26. Fuel on the Fire
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fuel on the Fire
Neve
Grant’s grip tightens as he carries me down the hallway to his ensuite. I feel his mouth at my jaw, beard scraping in a way that makes my toes curl even though I’m basically a pile of overcooked noodles right now. “You did so well for me, angel. I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful.”
I can’t help but preen, just a little, and he must feel it because he kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my forehead. “Can I get you cleaned up?”
“Only if you join me,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches as he sets me down just outside the shower, careful, leaning past me to flip the water on.
Steam curls up between us, glass fogging.
The light in here is soft, golden, and blurry.
Grant crowds up behind me, stripping the Henley over my head and kissing the top of my spine as it comes free, then he nudges me into the shower tray.
He strips off his sweats and steps in after me, his cock fat and flushed, jutting out heavy between his thick thighs.
I can’t stop watching it, how it bobs as he moves, the soft hair on the plush curve of his stomach catching the beading steam.
He doesn’t try to hide from me this time, and I revel in it, in him letting me see him, enjoy him.
Grant gets the soap, lathers his hands, and runs them so slow, so careful, over my body.
No rush. No hurry. He washes me like he’s just indulging himself in getting to touch me again, every curve, every inch, lingering at the grip stains he left on my ass, at the soft insides of my thighs where his beard burned me raw, and the mark he bit there, blooming dark red.
It stings sweet when he thumbs over it, proprietary.
“You good?” he asks, not looking up from where he carefully washes me.
“I’m perfect. You’re perfect.” I swallow hard as the words clog my throat, but then spill out anyway, musical, tangled up with a nervous laugh I can’t hope to modulate. “I think we are perfect, Grant King.”
His gaze lifts, soft and searching, and his mouth parts.
I’m powerless to resist leaning in to kiss him, slow, indulgent, tasting myself on his tongue.
A low sigh rumbles in his chest as his hands slide around my back, pulling me closer, no space between us, the hard line of his erection trapped between the soft of my belly and the soft of his as the water thunders around us, rolling down the glass, steam sparkling in the air.
I think I mean it. I think we really are perfect.
He kisses me again, slow and sweet, almost shy, like he’s not sure how much I want, but he’s hungry to give it anyway.
As if I haven’t made it clear that I want everything.
But if there’s anything I’ve learned about Grant King, it’s that he’s terrified of wanting too much and being shot down.
It’s almost like he’s the perfect mirror of me, and like I’m the perfect thing for him.
He’s afraid of wanting too much—I’ve always been told I’m too much.
Maybe we really are perfect.
I melt, body softening into him, arms winding around his neck. The water pearls over his shoulders, shining in the golden haze. His beard is wet from the spray, auburn and silver flashing, and I shiver at the way his mouth gentles over mine, teasing, savoring.
When I flick my tongue along the seam of his lips, he opens for me, just a little, and I give chase, greedy. I could eat kisses for breakfast if they taste like Grant King.
He groans, shivering under my palms. The sound goes straight to my core.
His cock presses thick and hot between us, impossible to ignore.
I let my hand slide down, slick with soap and water, running my palm over his stomach, letting my fingers squeeze the plush heat of him, then lower, curling around his length.
He jolts, breath catching, but doesn’t stop me.
I stroke him, slow first, then firmer, thumb tracing the swollen crown and the bead of precum leaking down. He’s so hard for me. It’s hot, the way his whole body tenses, the way his eyes flutter when I squeeze, just a little mean.
He tries to catch my mouth again, but I pull back, grinning just a hair away from his lips. “You’re allowed to just let me take care of you, you know,” I whisper. “You took care of me.”
Grant’s hands find my waist. “That’s not… You know this isn’t transactional, right? You don’t owe me anything.”
I stroke him again, savoring the flex in his thighs, the way his hips rock into my grip. “I know,” I breathe, kissing down his jaw. “I want to. Please, Grant. Let me make you feel good?”
He hesitates, but the want in his eyes is nuclear. I can see how hard he’s trying to keep it leashed. I drop to my knees, letting my hands slide up my sides to the soft of my breasts, pressing them together in my grip.
A breath punches out of him as he watches, and my whole body lights up at the sound.
I tilt my chin up. “You let me make a mess of you, will you make a mess of me?”
