21. Toner and Warm Paper
Chapter Twenty-One
Toner and Warm Paper
Neve
Ipack up my shit fast, barely even bothering to throw my notes in the right folder. My thighs are literally shaking from pure, unadulterated horny rage. I can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside me. I’m soaked, ruined, and fucking fuming.
I march down the corridor with murder in my heart, still limping a little because of my ankle, even though I’ve now lost the moon boot.
I all but shove past the cleaning cart to duck into the staff print room with the key Cade gave me—Fia would never—hands trembling as I lock the door behind me and flick on the ancient overhead light.
The smell in here is toner and warm paper.
There’s a copier the size of a minivan in the middle of the room, with a rickety table next to it, covered in a graveyard of anonymous staff memos and unclaimed article printouts with journal watermarks scrolled across them.
I drop my bag, yank my skirt up, and flop against the edge of the table. My legs fall wide, and the scent of my own arousal perfumes the air. I grab my phone, open up our thread, and hit record on a voice note.
“Hey, Daddy,” I murmur, voice syrupy, even as it trembles with the afterimages of what he almost gave me.
I want to sound more aloof, but I just sound desperate.
Still, I also know this will work. “Just letting you know I’m in the staff print room, touching myself, since you obviously weren’t man enough to finish the job. ”
I angle my phone down, just in case he can’t hear the obscene, wet sound of my fingers working my clit. I play up the breathy gasp I can’t stifle, hoping it’s driving him just as insane as his behavior is driving me.
My voice shakes with urgency, but I want him to hear how desperate he’s got me.
“Guess I’ll just have to listen to your voice notes and imagine you’re here,” I pant into the phone.
“That’s what you want, right? To know I’m touching myself for you, Daddy?
To know I’m so wet for you, your baby girl can barely even think, let alone be good?
You don’t really want that, do you? You don’t want me to be good; you just want me to be yours. ”
Nobody has ever made me crazed like this. I’m babbling, the pulse in my neck is wild, and my panties are ruined. I want him so bad it’d be legitimately concerning if it didn’t feel so good.
“I’m picturing you right now,” I whisper.
“The weight of you, all plush and heated skin, pressing me down until I can’t move.
Want your cock pinned against my stomach.
I’ve seen you, Daddy, I know you’ll make me sob with it.
I want your hands everywhere. Want you inside me, stretching me, teasing me until I’m a mess for you. I want it. I want you.”
The words break, but I force myself to keep going.
“If you want me to beg, I’ll beg,” I whimper. “Is that what you want, Daddy? Your needy baby girl begging for your cock? You hear me? I’m begging. Please, please, please.”
I let the voice note end there, but I don’t slow my fingers in my panties. I watch the message flick to “read.” The dots show up instantly, a little pulse of blue at the bottom of the screen.
Professor Daddy:
Stay right there. Don’t you dare fucking move.
My heart detonates in my chest. The words punch straight through me, heat and panic and wild, rabid satisfaction. Finally. I broke him.
I sag back against the table, legs still spread, skirt hiked around my waist, panties slipping down to my knees. My fingers buzz, but I can’t force myself to stop rolling lazy, torturous circles.
The recycled air in the staff print room is hot and humming as the copier buzzes behind me.
My blood is so loud I barely even hear the footsteps, but I sure as hell hear the key crank noisily.
Grant King bursts into the room, then kicks the door shut like he’s breaking and entering.
He turns and locks it roughly, and the next second, he’s on me.
He grabs my wrist, yanking my hand away from my pussy so hard my entire body jolts. I gasp. He pins me to the rickety table, hips crowding between my thighs, spreading me so wide my adductors sing. His hands are huge and furious as they clamp down on me.
“You don’t touch what’s mine,” he growls. “Do you hear me? This pussy, this body—they belong to me.”
I whimper. I can’t help it. The words send sparks skittering over my skin. “Please.”
“Please what?” he demands, mouth hot at my jaw.
“Please, fuck me, Daddy,” I moan. “I need it. Please.”
Grant yanks my ruined panties the rest of the way down, hauling me right to the edge of the table. My hands scrabble for purchase on the gritty edge of the table, the ancient laminate biting into my palms. He’s so big, all heat and fury and unforgiving presence, looming over me.
There’s nothing gentle in him right now. I feel the blunt, hard bulge of him through the placket of his jeans, nudging my swollen opening, and my hips buck, greedy as hell for it before he’s even unzipped himself. Grant hisses through his teeth, and his hips rock forward.
I choke on my moan. He feels so fucking good, I could cry, and he’s not even inside me yet.
“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.