11. The Story Moon #2
I listen to the voice note again, wondering if I should say any of what’s in my head, if I’d even know how to articulate it, or if the right move is to keep my mouth shut and just be grateful for the validation.
I’m not built for gratitude. I want it in technicolor—I want to break it down, inspect every part, figure out why it’s happening to me, and how I can keep it close for as long as possible.
It’s fucking pathetic.
Me:
I wish I could see myself that way. I guess I’ve got more to unpack at therapy.
Neve’s reply is almost instant, and I take comfort in the fact that she’s spawn-camping our message thread the same way I am.
Don’t:
real therapy or our pretend-but-real therapy sessions?
(ngl I think I prefer the latter)
I snort, air rushing out of me so fast I almost choke on it.
Me:
Both.
Don’t:
wow, multitasking, I see you
you’re a therapist’s dream aren’t you, doctor kink
My mouth pops open.
She doesn’t try to cover it—I don’t expect her to. This is Neve Hart, after all. The woman who greeted me as ‘Professor Daddy Grant King’ in front of her sister and soon-to-be brother-in-law.
Don’t:
wowwww oh my god
sorry, guess I had something else on my mind
Freud would have a field day huh
The laugh that rumbles up is all chest, warm and a little mean. I tap the screen, smirking despite myself.
Me:
Do you actually know what my research is?
Don’t
no??
Should I?
Pop quiz?
I can practically hear the sarcasm in her voice.
Me:
You know your sister got the idea for the name acronym from me, right?
There’s a beat. I can see her thinking. I can feel her thinking, the way she holds her breath behind digital dots.
Don’t:
you’re shitting me
Me:
Not even a little.
I wish I could see her. I want to see the cogs turning as she tries to figure me out. I want the body language cues I’ve told her would be an extra weapon in my hands.
The next thing that comes through is a voice note. I hesitate before I tap play, knowing we’re moving into dangerous territory.
I can’t find it in myself to care.
Her voice is lower. Strained at the edges, even though I can tell she’s trying to keep it steady. “Okay, fine. I’ll bite. At least, if you ask nicely.” A breathy laugh rolls out of her at her own lewd joke. My dick twitches in my sweats. “Tell me about your research, Doctor King. Please?”
It’s the “please” at the end, just a little tacky from her tongue, that nearly melts my spine.
I can’t voice note back. Not if I want to avoid embarrassing myself. So, I type it out instead, in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control—even though I can feel it slipping fast. Part of me doesn’t even want to try to hang on.
Me:
Kink Imagery in Non-Group Settings. That was my PhD thesis.
Neve goes radio silent, but only for about thirty seconds.
Don’t:
sorry I’ve been spelling your name wrong all this time Doctor Kiings
The sound that leaves me is a full-body groan. I can practically hear the low, lilting deadpan in her voice. I rest my head in my hands, laughing into my palms, feeling every muscle in my body coil tight with wanting.
If she thinks this is a game, she’s got another thing coming.
My pulse hammers in my ears. My body is electric, keyed up with the kind of hunger that’s half adrenaline and half something else I’m not even sure I know how to name.
I’m a textbook case of telegraphing arousal.
Posture open, flushed all over, and I’m sure if I looked in the mirror, my pupils would be like black holes.
Neve Hart is merciless in the best possible way, and it’s clear she knows exactly what she’s doing. I can see it with razor clarity—her, stretched out on her sofa, toes curling, mouth twisting around something clever and obscene as she dangles me on the fucking hook.
She’s taunting me. I kind of love it. I also kind of want to prove a point. I hold down the record button before I can overthink it.
“You’re a brat, aren’t you, Miss Hart?” My voice comes out low, rougher than I mean, but I don’t care.
“I don’t know why that surprises me. It shouldn’t.
” I let a slow, dark laugh rumble out, because I know what it’ll do to her.
I want her to feel it all the way down, a dark pulse between those sinful thighs.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for. God, if I could put my hands on you…”
I catch myself just before I say something I can’t take back—as if I haven’t already—and my thumb hovers over the delete button. I debate for a second.