He stares down at me, chest heaving. The water runs in sheets over his body, and I can smell sex and soap and the clean heat of him, thick around us in the steam.
“How is it possible for someone to be so perfect?” he murmurs, almost to himself.
I grin up at him. “I could say the same about you. Now come on my tits, and maybe if you make a big enough mess of me—I’ll let you fuck them next time.”
Grant’s eyes go animal and bright, but all the calculations behind them go dark. He grips his cock, slow, the water streaming over his hand, and the sound he makes is pure, unfiltered want.
“God, Neve.” He strokes himself, the flushed head gliding slick through his fist. “You have no idea how bad I want to see my cum all over these tits.”
I press them closer together for effect. My tongue flashes over my lower lip, and his eyes turn murderous.
“I could make a mess of you,” he says, voice low. “But I have a better idea.”
I pout. It’s shameless, but so am I. “How could there possibly be a better idea than that?”
He grins, mean and soft at once, thumb circling the crown of his cock, squeezing out another bead of slick just to watch me watch it. I’m obsessed. I want to taste it. I want to chase it down his length with my tongue.
“Tell me something,” he says, stepping in close. “Do you want to know more about my research?”
My mouth goes dry. The words flicker, but I can’t land on any of them.
Kink Imagery in Non-Group settings.
I swallow, chest fluttering. “Yes?”
He arches a brow, patient. “Yes, what?”
The air in the shower goes tight, like he’s burning off the oxygen between us.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper. “Tell me. Please.”
He smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that should come with a warning label. “Good girl.”
He leans down, hauling me to my feet. His hands slide down my arms, lifting them over my head to pin my wrists. The tile behind me is so cold it burns. His cock throbs hard and heavy between us.
He kisses me, tongue rough and devouring, then pulls back. His eyes narrow—all tease, no menace. “You really want the data?”
“I want the data, the footnotes, and the case studies,” I say, and he grins, grip tightening on my wrists. My back arches into the tile. Steam haloes behind his head, like he’s some kind of dirty, delicious archangel—which, I don’t know, maybe he is.
He lowers his mouth to my ear, his voice a rough shiver.
“The real premise of my research? It’s about how kink imagery hits different when you’re not in a group setting or with an audience.
When it’s just you and someone else, the feedback loop is everything.
That’s what gets people off. Not just the fantasy, but the way it bounces between you and your partner and amps up every time you admit what you want. ”
I let myself savor that for exactly one second. “You mean if I tell you exactly how I want to get fucked, it’ll make you want it more?”
“Not just me, angel. It works both ways.” He nuzzles down my throat, tongue flicking the knot of my pulse, then pins me with a look.
“You ever notice how, when you say what you want out loud, the need gets sharper? How if I say, ‘I want to fuck you against the tiles until you can’t stand,’ it actually makes both of us hungrier for it? ”
Oh, shit.
I shudder, hips rocking helplessly against his. “Yeah, that’s—yeah. Also, yes, please.”
He grins, and the sheer force of it feels like a knee to the chest, so the breath wheezes out of me.
“When it’s just you and your partner, the imagery—the words, the details, the fantasy—it’s gotta be dialed up.
You don’t have the extra ‘fuel on the fire’ of additional parties in the scene, so to speak.
And when your partner reacts, when they give you feedback?
It’s like gasoline. It amplifies the arousal.
It makes everything hotter, filthier, and best of all—more real. ”
My mouth goes dry. “Like, if I said I want you to bend me over the counter and spank me until I cry, and you told me you want to see tears streaming down my face while you fuck me… It’s not just hotter, it could be exponential.”
Grant groans. “Exactly. You create the fantasy together—in real time. Every word, every sound, every look? It feeds the loop. It’s why hearing your own wants reflected back at you is such a high.”
I’m vibrating; no other word for it.
His hand slides down my arm, over my shoulder, closing around my throat. My breath catches. “What if I told you I want to squeeze? Does that scare you? Do you need to celebrate a small victory?”
I shake my head as much as I can when his huge hand is wrapped around my neck. “No. I’d say yes. Please. I’d say I want you to hold me like this while you fuck me. Please, Daddy?”
Grant groans, the sound of a man seconds from losing it. His hand tightens around my throat—not a real squeeze, but the threat that a squeeze exists.
“God, baby girl,” he rasps. “You want Daddy to choke you while he fucks you against this wall?”