Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (14 page)

and spread his legs.

Jonathan soaped Bran back up, gentler this time. Reward for

obeying, perhaps? Though he knew it was coming, the first touch of

the razor against his groin made him twitch. Good thing Jonathan

had started nowhere near the particularly sensitive bits.

“Hold still,” Jonathan warned. Another scrape, terribly

uncomfortable, tugging some hairs out at the root like when he tried

to shave a beard after letting it get bushy. He tensed his ass and thighs

and belly to keep himself from squirming, sucked in a sharp breath

when Jonathan ripped out yet more hairs. Didn’t he know you were

supposed to
trim
hair long enough to grab before you took a fucking

razor to it?

Come to think of it, he probably did. He had said he
enjoyed

hurting Bran, after al , hadn’t he.

Fucker.

Another painful tug, and this time a soft “Ah—!” slipped out

between Bran’s clenched teeth. Not that it hurt
that
much; it was

just a really, really,
really
uncomfortable place to be hurting at al , and

fuck, would that stray little sound earn him another
demerit?

“Relax,” Jonathan said, patting his thigh like he was some fucking

skittish horse or something. “I’ll never punish you for vocalizing

pain or pleasure unless I’ve specifically told you not to.” He looked

up from his shaving, flashed Bran an angelic smile and fluttered his

lashes at him. “In fact, I rather quite enjoy hearing you suffer.”

Jesus, how could he say shit like that through such a bright

fucking grin?

Jonathan bent his head back to shaving. More tugging, and this

time Bran made damn well sure he didn’t let out a single fucking

peep
. Shit, this was itchy already. He wanted to scratch, tried to, but

Jonathan hooked his cuff by a ring and pulled his hand away. Wow,

that was gonna get annoying fast. Did these things come off? Or did

Jonathan plan to leave him shackled for the next six months?

Probably option #2.

It seemed Jonathan had finished with the safe zone, because he

took Bran’s soft dick in hand, lifted it up, and began to shave beneath

it. Bran doubted Jonathan was touching to arouse, and anyway all

that miserable tug and pull of razor over very sensitive skin—not to

mention the shame of this whole situation—should have discouraged

excitation, yet there he was, getting hard in Jonathan’s hand again.

Great. Just fucking great. But he supposed he was a healthy thirty-

year-old guy with a too-long-ignored sex drive, and it was probably

perfectly normal to get a little wood when someone that damn

good-looking was handling you, no matter how much you wished he

weren’t. At least there was no hair on his dick, no reason for Jonathan

to go near it with the—

Shit.
Seemed there
was
some hair on his balls, though. He went

so still when Jonathan pulled the skin of his sac taut that he forgot

to breathe.

“Easy,” Jonathan murmured. “I won’t nick you if you don’t

move.”

Oh God, this was
not
happening. Bran’s hands came up to cover

his face again.

“There,” Jonathan said, and then after one more drag of the razor,

“Nearly done now. Turn around, please.”

Odd to be so polite when he wasn’t giving Bran any kind of

choice in the matter. Still, Bran turned around without having to be

told twice, pressed his forehead to the shower wall and re-spread his

legs at Jonathan’s gentle taps to the inside of his right thigh. Jonathan

worked up a lather on the back of Bran’s sac—and
fuck
if that didn’t

start to get him hard again—and finished shaving him. Soapy fingers

ran over his ass cheeks a moment after, and he heard a low, thoughtful

“Hmm” before he felt Jonathan stand up behind him.

“Barely any hair on that tight little ass of yours. No point in

shaving the stragglers, I think.”

How very generous of you.

Jonathan removed the shower head from its cradle, pressed it

into Bran’s hands, and said, “Rinse off,” before reaching for a small

stainless steel case on a nearby shelf. Strange, but Bran hadn’t even

noticed it before. He went back to rinsing the soap from his crotch,

running fingers over the weirdly smooth skin there, trying to re-map

a part of himself he’d known so well for so long.

