Page 8 of Kane
I’m not a natural athlete the way some people are, but I can’t deny that getting out and running always does make me feel better, more tranquil somehow.
But today the peace doesn’t last long.
My mind starts wandering right back to where it’s been stuck for days now…
To him.
Kane.
I can still hear that low, gravelly voice cutting through the club noise like it was made for my ears alone. The way the words rolled out with that faint Russian accent, thick enough to notice, subtle enough to make my stomach flip.
I remember the shiver that raced down my spine when he said it, even though I was pretending not to listen. And then those eyes.
Dark.
Intense.
Eyes like they could see straight through my half-finished mocktail and my nervous rambling and right into the part of me I try to keep locked away.
Urgh. Quit it.
Just have fun in the sun.
Enjoy the run!
I shake my head, forcing my gaze back to the path ahead. The ducks are behind me now, their quacks fading into the background. My legs keep moving, but my thoughts refuse to cooperate.
I can picture him so clearly it’s almost unfair—late thirties, maybe older, with that black hair streaked with just enough silver to look distinguished rather than old. The neat facial hair framing a jaw that could cut glass. Full lips that barely twitched into a smile when he called me “Just William.”
God, the way he said it. It was like he was tasting my name. Like he already knew I was lying when I tried to brush him off.
My breathing is getting a little heavier, and it’s not just from the run. Heat pools low in my belly, and blood travels fast to my dick, uninvited and insistent. I remember how he stepped closer at the bar, the clean, spicy scent of him cutting through the club’s mix of perfume and spilled drinks.
Kane wasn’t loud or flashy like some of the other Daddies I’ve seen around. No, he wasdifferent. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to make you pay attention. The kind of man who could say one word and have you melting.
But as calm as he seemed, there was an undertone to him. Something dangerous, wild or even out of control. I don’t know how I picked up on that, but I did. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.
A soft whimper escapes me before I can catch it. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my tank top, and I feel my dick harden way beyond the semi I was already feeling inside my running shorts.
This is ridiculous.
I barely spoke to the guy for two minutes. He’s a stranger. A hot, mysterious, probably dangerous stranger who looked at me like he wanted to unwrap every single one of my carefully built defenses.
I try to focus on the burn in my calves, the way the sun warms my shoulders, the distant sound of a fountain splashing somewhere deeper in the park. Anything but him.
It doesn’t work.
I imagine what it would feel like if he were here right now—running beside me, that steel in his voice telling me to keep running even when my legs start to protest. “Good boy,” he’d say, low and approving, and I’d feel it all the way down to my toes.
My pace falters for a second as a fresh wave of arousal hits me. I can almost feel his hand on the small of my back, guiding me, steadying me.Dominant. The kind of Daddy energy that makes a Little like me want to drop to his knees and beg for rules and praise and maybe, just maybe, a firm hand on my ass if I forget them.
“Stop it, William,” I mutter aloud, cheeks flushing hotter than the morning sun could ever make them.
I’m twenty-three, a PhD student with a stack of papers to grade and a thesis chapter due next month. I do not have time to be fantasizing about a random man from a club who probably forgot I existed the second I bolted out the door.
But my body isn’t listening.
The ache between my legs is growing, my dick making a steady throb that syncs with each footfall. My shorts feel too tight, the seam rubbing in exactly the wrong—and right—way.
