Page 17 of Mafia Daddy

A Little, hiding in plain sight behind all that bratty armor.

The thought of peeling back those layers, of earning his real submission, sends fresh heat through my veins.

I finally close the app, set the phone down, and pour myself one final measure of vodka. The burn grounds me as I stare out at the rain-lashed city.

Tomorrow the real work begins.

I will set about to break Milo’s resistance.

I will feed the need I saw flickering behind his eyes.

And when he finally yields, it will be complete.

I drain the glass, switch off the lights, and head to my own room, the weight of the night settling and my mind thinking only of the future.

6

MILO

“No, no, no, please no!”

A gunshot cracks through my skull.

I bolt upright in bed with a scream tearing out of my throat before I can stop it. My hand flies to my mouth, muffling the sound into a pathetic whimper.

My heart hammering, I freeze, listening for footsteps in the hallway.

The last thing I need is Maxim bursting in here thinking I’m some terrified little boy. I hold my breath until the apartment stays silent except for the distant hum of the city far below.

Sweat clings to every inch of my skin.

My tank top is plastered to my chest, and the sheets are twisted around my legs like they tried to strangle me. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to piece the nightmare back together…

But all I can remember is a tall, shadowy figure looming over me, cold metal pressing against my temple. Then the bang. That was when I woke up.

Of course it was just a dream. Just a stupid fucking dream.

I lie back down, but the heat rolling off my body makes it impossible to get comfortable. The silk sheets feel gross now. With a frustrated groan I kick them off and pad into the ensuite.

The marble is cool under my bare feet. I don’t even bother turning on the main lights—just the soft LED strip above the massive rainfall shower.

The water comes on hot and strong and I adjust it to cool it down enough so I don’t come out hotter than when I went in. I strip out of my damp clothes and step under the spray, letting it cascade over my head and shoulders.

The sweat rinses away, and for a minute I just stand there, eyes closed, breathing through the lingering adrenaline.

Then the urge hits me like a freight train.

I can’t ignore it.

My body is still buzzing, nerves raw from the nightmare and everything else.

I reach up, detach the handheld shower head from its hook, and adjust the setting to a strong, pulsing massage. Leaning back against the cool tile wall, I part my legs and bring the powerful stream right where I need it.

“Oh fuck…” The words slip out before I can catch them. “Mmmmph. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…”

The water pounds against my balls, cock, and between my ass cheeks in relentless waves. I bite my lip hard, one hand braced on the wall, the other angling the shower head exactly right as I take my cock in my hand and begin to work it.

My mind should be anywhere else—on escape plans, on Charles, on how much I hate Maxim Kovalev.