Chapter Four #2
Hongjoong’s smile drops. He sets his coffee down and his voice goes quieter.
“Yeah. I remember that too.” He pauses, looking at me steadily.
“I remember you making me rub ointment on the welts across your shins the next day at school. And then guilting me into buying you expensive pastries from my own allowance for a solid month as compensation.”
I take a deliberate bite of the cream roll, chew slowly, and shrug. “Funny how those things turn out.”
Hongjoong’s eyes drop to the pastry in my hand, then back up to my face, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
He looks pleased, softening the sharp lines of his face, making him look younger, closer to the boy I remember.
He picks up his coffee again and takes a long sip, watching me over the rim with sharp brown eyes, and doesn’t say anything else.
He doesn’t need to. The pastry is good, and the sun is warm, and for a few minutes we just sit there together like it’s been no time at all.
We finish our coffees like two old friends catching up on a Friday afternoon instead of what this actually is.
Hongjoong tosses the remaining pastries into a bag and hands them to me, saying I should take them home for later, and I don’t argue because they’re good and I already know Sungyoon will demolish them.
We settle up and part ways on the sidewalk, Hongjoong gathering Alto and Rennard’s leashes in one hand and lifting the other in a lazy wave as he heads off on foot toward his building.
I watch him go for a second, the red of his jacket obnoxious against the muted spring streetscape, the two borzois trotting alongside him with their silky ears streaming back in the breeze, and then I get in my car.
The drive to Hongjoong’s building takes about twelve minutes. I pull into the underground garage and find a spot. My sedan looks like it wandered in from a different postal code. I grab my overnight bag from the backseat, lock up, and take the elevator.
When the doors open on Hongjoong’s floor I don’t even get the chance to reach for the intercom.
The apartment door swings open before I’ve taken two steps down the hallway, and Hongjoong is standing there in the doorway with his jacket off and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, like he’s been waiting.
Behind him I can see Alto and Rennard already curled on their respective beds in the living room, long limbs folded elegantly beneath them, apparently worn out from the walk.
“That was fast,” I say.
“You drive like a grandmother.” He steps aside and tips his head. “Come on.”
I toe off my shoes in the entryway and set my bag against the wall.
Hongjoong doesn’t lead me toward the kitchen or the living room this time.
He walks straight down the hallway toward the bedroom and I follow, my pulse picking up, because I know what’s coming when we cross that threshold and my body is already responding to the thickening scent of his pheromones in the enclosed space of the apartment, warmth pooling low in my belly and my skin prickling with awareness.
But when we step into the bedroom, Hongjoong doesn’t reach for me.
Instead he veers toward the walk-in closet, disappears inside for a few seconds, and comes back out carrying a large sealed package in one hand and a bottle in the other.
He tosses both onto the bed where they bounce once on the duvet.
I frown and pick up the bottle first. Lube.
Not the cheap drugstore kind either, this is the expensive stuff, the brand I’ve seen advertised in those discreet omega wellness catalogs that show up in my mailbox every few months.
I set it down and tear open the sealed package, pulling apart the plastic and cardboard, and my hands go still.
I stare down at the thing in my grip, then slowly lift my head to look at Hongjoong.
“What the fuck is this?”
It’s a dildo. A massive, jet-black silicone dildo, thick and ridged along the shaft with an almost ridiculously realistic shape, complete with a flared base and a weight to it that makes my wrist dip as I hold it up.
The thing is enormous. Not quite Hongjoong’s size but close enough that my fingers don’t meet when I wrap my hand around the middle.
Hongjoong crosses the room and settles into the armchair positioned across from the foot of the bed, dropping into it with an ease. He hooks one ankle over the opposite knee and leans back.
“Stretch yourself with it,” he says simply.
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
“You’re too tight.” He gestures vaguely in my direction. “My cock is going to be bruised to hell if you don’t loosen up before I get inside you. Last time nearly squeezed the life out of me.”
I give him a long, flat look. My gaze drops pointedly to his lap, where even through his pants I can see the outline of him already thickening against his thigh, and then back up to his face.