Fuck it.
My hands tremble as I watch the sent icon pop up on the thread. The seconds drip like cold molasses. I’m already regretting sending it. I shouldn’t have. It was dangerous before, now I don’t know what happens next.
Then her reply hits.
Don’t:
I’m soaking through my underwear right now and it’s all your fault
I grab the edge of the countertop on reflex. The words are like a straight shot of something stronger than straight liquor, hot and dizzying. I know she’s not bluffing. Neve doesn’t just say shit like that. Sure, she says shit for effect, but she doesn’t lie.
I can see her. I wish I really could. Stretched out, wearing a soft old tank top and lace panties, that yellow-gold hair wild, thighs spread, fingers absently tracing circles over the fabric, just to take the edge off.
Fuck.
I wonder if she is—if she’s actually touching herself right now?
I clench my jaw. I consider deleting the whole thread, then her number, but I know I’m not strong enough to do it.
Instead, I give in.
Me:
Send me a photo. Not everything. Just enough.
The dots chase each other for a few seconds before her answer pops up.
Don’t:
you want proof?
The sound I make comes from deep in my chest. She wants to play?
Fine. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to see her.
I want all of it. I don’t give a shit about some dumb challenge about begging to see her, begging to touch her.
I’d beg on my knees right now. I want to possess her.
I want her in the palm of my hand, blushing and wet, desperate for me.
I want her to know exactly what she’s doing to me.
Me:
No. I want permission. I want to see what I do to you. Show me, Neve. Now.
My hand is shaking. I stare at the screen, every muscle tense and expectant. Six minutes crawl by. I’m rock hard, keyed up, every sense dialed to eleven, waiting for the next move. I want her to give up control, just for a second.
The photo comes through after the seventh minute.
My breath punches out of me so sharply it’s almost painful. My mouth goes dry.
It’s all tease, every pixel curated for maximum ruin.
The inner sweep of her thigh is luminous with arousal, the edge of dark blue lace, clinging to skin, the shadowy dip where the fabric meets the curve of her pussy.
Just the tips of her manicured fingers are hooked in the hem, not pulling it down, not even baring anything that would be considered explicit.
But it’s enough to make my pulse spike so hard I see stars for a second, no joke.
Don’t:
all your fault
It’s not enough, not by a fucking mile. But my body reacts like she’s right here in the room, sprawled out on my kitchen counter, waiting for me to put my hands (and mouth, and teeth, and everything) on her. Fuck, I wish she was.
I grin despite myself, even though I feel utterly helpless against this woman. My reply goes almost without thinking.
Me:
That’s cruel.
I could leave it there. I definitely should. But I’m not a coward. I want her to know exactly what she’s doing to me. I want her to know that if I had her under me now, I’d make her beg for it, and love every second she spent squirming.
Me:
You really have no idea what I’d do to you if I had you under me right now.
My hand is still wrapped tight around the edge of the counter. I force myself not to touch my cock, even though I’m so hard it’s basically torture.
Six seconds. Ten. I picture her reading, her skin flushed, her hips rolling restlessly against the sofa, or her hand, or both.
Don’t:
I can’t wait to find out
but it’s late, and I have an early class tomorrow
I’ll think of you when I touch myself before I fall asleep
The image detonates in my mind.
Neve, golden and flushed, writhing, one hand between her thick thighs, the other playing with those perfect, firm little tits. Eyes closed, but her mouth soft, needy, panting my name.
My laugh is rough and involuntary.
Me:
Likewise.
I hit send, then brace my elbows on the counter and hang my head, fighting for air.
I want her. More than I’ve wanted anything in a damn long time.
Not just this, not just a dirty photo at 9 p.m., but the whole thing.
All of her, the way she says she wants all of me, if I could bring myself to believe it.
My heart is hammering so hard it feels like it could escape my chest, and I can’t stop smiling.
She doesn’t message back, the consummate tease that she is—but it’s okay. I can wait. I want to wait. She wants me desperate for her, but I want her desperate for me, too.