my thigh, pressing down.

“Sit still,” he grits out.

“Or what?” I whisper. I can’t help myself.

I think I’m built to brat when it comes to Grant King.

“You really want to find out?” His finger strokes up and down my wet slit through my underwear. I buck my hips again, chasing his touch, desperate for it.

“Maybe I do,” I breathe. My highlighter touches the page, ink bleeding in a neon yellow bloom. “I want to know if you’re bluffing or not.”

“You think I’d bluff?” he asks, a quiet humor in his voice.

I hum, but only because I don’t know what to say. I have no argument for him. All I have is what I’ve already weaponized against him, and I’m running out of ammunition. He has the upper hand, and right now, that hand is between my thighs.

I try to squeeze my legs shut, just to see what happens, and Grant growls low in his chest, then his finger hooks under the hem of my panties. I gasp as he parts me, painting his finger with my slick.

“You’re already so wet, baby girl.”