Chapter 3
William
The sun is shining like it’s personally decided to reward me for surviving another chaotic week, and I’m not about to waste a single second of it.
No lectures, no undergrad tutorials, no admin department bull-crap breathing down my neck.
Just me, my favorite running shoes, and a rare stretch of empty time before the academic machine starts grinding again tomorrow.
I lace up quickly in the tiny hallway of my apartment, glancing at Twist where he’s perched on the arm of the couch like a furry little sentinel. His dark eyes seem to approve of my decision.
“Wish me luck, Twist,” I murmur, giving his head a quick pat. “Today’s all about clearing my head.”
I slip out the door before I can talk myself into staying in with a book and a blanket fort. The city air already feels warmer than usual, carrying that fresh, almost hopeful scent that only happens on mornings like this.
My hair bounces flops from side to side as I jog the familiar route toward the park two blocks over.
I’m wearing my cutest running outfit today—retro green shorts that hug my quads just right and a white top with tiny stars across my pecs that Davey got me for my last birthday.
It’s not exactly high-performance gear, but it makes me feel a little more like myself…
And a little more Little, even if no one else can tell.
“Okay, here we go,” I say, psyching myself up.
The park comes into view almost too soon, the tall iron gates thrown open to welcome the early risers.
It’s quieter than I expected for such perfect weather. No screaming kids chasing soccer balls, no clusters of dog walkers arguing over leashes. Just the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant quack of ducks on the lake.
I pick up my pace a little, feet hitting the gravel path in a steady rhythm that matches the thump of my heart. The path curves around the water, sunlight glinting off the surface like scattered diamonds.
And then there they are…my favorite little family of mallards, bobbing along the edge like they own the place.
I slow just enough to wave at them, a silly grin spreading across my face. “Morning, guys! Don’t mind me, just passing through!”
One of the ducklings tilts its head like it’s actually listening, and I laugh under my breath. It’s ridiculous, but it feels good. Normal. The kind of simple joy that reminds me why I dragged myself out here instead of hiding under my covers with Twist and a cup of cocoa.
I wave at the mallards again for good measure and push onward, letting the path pull me deeper into the park.
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 was different. 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.
I push harder, trying to outrun the thoughts.
The path slopes gently upward here, and I lean into it, arms pumping, my legs powering me along. Sweat beads along my hairline and trickles down my back. Good. Let the physical burn chase away the mental one.
But every time I think I’ve got it under control, his face flashes behind my eyes again—those dark eyes locking onto mine, that hint of a smile like he already knew I was his type. Shy. A Little trying so hard to pretend he’s just another boy in the club.
The final stretch of the loop comes into view, the park exit gates glinting ahead. I don’t give myself time to think.
I sprint. Hard.
My lungs burn and my thighs scream, but I push through it, arms slicing the air, feet pounding the gravel like I can leave every inappropriate thought behind me in the dust. By the time I burst through the gates and slow to a walk, I’m gasping, chest heaving, legs shaky.
The arousal is still there, simmering under the surface, but the sprint took the edge off.
I walk the rest of the way home at a brisk pace, the city noise gradually swallowing the peaceful quiet of the park. Horns blare, pedestrians weave around me, but I keep my head down and focus on cooling down.
Deep breaths.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
By the time I push open the door to my building, my heart rate has mostly settled.
Inside my apartment, I kick off my shoes and peel off my socks, grateful for the cool tile under my feet. Twist is still waiting right where I left him. I scoop him up and bury my face in his soft fur for a second, letting his familiar scent ground me.
“You wouldn’t believe the thoughts I was having out there, Twist,” I whisper. “Totally inappropriate for a morning jog.”
Twist doesn’t judge. He never does.
I set him back down gently and head straight for the bathroom…
A shower. That’s what I need. Cold water to shock my system back into academic mode.
I strip quickly, leaving my sweaty clothes in a pile by the door, and step under the spray before it even has time to warm up. The chill hits me like a slap, goosebumps erupting across my skin.
Perfect. Exactly what I…
The water hasn’t even soaked through my hair before my traitorous brain conjures him again.
But this time it’s worse. Waaay worse.
I see Kane in my mind’s eye, stepping into the shower behind me, fully clothed at first, dark suit getting soaked as he presses me against the cool tiles.
His hands—big, strong, commanding—would slide down my sides, gripping my hips like he owns them.
That gravelly voice would murmur right against my ear, “You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you, Just William?
” And I’d whimper, because yes… yes I have.
