Page 39 of Mafia Daddy

The living area opens up ahead, the huge windows letting in just enough ambient city glow that I can make out the shapes of furniture.

I reach the kitchen without incident and open the refrigerator door.

Bright white light floods the space, making me squint. The carton of apple juice is right where I hoped it would be on the top shelf. I pull it out, twist the cap off, and—because I’m too thirsty to care about manners—lift it straight to my lips and drink deeply.

Cold, crisp sweetness floods my mouth. I gulp greedily, a little juice escaping the corner of my lips and trickling down my chin. It feels decadent. Rebellious, even. Drinking straight from the carton in Maxim Kovalev’s pristine kitchen…

But a low, amused voice cuts through the quiet behind me.

“Naughty boy. Drinking straight from the carton like you were raised in a barn.”

I choke, juice going down the wrong way. I spin around so fast the carton nearly slips from my fingers.

Maxim is standing in the kitchen entrance, leaning one broad shoulder against the doorframe. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black silk pajama bottoms that hang low on his hips.

Oh God…

I can’t stop staring…

I need to stop, I really need to…

The sight of Maxim—bare chest, defined muscle, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband—steals the breath I just got back. His silver-threaded hair is tousled from sleep, but his eyes are sharp, predatory, and fixed on me with unmistakable heat.

Electricity crackles in the air between us, thick and undeniable. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my vest. I’m suddenly hyper-aware that I’m not wearing much, that my shorts are barely covering anything, that Zoop is still clutched under my arm like a security blanket while I stand here looking thoroughly caught.

“I was t-t-t-t-thirsty,” I stammer, lowering the carton. Juice drips from my chin onto my chest.

Maxim steps forward, slow and deliberate. The refrigerator light paints shadows across the hard planes of his torso. “Thirsty enough to break another rule? I thought we discussed manners, malysh.”

My pulse thunders in my ears. “It’s just juice…”

Maxim is in front of me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He reaches out, wipes the trickle of juice from my chin with his thumb, then brings that thumb to his own mouth and sucks it clean. The casual sensuality of the gesture makes my knees weak.

“You need to be reminded who’s in charge here,” he says, voice low and rough. “Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

I gasp, but my body obeys before my brain can catch up.

I set the juice down and face the counter, gripping the cool marble edge. Maxim steps behind me, pressing close. I can feel the hard length of him through the silk of his pajamas, already thick and insistent against my ass.

He yanks my sleep shorts down in one smooth motion, baring me completely. Cool air hits my skin, followed immediately by the sharp crack of his palm against my right cheek. I jolt forward with a yelp, but he holds me in place with a firm hand on my hip.

“Count them,” he orders.

“One,” I breathe, already trembling.

Another hard spank lands on the left cheek. The sting blooms hot and bright, sending pulses of arousal and pain all over my body.

“Two…”

Maxim builds a steady rhythm, alternating cheeks, each smack deliberate and controlled. By the sixth I’m whimpering, pushing back into his hand despite myself. My cock is hard, throbbing in fact, my thighs trembling in nervous arousal.

The contrast between the cool kitchen air and the heat of his palm is driving me insane.

Then his hand slides up under my vest. Strong fingers find my pecs, pinching and rolling my left nipple until I moan loudly. He does the same to the other, tugging harder, sending sparks straight to my core.

“Such sensitive little nipples,” Maxim murmurs against my ear. “Always so responsive when you’re being punished.”

I’m shaking, barely holding myself up. “Maxim…”