Page 88 of The KING Review

“You know what it does to me, seeing you in my shirt?” His voice is lower now, thick with sleep and something that hits right between my thighs.

I wrap my hands around the edge of the counter behind me, bracing for impact. “No,” I say, soft, knowing exactly how bratty it sounds. “Tell me.”

His hands land on my hips, big and rough and so hot it burns. He slides them up, under the shirt, bare palms finding skin and making me gasp.

Grant leans in, mouth at my jaw. “Drives me fucking crazy. Even more when I know you’re not wearing a damn thing underneath.” His hands cup my ass, squeezing, thumbs tracing the lines of soft flesh. “It drives me crazy that you wanted to make me breakfast. I’m starving.”

My breath stutters, and I tilt my chin up, inviting more. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “But not for eggs.”

He drops to his knees, spreading my thighs apart as he gazes up at me. The cold air hits me, followed by the heat of his breath.

“I need to taste you again, angel. Tell me I can.”

My brain shorts out for a second. Words are gone, replaced by white noise, hot and fizzing. I grip the counter for dear life, forcing my voice to work. “Yeah,” I manage. “Yes. Please.”

The smile that cracks across his face is pure predator. Grant licks me once, broad and slow, then glances up, eyes gone black. “You taste so fucking good. I’ll never get tired of it.”

I whimper. My hands go to his hair automatically, tangling through the sleep-mussed strands, and I can feel the vibration of his groan all the way through my skin.

“God, baby, you’re so fucking good at that,” I gasp, hips rocking into his face like I’m starved for it. Which, okay, I am, and I have zero shame about it. I want him to know how much I want it, how much I want him. My whole body is tuned to every scrape of his beard, every flick of his tongue. He eats me like he’s never had a better meal.

And then, without warning, he snaps his hands to my ass and shoves me up onto the kitchen counter like I weigh nothing. The world tilts wild. My bare thighs hit cold resin, my back arches, and Grant crowds in after me, mouth barely even leaving my pussy.

I yelp, but all it does is fuel him. He sets my legs over his shoulders, palms bracing my hips wide. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel like a fucking goddess. I’m carved out of need, and he’s the only one who can worship me right.

“Look at you, angel,” he mutters, right against my skin. “Spread out, dripping for me. Is this how you want to be used? Sitting on my counter, soaking my beard while I make you scream?”

The sound I make is undignified. My head tips back until it hits the cabinet with a clunk.

“You want me to use my fingers, baby girl? I know you like that.”

“Yes—I⁠—”

His fingers are inside me before the words even finish. Two, thick and rough-tipped, thrusting deep, curling just right. My head slams back this time, making the cabinet door rattle. Grant is relentless, lapping at me like he’s starving.

“You’re so fucking wet for me.” His beard is scratchy, the heat of his breath like wildfire between my legs as he obsesses over my clit. “I could eat this pussy every single morning, you know that? I want you dripping down my chin every fucking breakfast. I want you soaking my beard before I even have coffee, baby girl.”

My hips jerk, chasing every thrust of his fingers.

He just laughs. “That’s it. You want to make a mess of me, don’t you? Like last night?”

I want it so bad I could sob, but all that comes out is a moan.

“Use your words,” Grant demands.

“I need it,” I whine. “Please, please, please⁠—”

Grant grins up at me, eyes dark. “Such a good, obedient girl. No holding back, okay? I want all of you.”

My entire body goes molten, and he fucks me harder, three fingers now. His tongue is merciless. I can’t breathe. I’m making noises I don’t recognize as human, just wild air and high keening sounds. The pressure builds so fast it’s like a fuse burning down, and then I detonate.

I come so hard I see white. The orgasm rips through me, and I feel the hot rush of liquid pulsing out of me, soaking his hand, his beard, and the counter under my ass.

“Oh my God, Grant, I—fuck⁠—”

I’ve never squirted in my life, but unless I’ve actually pissed myself, that’s exactly what happens. To my own mortification—because I’ve always considered myself sex-positive—humiliation is a lightning bolt slicing through the pleasure.