Page 8 of The KING Review

I drop myself into the sunken corner of my couch, where the cushions have molded to the shape of me sitting and reading over the years. I grab my book—the latest Maya Mercy release, because I’m a sucker for a good indie romance—but I can barely focus on the words, even though it’s my favorite trope… which now seems ironic, given that it’s a “forbidden relationship.” I shake my head.

When I drop it to pick up a recently released literature review on sexual misconduct rates in kink-friendly spaces, my phone buzzes. I freeze. The slip of paper, still in the jeans I’m still wearing, feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds.

I grab my phone, flipping it over.

413-555-0196:

hypothetically, if a student texted her hot professor, would that be… a) wildly inappropriate, b) a violation of university policy, c) kinda worth it, d) all of the above?

My mouth parts as I stare down at the screen, fighting the smile that wants to tilt my lips. I shouldn’t be smiling at this. I especially shouldn’t be thinking that the answer is definitely d) all of the above.

I roll my lips in, trying to kill the smile with my teeth as I type back, hands shaking a little.

Me:

Hypothetically, if that professor were to ask the bold, off-limits student where she got his number, would the answer be: A) her overinvolved sister, B) her sister’s fiancé?

I pretend I’m not waiting for her response by putting my phone back on the coffee table and sitting back in the chair—but I know I’m not reading this literature review tonight. I drum my fingers on my leg, then pick my phone up again. Neve hasn’t responded yet, but I go into the text conversation again, renaming her contact to “Don’t” while I wait (and pretend not to wait).

The buzzing in my hand almost makes me launch my phone across the room in surprise. Then it buzzes again, and again, and then a final time.

Don’t:

c) both, actually

honestly, I just wanted to see if they’d both give in

Fia sees it as an experiment, tbh

and I think Cade just wants chaos

I smirk despite myself. I knew she’d be the type of person to send a bunch of fragments where a single message would do. I don’t know what to do with the fact that I already deduced that about her—that I’d been considering details like that about her at all—but before I can think of a response, my phone thrums again, vibrations radiating through my palm.

Don’t:

I think the best way to work our little bet is to do text only to start with.

I can’t stifle the pulse of heat that zips down my spine at the phrase “to start with.”

Like there’s more to come. As if I hadn’t already realized that. As if a man like me isn’t powerless at the hands of a woman like Neve Hart. I attempt neutrality, but I know I’m about to fold like a lawn chair.

Me:

You’re serious? I haven’t agreed to anything yet.

Don’t:

I mean, you messaged me back

Me:

Implied consent is not consent.

Don’t:

you’re totally right

I’ve got all evening, just relaxing at home at the end of a loooong day