20. Eyes on Your Notes
Chapter Twenty
Eyes on Your Notes
Neve
The library is quiet. It’s been a full day since I basically dared Grant to take action on whatever is going on between us. I didn’t explicitly state it, but I hope he works it out soon—that the line I want him to cross is him coming to me first. I want him to make the first move.
I know I’ve already made him out of control—I’ve seen it—but I want him truly reckless. Not so much that he puts either of us in danger, but I want him to need me. Maybe that’s a little mean, but I’ve seen what Grant King looks like when he’s barely leashed.
I want him unmoored.
It’s late. Like, barely-anybody-else-here late. I don’t think I’ve seen another human being who is definitely not actually a library poltergeist in about an hour. That is, until Grant King saunters into the back corner of the library where I am, and sits down next to me like it’s nothing.
I freeze, highlighter hovering over the page I’m attempting to annotate. I now cannot remember a single thing I’ve read in the entire evening I’ve been here, or possibly my whole life.
He leans back in the chair, and it creaks. Damn, he looks good. Dark Henley with the sleeves pushed up, black jeans, boots. He’s wearing these little wire-framed glasses, which is frankly unfair. Then he pulls out a fucking Maya Mercy paperback.
My lips part, and I almost laugh, but then I remember that I want to try and keep the upper hand. I know I won’t, but I still want to put up a bit of faux resistance. Especially because I know that he wants me to, whether he admits it or not.
I swallow hard as he gets his phone out, glancing around surreptitiously.
My own phone buzzes on the desk a few moments later.
Professor Daddy:
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.”
A breath shakes out of me, and my next inhale goes absolutely nowhere. Grant smirks, then slides one thick finger inside me without preamble.
“Fuck—” I bite my lip hard to cut myself off, almost biting straight through it.
He curls his finger, and my chair creaks as my back bows. I look around, trying to check if there’s anyone anywhere near us, but Grant clears his throat loudly, and my gaze snaps back to his face.
“Eyes on your notes, Miss Hart.”
I force my head down, focusing on a line I’m definitely not reading. I’m not even sure if I remember how to read. I rock down against his hand, where his palm provides broad pressure on my clit.
“Greedy,” he chides, but there’s a smile in his voice. I want to look up and see, but I’m a little afraid of what’ll happen if I disobey him.
“Yes,” I hiss. “For you, baby.”
His hand freezes. I watch his whole body go still in my peripheral vision. My heart plummets, thinking I might’ve fucked it up, but he doesn’t recoil.
“I—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts me off, voice barely more substantial than breath. He moves again, finger sliding out of me, torturously slow, then back inside—this time, accompanied by a second.
His hands are so big—his fingers are so thick—I’m having a hard time not letting my eyes roll right back in my skull. Grant’s thumb finds my clit, just a glancing pass, and I jolt in the chair, the metal feet scraping the thin carpet.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers, but I think he knows the answer. “Just say the word, angel. You want a bag of that candy you like?”
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss.
He huffs a soft laugh, leaning slightly closer. I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and rough, like vetiver and pine. I’m instantly obsessed with it. I want it all over me.
His fingers slide deeper, and the air shoots from my lungs. I grip the edge of the desk with one hand, my highlighter with the other, so the barrel of the pen creaks.
“Please,” I whimper, hips rolling.
Grant hums, as if he’s reading lines in an article or in his paperback. I’ve read Maya Mercy books before—I know they’re open-door. I would say that I can’t believe this man reads smut, but I totally can.
“Please what?” he murmurs, voice like black ice.
“Let me—” My voice breaks, and I choke on the words as he curls his fingers, thumb pressing hard into my clit. “Let me come, please. Please.”
He smirks, fingers speeding up, and for a second, I really think he’s going to let me. Fucking stupid of me to think that. “You want Daddy to make you come right here, baby girl?”
I swallow my whimper, but I’m nodding.
“Please, Daddy,” I whisper, voice barely sounding like me. “Please, please—”
Then his hand is gone.
The sudden emptiness is violent.
I snap my head toward him, stunned and completely breathless. Grant keeps his eyes on his paperback, open on the desk with the spine cracked brutally. I blink, unsure of what to say.
My mouth opens, but he beats me to it.
“Only good girls get to come, Miss Hart,” he mutters, still not looking up.
A breath soughs out of me, a truly humiliating sound. “You’re a monster.” I legitimately sound as if I’m about to burst into tears; I actually might.
“You’re dripping down your thighs,” he counters, as if that means jack shit.
He finally glances at me. His green eyes are dark, but his expression is totally unbothered. “Clean yourself up,” he says, voice rough and low. “And maybe next time, behave, and you’ll get what you want.”
My lips part as I watch him stand, movement graceful despite his size. He closes his book and swipes it up, walking away without another word. All I can do is stare after him.
I jolt as I hear the door to the study section slam shut, and it propels me into action; I’m left with no option other than to go nuclear.