Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Title: A Week Later

Setting: Jonah’s penthouse, late evening → Kane arrives

POV: Jonah Cole (first-person)

Time: Exactly seven days after the sauna

Focus: Residual sensitivity, intense craving, heavy edging, desperate moaning, crying from denial, deeper use, complete surrender

A week later I still couldn’t sit normally without thinking about it.

Every time I shifted in a chair my hole reminded me. Still slightly tender. Still too aware. I’d woken up hard every morning with the memory of Kane’s cock stretching me open and the sounds I’d made — those loud, broken, slutty moans I couldn’t take back. I’d tried to ignore it. I’d worked longer hours. I’d even gone out and let someone else fuck me, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing reached the place Kane had claimed.

Friday night I lasted exactly thirty minutes at home before I gave up.

I stripped, stood in front of the bathroom mirror, and reached back. Two fingers slid in easier than they should have. I was already soft and sensitive inside. The moment I brushed that spot a low moan slipped out of me before I could stop it. I sounded exactly like I had in the sauna. My cock jumped hard against my stomach.

“Fuck…”

I edged myself for almost an hour.

Fingers only. Slow. Deep. Every time I got close I stopped and waited, forehead pressed to the mirror, breathing hard, hole clenching around nothing. Tears of frustration pricked my eyes again. I was leaking steadily onto the floor. My own quiet, desperate moans filled the bathroom. I looked wrecked already and no one else was even here.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

One message from Kane.

*Still thinking about it?*

I stared at the screen for a long time, three fingers buried in my ass, cock dripping. Then I typed back with my clean hand.

*Yes.*

Three minutes later another message.

*On my way.*

I didn’t get dressed. I just cleaned the oil off my fingers, pulled on a pair of black sweatpants that did nothing to hide how hard I was, and waited by the door like a fucking dog.

Kane arrived in under twenty minutes. He stepped inside, locked the door, and looked me over slowly — bare chest, sweatpants tented, face already flushed. He didn’t smile. He just reached out, hooked two fingers in the waistband of my sweatpants, and dragged them down until they fell around my ankles. My cock sprang free, wet at the tip.

He wrapped one big hand around it and squeezed.

“You’ve been touching yourself.”

It wasn’t a question. I still nodded. A small, involuntary moan left my throat at the pressure of his hand.

Kane’s eyes darkened.

“Show me how.”

I turned around, braced my hands on the console table by the door, and reached back with both hands to spread myself open for him. The position was shameless. I could feel cool air on my hole. Kane stepped in close, dragged the pad of one thick thumb over it, and felt how soft I was.

“Missed it that much?”

“Yes,” I admitted, voice already rough. Another moan slipped out when he pressed the thumb inside.

He worked me open right there by the front door — two fingers, then three — slow and thorough, while I moaned continuously into the quiet apartment. Every time my hips pushed back for more he stopped and waited until I was shaking and making those high, frustrated sounds again. Edging me without even touching my cock. By the time he finally pulled his fingers out I was dripping onto the hardwood and my thighs were trembling.

Kane turned me around, lifted me by the back of the thighs like I weighed nothing, and carried me to the long dining table. He sat me on the edge, pushed my chest down so I was lying back, and hooked my knees over his elbows. I heard the quiet sound of him slicking his cock. Then the thick head pressed against me.

He pushed in with one long, steady stroke.

The stretch forced a loud, broken moan out of me that echoed off the high ceilings. I was louder than last week. Needier. Kane bottomed out and stayed there, deep, while I adjusted and kept making noise. My cock lay hard and leaking on my stomach. He didn’t touch it.

“Look at you,” he said quietly, starting to move. “A week later and you’re moaning like this already. Hole soft and greedy. You spent the whole week thinking about getting fucked open again, didn’t you?”

“Yes— fuck, yes—”

He fucked me slow and deep on the dining table, every thrust dragging another moan out of my chest. Whenever I got close he stopped completely, buried to the hilt, and waited until the desperate sounds I was making turned into actual broken pleas. Tears ran from the corners of my eyes into my hair. I didn’t care. I just kept moaning and begging in a voice I barely recognized.

“Please, Kane— I need to come, please—”

“Not yet.”

He edged me for a long time.

Long, filthy minutes of deep strokes and sudden stillness. My hole made wet, obscene sounds around him. My cock twitched and leaked across my stomach without being touched. I was crying again — frustrated, overwhelmed, completely open — and the moans never stopped. They just got louder and more wrecked the longer he denied me.

Only when I was openly sobbing and shaking did Kane wrap one hand around my cock and stroke in time with his hips.

“Come.”

I came hard, moaning raw and loud, pulsing thick ropes up my chest while my hole clamped down around him. Kane fucked me through it without slowing, dragging the orgasm out until I was oversensitive and still making noise. Then he buried himself deep and filled me for the first time in a week — long, heavy pulses I could feel. When he pulled out, a thick rush of come followed and ran down over my hole onto the table.

He didn’t let me rest.

He flipped me onto my stomach, pulled my hips back, and pushed straight back into the mess he’d made. The second thrust forced another long moan out of me. He fucked a second load into me while I lay there open and noisy and completely gone, cheek pressed to the wood, tears still wet on my face.

When he finally stopped I was limp, hole soft and leaking, voice hoarse from moaning.

Kane leaned over me, chest against my back, and spoke low against my ear.

“A week later and you’re already worse. Next time I won’t wait for you to text first.”

I could only moan in answer — soft, broken, completely owned all over again.

He stayed inside me while we caught our breath, one heavy hand spread over my lower back like he was keeping everything exactly where he’d put it.

Seven days later and I was already his hole again.

I didn’t even try to pretend I hated it.