Huh, my dick looks bigger now without all that hair in the way.

Jonathan turned back to face him a few moments later, holding

the case. He caught Bran touching his newly-bared skin and said,

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Bran wasn’t sure he’d call it
that
, but he needed to reply with

something
, so he said, “I guess, Jonathan.”

“Trust me, you’ll love how sensitive you are down there now.

Speaking of . . .” Jonathan dropped to his knees again, and whatever

thoughts Bran might have had about the shaving or the mysterious

metal case ran right out of his head when those lush lips wrapped

around his soft dick and swallowed it whole.

For a second, he had to fight the urge to push Jonathan off. He

couldn’t stand much more teasing, and if Jonathan ran true to form,

Bran knew he wasn’t gonna let him come. But fuck, it felt amazing.

He was hard in seconds, and still his whole dick was in Jonathan’s

mouth. He closed his eyes, let his head loll back against the tiles and

gave himself over to it. Why the hell not? Truth was, this was half

the reason he’d agreed to this in the first place. Best fucking sex of

his life
.

Somewhere off in the world beyond streaming hot water and

Jonathan’s even hotter mouth, he heard a faint click. He thought

about opening his eyes to check it out, but decided he didn’t want to

know. Another click, even fainter than the first, and then Jonathan

was parting his ass cheeks with one hand, slipping a lubed finger or

two inside with the other. Bran lurched, gasped hard.
Shit,
that was

amazing. He pushed his hips back, tried to take Jonathan deeper,

desperately chasing the orgasm looming so close—

Jonathan pulled his mouth off and grabbed Bran’s hip with one

hand. “No squirming,” he warned.

Nothing for a moment; Bran realized Jonathan was waiting for

an answer. “Sorry, Jonathan,” he said, even though he wasn’t, not even

a tiny little bit. Whatever . . .
Anything
to get that mouth back on his

dick again.

Jonathan’s fingers started moving in his ass again, and he pressed

his palms flat to the tiles, fingers white with the strain of
no squirming

no squirming no squirming
, and Jonathan murmured “Good” like a

ten-syllable word and sucked Bran’s cock back into his throat.

Bran squeezed his eyes closed, bit his lip. He would
not
move,

not
make a sound, because Jonathan obviously expected both and he

wasn’t gonna give him any reason in the whole fucking world not to

let him come. Yet still he couldn’t quite stop the little whimper when

Jonathan pulled his fingers out, or the one that followed when he

pushed them back in—

Not fingers. Hard. Cool.
Bran’s eyes flew open, but it wasn’t like he

could see his own ass, now was it, and Jonathan’s mouth was still on

his dick so he didn’t dare move, but then—

Jonathan reached up behind Bran, fiddled with something on

the wal , and suddenly—

What. The. Fuck.

Something warm and wet and
too full
flowed up his ass, and he

lurched so hard his cock slipped from Jonathan’s mouth.

“No squirming,” Jonathan said again, entirely too cheerful. “And

don’t push. Just relax and take it.”

“Take
what
?” Bran nearly shouted. “What the
fuck
, man?” He

tried to step away from whatever it was Jonathan had shoved up his

ass, but Jonathan just tightened his hold on Bran’s hip and followed

along. “Get that outta me!”

“Twelve,” Jonathan said, and seriously,
fuck him
. “Stop being such

a baby; it’s just a little enema.”

“E—” He couldn’t even
finish
that sentence, but of course

Jonathan filled in his stunned silence with, “Thirteen.”

He pried a hand from the wall and reached out behind him, felt

for the hose and yanked, but Jonathan was stronger than he looked,

the little shit; Bran barely felt the thing move in his ass.

“Fourteen. And
hold still
. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Like you care.”

