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“Yes.”

“Then I’ll help you remember what you picked.”

With one hand at my hip and one at the back of my neck, I’m suddenly face-down across my own bed with my cheek in the duvet and my knees hanging off the edge. I shove up, but he plants a palm between my shoulder blades and keeps me there.

“Stay.”

I hear him open the top drawer of my desk. The one with the silk ties I never wear because they belonged to a version of me my father prefers. Then he catches my wrist, pulls it to the small of my back, and binds it there with one of my own ties.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am very serious,” he says, knotting it. “You smiled at her.” His other hand slides under me, pops my button, and drags my zipper down.

“I was being polite.”

“You don’t do polite.” He yanks my trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh in one motion.

“I didn’t—”

His palm comes down across my ass. I jolt, a shocked noise punching out of me into the duvet.

“Count.”

“No way—”

Another slap.

“Count, Ilya.”

“One,” I snarl.

“Good.” His hand rubs the heat in, then strikes again. “Why are you being punished?”

“Because you’re deranged.”

Smack.

“Two. Because—ah—you’re jealous of a girl.”

“Three.” He hits lower. “Try again.”

I grit my teeth. My cock is already thickening against the edge of the mattress, traitor that it is. “Because I smiled at her.”

“Four.” Smack, his palm spreading the burn. “And?”

“And I shouldn’t have.”

He hums, then I hear him undoing his belt.

“Kento.” It comes out thinner. “Not—”

Leather kisses the same place his palm just marked. It burns, but it burns so fucking good.

“Five.” His voice is closer now. “Your pretty smile is mine, princeling.”

“That was—” I swallow a moan when the belt lands again. “Six. You can’t just—”

“I think I can.” He drops the belt on the bed beside my face so I have to look at it.