Page 71 of The KING Review

“Is this what you want?” he pants against my jaw.

Yes. I want to be devoured.

I can’t verbalize it. The words are gone. But I know I want more than this. Yes, I want him, but not just a quick print room fuck—I want him, too, not just for him to have me.

“Wait,” I gasp, clawing at his shirt, fighting to slow him. “Wait, please, Grant, I want to see you.”

He goes still, and I feel a tremor run through his body. His brow furrows, confusion in his green eyes as he rakes his gaze over my face.

“What do you mean?” His voice is barely a whisper.

“Take your shirt off.” My hands find the hem of his Henley, dragging at it. “I want to see—all of you. Please. Like in the video. I want you, Grant. All of you.”

Something shatters in his expression, and he just stares at me, like nobody’s ever asked to see him before.

Maybe they haven’t.

I hate that they haven’t.

My palms slide beneath the fabric, tracing over the heat of his stomach, the solid roundness there that I’ve dreamed about for months. He’s so warm, so substantial, thick muscle sheathed in plush and furred with soft, dark hair that makes my mouth water. His belly is perfect, the way it pushes against my palm when he breathes, the way it curves over the waistband of his jeans. I want to nuzzle it, bite it, leave marks.

“You’re so sexy,” I tell him honestly. “I love your body, Grant. I love how big you are. I want you all over me.”

His frown only deepens, but he doesn’t pull away like I half expect. He just stands there, looming, every line of his huge body drawn tight, like he’s waiting for a punchline.

I want to kill whoever made him expect that.

I shove the hem of his shirt higher, dragging it up his sides, palms greedy and flat.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” I say, voice husky. “You’re not hot despite your body, Grant. You’re hot because of it. All of it.” I dig my fingers in, pinching the soft at his sides, clawing handfuls of it just to feel how substantial he is. “I don’t want you to hide it. Okay? Please, don’t feel like you need to hide from me. Not ever. I want you on top of me. I want every inch of you pressed down on me. Please.”

His breath saws out. He’s blinking like he doesn’t believe I mean it, but I think I’ve never meant anything more in my life. I rake my nails gently under the curve of his belly, the crease where it hangs just a little softer over his belt, following the soft, coarse hair down, feeling the heat of his skin and the sweat already breaking slick at his waistband.

“You think I want some kind of Instagram thirst trap?” I laugh, but it comes out a little desperate. “I want you. You clocked me right from the start. Yeah, I want you to manhandle me. I know you can. I know you want it, too. I want you to ruin me. Please. I need it.”

His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and I scrape my nails up over his stomach again, pushing in until he groans, hungry and wild—which is exactly how I want him.

“Let me have it,” I whisper. “Let me have you. Not how you think I want you, not sanitized. Just you, just like this.”

I drag his shirt fully off, finally, and he lets me peel it away until it’s balled in my fist. I toss it to the ground, and all that’s left is bare skin and my open hands on it.

“I’m obsessed with you,” I whisper. “Tell me you believe me.”

Grant frowns, like he thinks I’m fucking with him, like he’s afraid I’ll take it all back.

I drag both hands up his chest, greedy, not caring how shameless I sound. Hips braced between my thighs, he rocks against me, and I stifle a gasp.

I circle my fingers over his chest, tracing the spread of soft hair down to his nipples, then go back up, just to see if he’ll react—which he does. When I brush my thumb over one, the muscle in his jaw jumps. I roll it, slow, and Grant hisses.

A delighted, wicked sound hums in my throat. “You’re sensitive here.” I flick over his nipple again, just to watch him flinch. “That’s so cute.” I glance up at him, big-eyed, as if butter wouldn’t melt. “Am I allowed to play, Doctor King?”

He breathes out hard, not quite a groan but close, his hands bruising around my ass as he pins me to the edge of the print table. I swirl my fingertip, rolling his nipple again, and this time it draws a sharp, involuntary arch out of him, his back bowing so his body presses against mine.

Holy shit, this man is actually dying. I’m going to kill him.

I can’t help myself—I lean in, mouth hovering, breath painting over the skin of his chest. “Please, Daddy?” I murmur, batting my lashes. “Can your baby girl play?”

He tries to answer, but the words tangle up in his throat. I flick my tongue out, tracing the dusky peak, and he moans—the kind of noise that borders on a whimper. No way is this real. No way am I getting to him this bad.