Chapter 6
Viktor
“Fuck it,” I growl, the hot water cascading down on me as I step into my suite’s shower room. “That boy is going to be the death of me. So why not enjoy the moment while I still can…”
My cock is rock hard as I squirt a generous dollop of tingly shower gel into my palms and grip around the base of my shaft.
I put one hand up on the shower’s glass wall as I begin to rhythmically stroke and pump on all eight inches of my manhood.
The thought of Eddie’s perfectly peachy naked ass reddening under my control is enough to make me cum on its own, but the moment I’m replaying in my mind right now is the sight of him bent over the kitchen table, his balls and cock tantalising me between his legs as he so obediently presented his ass for aftercare.
Eddie might be a bundle of unruly sass.
He might also be the reason I end up getting killed.
Right now, nothing is off the table.
But as I being to increase the speed of my strokes and approach climax, all I can picture is the sight of his naked body under mine, ready and willing to give me… his Daddy in waiting… everything.
“Grrrrrr,” I moan, my ass cheeks tensing along with my thighs as my veiny, hard cock shoots a thick, jet-like blast of cum over the shower glass.
For a moment all I can see are stars and a blurry image of Eddie as he cums on my cock in the heat of passion. God damn. How has this boy got into my head so quickly. This isn’t just some casual fantasy. This is different. My body isn’t lying to me. Nor are my instincts.
The last drop of seed drained, I wash myself clean and lean against the rear of the shower. The smooth tiling against my back alongside the post-climax relaxation makes me forget about everything, even if it’s just for now.
But I know that when the sun comes up, I’ve got a big decision to make…
“No!”
I jolt awake, heart slamming against my ribs like a caged animal. The nightmare clings to me—shadowy figures closing in, guns blazing, Eddie's scream cut short by a bullet meant for me. But it's his eyes in the dream that haunt me… accusing, betrayed, as if I pulled the trigger myself.
“What the…” I mutter, still discombobulated. “With sleep like that, who needs enemies…”
Sunlight slices through the curtains, dawn breaking over the lake.
I'm drenched in cold sweat, sheets twisted around my legs. I throw them off, leap out of bed in nothing but boxers, and grab the Glock from the nightstand as a matter of instinct.
My bare feet pound the floor as I bolt downstairs, every sense on high alert.
The house feels too quiet, too exposed.
Security first. Always.
I burst into the kitchen, gun raised—only to find Alexander at the counter, calmly pouring coffee from the French press. He doesn't flinch, just arches a brow over his mug.
"Boss," he says, voice even. "Rough night?"
I lower the weapon, scanning the room: windows intact, doors locked, alarm panel green. No breaches. But the adrenaline's still pumping, making my hands shake faintly.
"Report," I bark, setting the gun on the table. “And make me a damn cup of coffee too.”
Alexander sips his coffee, unfazed as he sets about pouring me some. "All quiet. Perimeter secure. Motion sensors didn't trip once. Not a soul within a mile. I checked the cams myself every ten minutes. Deer, maybe, but no threats."
I nod, exhaling slowly.
“Good.”
But my paranoia lingers…
“Enquiries?"
Alexander sets his mug down, pulls out his phone. "Yeah. Couple messages overnight. Niko checking in, wants to know your location, says it's urgent. And Radek from the city crew, asking if the gallery deal is still on. Nothing suspicious, but..." He trails off, shrugging.
"Send them to me."
Alexander taps his screen, and my phone buzzes on the counter where I left it last night. I glance at the texts. Nothing out of the ordinary. But right now, who the hell knows what anything means…
I look up at Alexander. He's been with me five years—solid, no family to leverage, no debts. Loyal. Or so I think.
"Thanks,” I say. “For watching the place. Your loyalty... it means something."
He nods, a rare flicker of pride in his eyes. "Always, boss. What's next?"
"Back to perimeter. Stay there. No one in or out without my say. And Alexander…eyes open."
I nod to dismiss him.
He grabs his coat, heads out the back door. I watch him go, silhouetted against the rising sun, then lock up behind him.
Alone now, I pour Alexander’s slop down the sink and make myself a coffee—black, scalding. The nightmare's residue is still with me… Eddie's face, twisted in pain. Not from a spanking, but from betrayal. My hand tightens on the mug…
He’s a wildcard. A witness. A goddamn deadly distraction.
Footsteps—soft, hesitant—from the stairs. I turn, and there he is. Eddie, still in yesterday's rumpled clothes, hair a wild tangle, his stuffie dangling from one hand. He pauses in the doorway, sheepish, cheeks pink.
"Um... I might smell a bit bad," he says, voice small, wrinkling his nose. "Like, really bad."
I can't help it—a chuckle rumbles out, low and unexpected. He does smell—a mix of sweat, fear, and that faint, sweet scent that's all him.
But it's not bad.
It's... alive. Human.
"You smell just fine, malysh,” I say. “But if you want, shower while I make breakfast."
His eyes light up a fraction, suspicion warring with relief. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks. M-m-m-malysh though?
“Baby boy, in Russian,” I answer.
Eddie simply turns, skips up the stairs. Actually skips, like a kid dodging chores. I watch him go, that pert little ass swaying in those jeans. The same ass I reddened last night.
Heat stirs in my gut, unbidden.
But as the shower turns on overhead—water rushing through pipes—I lean against the counter, my coffee forgotten.
Will he try to run today? Odds are high. He’s feisty, resourceful. Last night's escape attempt was clumsy; next one'll be smarter.
Window? Diversion? Double-cross?
He’s plotting, I can feel it.
And me? I stare at the knife block, mind turning darker. Maybe I need to end this.
Quick.
Clean.
He’s seen too much—me killing that shooter, the bodies, the whole mess. One word to the feds, and I'm done. Witness protection for him, electric chair for me. Or worse… shivved in prison like old Pakhan Sergei.
I think back to him—a mentor, almost. Tough as nails, ruled with an iron fist. But his boy, Anya—a devastatingly pretty thing, half his age—cracked under pressure.
He rolled on him for a murder rap. Six months later, Sergei was bleeding out in the yard, and the whole family descended into chaos.
Our rivals picked us apart and it took years to rebuild.
Turbulence? It was a fucking bloodbath.
“Only fools ignore history,” I mutter to myself, sipping the now-lukewarm coffee. I hear the shower still running—him up there, naked, vulnerable.
I could end it now.
Slip in, snap his neck in two.
No mess, no trace.
My stomach twists. The thought sours the coffee.
Eddie’s a Little—defiant, but innocent in this. Those big eyes, the way he ground against me during the spanking...
No. I'm not that monster. Or am I?
But whatever I decide… a decent espresso is the first order of the day.