“Fifteen, and yes”—Jonathan looked up at him, so deadly serious

Bran felt real fear for the first time since he’d walked through this

door—“I
do
care.” He took his hand from Bran’s hip, kneaded at

Bran’s tense thigh, belly, wrapped his fingers around Bran’s still-hard

dick—
What the
fuck,
dick?
—and gave it a long, slow pump. “Easy,

Brandon, please. I think you’ll find this all quite pleasurable if you

just
relax
.”

Bran closed his eyes, tried to just breathe, to focus on the

sensation of Jonathan’s hand on his dick rather than the sensation of

warm water filling-filling him, like fingers, like a whole fucking
hand,

snaking up where dick and fingers could never reach, putting pressure

on
everything
like dick and fingers couldn’t possibly, everywhere and

all at once and
holy fuck
did he want to come,
need
to come, but not

like this, not with a fucking shower nozzle shoved up his ass against

his will and this smug fucker’s hand on his dick and he clenched his

eyes shut and whispered, “Please,” half-broken even to his own ears,

and the worst thing of all was that he wasn’t sure if he’d meant
please

stop
or
please don’t.

Jonathan licked the crown of Bran’s dick in a single broad stroke

and said, “Sixteen. Please what?”

Fucker.

Another lick. “Seventeen. Please what? Answer me.”

“I . . .” No lick this time; Jonathan sucked the whole crown

between his lips, worked the shaft with his hand. The pressure in

Bran’s ass was getting unbearable, creeping up into his belly, making

his muscles contract and hinting at the promise of cramps. “Stop.

Please.”

Jonathan’s mouth popped off his dick. “Don’t you want to come?”

he asked, like he already knew the answer was yes.

Bran nodded, even as his mouth said, “Not like this. Please not

like this.” Even as his hips thrust forward, seeking Jonathan’s lips.

The flow of water up his ass stopped, but the nozzle remained,

blocking him from pushing anything out. The pressure was still huge,

his dick so hard his balls hurt. Jonathan’s hand came off his dick and

stroked his spasming belly again, strangely soothing. “Do you need

to safeword?” he asked.

Bran opened his mouth to do exactly that—it wasn’t a cop-out,

he had
permission
, Jonathan wouldn’t think he was faking—but God

he was horny,
unbearably
so, and if he didn’t come soon he was pretty

sure he’d go batshit insane. It was almost over anyway. He could

handle it. He
could.

“No, Jonathan,” he said, then added, soft and scratchy because

even
this
much was a blow to his pride, “But . . . yellow.”

“All right.” Jonathan stood, shut off the water, dropped a soft kiss

on Bran’s pursed lips. “That’s okay, that’s good,” he murmured, kissing

Bran’s chin now, his throat, his col arbone. He draped a crazy-plush

towel over Bran’s shoulders, stepped out of the shower. “I’m going to

take the nozzle out now,” he said. “Clench shut as I do. Hold it as long

as you can. Then go sit on the toilet and just relax. Let it all flow out.

No need to push.”

That . . . was not the orgasm he’d been hoping for. But he certainly

couldn’t complain about easing this terrible pressure. Maybe Jonathan

would finish sucking him off after?

Fuck
, he nearly shot his load just at the sensation of the nozzle

sliding free, nearly forgot to clench around all that water, nearly

stumbled with the effort of stepping out of the tub. Jonathan held

him steady, lending coordination until the spasms in his gut got too

strong to ignore. Then Jonathan guided him over to the toilet and sat

him down.

“Go on,” Jonathan said. “Just let it go.”

Bran blinked up at him and waited, teeth clenched against the

urge to do exactly as Jonathan had ordered.

Blinked again when Jonathan didn’t move.

Was Jonathan really
gonna stand there and
watch
him?

“Any time now,” Jonathan said.

And Bran couldn’t help himself; he asked, “How ’bout a little

privacy, huh?”

When Jonathan was done laughing—and really,
it wasn’t
that

funny, was it?—he eked out between snorts, “Eighteen. And no, you

signed away your right to even a moment’s privacy when you signed