My hand moves before I can stop it, trailing down my stomach, over my lightly defined abs. The water is still cold, but my skin feels like it’s on fire. I bite my lip as my fingers dip lower, brushing over the dick that was hard as nails for the best part of my run.
A soft gasp escapes me. I circle slowly at first, eyes fluttering shut as I grab my shaft, imagining it’s his hand instead.
Kane’s fingers would be thicker, rougher from whatever work a man like him does.
He’d take his time. Tease me until I was begging in that breathy Little voice I only ever use when I feel truly safe.
“Kane…” I whisper to the empty shower, the name tasting forbidden on my tongue. My fingers move faster, sliding up and down.
I picture him watching me, dark eyes hungry, that neat beard brushing my neck as he leans in. “Such a shy boy,” he’d say, and then he’d push his cock inside me without warning, make me scream, make me beg for more.
I’m wanking my cock hard and fast now, and I moan louder than I mean to, the sound echoing off the tiles. My free hand braces against the wall as my knees start to tremble.
I’m so close already.
The tension from the run, the days of trying to forget him—it all coils tight in my belly, ready to snap. My fingers grip harder, faster, chasing that edge. I imagine him growling my name, telling me I’m his good boy, that he’s going to take care of everything if I just let go…
But out of nowhere my phone rings.
The shrill tone cuts through the steam like a fire alarm. I jolt so hard I nearly slip, yanking my hand away like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“Shit!” Water splashes everywhere as I fumble for the faucet, shutting it off with shaking fingers. My body is still humming, frustrated and unfinished, but the moment is shattered.
I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, dripping a trail across the bathroom floor as I hurry to the bedroom where my phone is vibrating on the nightstand. A missed call from the university main line. Great. I tap the voicemail icon and hold the phone to my ear, still trying to catch my breath…
“Hi William, this is Margaret from the department office. Just wanted to let you know that the interlibrary loan book you requested… Victorian Women Writers and the Post Industrial Imagination… has finally arrived. It’s waiting for you at the front desk of the main library.
Sorry for the delay, you know how these things go. Come by anytime today!”
I let out a long breath, relief and disappointment mixing in my chest. The book. My shiny new escape hatch. Exactly what I need to bury myself in nineteenth-century prose and forget all about mysterious Russian men with voices that make my knees weak.
I towel off quickly, the cool air raising fresh goosebumps on my still-flushed skin. My body protests the sudden halt, but I ignore it. I pull on a soft oversized sweater and my favorite jeans, comfy enough for a quick campus run but cute enough that I don’t feel like a total mess.
A quick brush through my damp hair, a swipe of lip balm, and I’m ready. Twist gets a final pat on the head before I put him in my backpack.
“Library time, little guy,” I say. “No more naughty thoughts today. Promise.”
I grab my backpack, slip my phone and keys inside, and head out the door before I can second-guess myself.
The walk to campus feels different now, purposeful. The sun is still bright, but the earlier heat in my veins has cooled to a manageable simmer. I focus on the book waiting for me…
On the way the pages will smell like old paper and possibility.
On how I’ll curl up in my favorite corner of the library’s reading room with a notebook and lose myself in scholarly analysis until Kane is nothing but a distant, slightly embarrassing memory.
By the time the grand stone steps of the main library come into view, I’m smiling again. A real one this time. The kind that reaches my eyes. I’ve got this. I’m William Peeters, PhD candidate, Bronte devotee, and owner of the world’s most patient otter stuffie.
One random club encounter is not going to derail me.
I push open the heavy wooden doors, the familiar scent of books and quiet academia wrapping around me like a hug. Margaret waves from behind the circulation desk, already holding up a thick volume with a triumphant grin.
“Perfect timing,” Margaret calls. “It’s all yours.”
I take the book with both hands, feeling its solid weight like an anchor. This is what I need. Real life. My life. Not some fantasy about a man whose name I only know because he growled it at me in a crowded club.
I find my usual spot by the tall window overlooking the quad, crack open the book, and dive in.
The words on the page pull me under almost immediately…
gothic shadows, repressed desires, heroines fighting for their voices in a world that wants them silent.
It’s perfect. Comforting. Exactly the distraction I was hoping for.
But even as I scribble notes in the margin, a tiny, traitorous part of my mind whispers his name again. Kane. Just once. Like a secret.
I shove it down deeper, turn the page, and keep reading.
I’ve got a whole afternoon and probably evening ahead of me, and I’m going to use every single second of it to stay firmly, safely, in my own world.