“What?” he says.
“That sounds a lot like an excuse for you to sit there and watch me debase myself.”
Hongjoong shrugs with so much unbothered ease it makes me want to throw the dildo at his head.
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find the image of you working yourself open highly erotic,” he admits, not a shred of shame in his voice.
“But I’m serious, Yoonjae. You really are tight.
As pleasurable as it is, I don’t want to damage you. Or myself, for that matter.”
I turn the dildo over in my hands, the silicone already warming against my palms, and frown harder. “I’ve been doing this for years, Hongjoong. I seriously doubt my used-up ass is that much of a problem for you.”
His face sobers. The easy amusement drops away and his expression goes flat, a hard flicker passing through his eyes that’s there and gone in the span of a breath. When he speaks again his voice is even, controlled, but there’s an edge underneath it that wasn’t there a second ago.
“Maybe I’m just bigger than those other alphas,” he says. “Or maybe someone’s been telling you bullshit. Because that tight little hole of yours is definitely not used up.”
My throat works. I look down at the dildo in my hands and then at the lube sitting on the duvet beside me, and a complicated feeling twists through my chest. I want to argue.
I want to tell him he doesn’t need to say things like that, that I’m not some fragile omega who needs his ego stroked, that I know exactly what my body is and what it’s been through and I don’t need Hongjoong of all people trying to reframe it for me.
But I don’t say any of that. Because the way he said it knocked the fight right out of me.
I set the dildo down on the bed and start undressing.
My fingers move through the buttons of my shirt one by one, and when it’s off I fold it and drape it over the back of the small chair beside the nightstand.
My pants follow, then my underwear, each piece folded and stacked with a neatness that borders on compulsive, I can feel Hongjoong’s eyes on me the entire time, tracking every movement from his armchair across the room.
When I’m fully bare I climb onto the bed, and I start to turn over onto my hands and knees because that’s the position I default to, the one that’s easiest, the one that lets me hide my face.
“No.”
I stop. Hongjoong tuts from the armchair, one finger wagging slowly.
“On your back. Sit up against the headboard where I can see you.”
My jaw clenches. But I reposition, shifting back until my shoulders press against the pillows stacked against the headboard, my legs stretched out in front of me on the duvet.
In this position I’m completely visible, every part of me on display, and there’s nowhere to hide from the weight of Hongjoong’s stare boring into me from across the room.
My cock is already half-hard against my thigh, my body responding to his pheromones and the anticipation despite the embarrassment crawling up my neck and heating my face.
I pick up the lube and squeeze a generous amount onto the dildo, working it over the silicone with both hands until the surface is slick and gleaming.
The toy is warm now from sitting on the bed, and the ridges catch against my palms as I coat them.
Then I spread my legs, planting my feet flat on the mattress with my knees bent and apart, and reach down between them.
The blunt head of the dildo presses against my hole and I suck in a breath through my nose.
I push, and my body resists immediately, the sheer girth of the thing forcing a burn through my rim that makes me hiss and clench involuntarily around the tip.
I stop, breathing slowly through my mouth, willing the tension out of my muscles.
Slick is already gathering, my body’s automatic response to the pressure, and I use it, rocking the head of the dildo in small circles against my entrance until the resistance starts to give.
I push again, and this time the head breaches me.
I gasp, my free hand fisting the duvet beside my hip as the stretch widens, my rim pulling taut around the thick silicone.
It burns. I keep going, feeding it in incrementally, an inch and then a pause, another inch and another pause, my breath hitching with each small advance as my body opens around it.
The ridges drag along my walls on the way in, each one a distinct bump of sensation that makes my cock twitch and leak against my stomach.
By the time the dildo is fully seated inside me I’m shaking.
A full-body shudder rolls through me from my shoulders down to my curling toes, and I let out a sound I didn’t intend to make through my clenched teeth.
The pressure is enormous, filling me completely, and my cock is fully hard now, flushed and curved up against my belly with a bead of precum sliding down the shaft.
Slick leaks around the base of the toy and drips onto the duvet beneath me.