Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (15 page)

the contract. Now kindly go before I make it nineteen.”

Well, no point putting off the inevitable. Maybe if he closed his

eyes first, he could pretend Jonathan wasn’t—

“Eyes open, Brandon.”

Well, fuck you too.

“Nineteen then?” Jonathan actually sounded put out about that,

like
he
was the one who’d have to endure nineteen God-knew-whats.

Fuck, why was this so hard? All he had to do was relax
.
Let go. So

what if Jonathan was watching?

Yet the blush creeping halfway down his chest put lie to that.

Still, wouldn’t it be a relief to have it over with? To get this ache out

of his gut?

A deep breath, and the pressure flowed out of him along with

the water, relief so profound he moaned, reached for himself without

even thinking, realizing, until Jonathan caught him by the wrist and

said, “Absolutely not.” And then, “That was very good, by the way. I

know it wasn’t easy.”

Jonathan flushed the toilet, then handed him a wad of toilet

paper and said, “Clean up and dry off. You have two minutes. I’ll be

outside.” Jonathan snagged a towel and his clothes on the way out

and most decidedly did
not
shut the door behind him.

Bran wobbled to his feet and took care of himself, shooting a

baleful glance at the doorway.
Couldn’t even close it halfway, you smug

little fucker?
He ran a towel over his skin and through what was left

of his hair, then gave himself a quick glance in the mirror. God, he

looked absolutely fucking wrecked—tense, exhausted, debauched.

Worst of al , he was still horny as hell. And the clock was ticking.

Better get out there before Jonathan made it twenty.

Jonathan was standing fully-clothed next to a high table

upholstered in leather. “Here,” he said, beckoning Bran over. Bran’s

gaze locked on Jonathan’s hands as he slowly pulled on a single

fingerless leather glove and flexed his fingers. “Bend over the table,

please.”

Panic shot through him, but for once he resisted the urge to

speak out of turn. Practically gnawing his tongue in half, he stepped

over and did as he was told, peeking for nearby implements. Nothing

on or near the table as far as he could tell—no whips, no straps, no

nothing. Was Jonathan really only going to use his hand?

Except you know damn well how much a hand can hurt, Bran.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be using any of that today,” Jonathan said.

Jesus, the guy really was a mind reader—or maybe Bran was just really

fucking obvious. “Just my hand.” Actually, both of them, since he’d

already reached out with the ungloved one and pressed it to the back

of Bran’s neck. An oddly reassuring gesture, even a comforting one,

fingers caressing the damp hair there. “Tell me . . . why are we doing

this?”

“Because you like to fucking hurt
me.”

“No, that’s not it. And that’s twenty, by the way. Try again. With

a little less attitude this time.”

What the hell did his guy want from him? “Because I don’t know

how to keep my mouth shut?”

“Yes, and?”

“I didn’t hold still when you told me to?”

“Yes, and what else?”

“Because I didn’t answer you immediately? Because I fought

back?”
And you obviously can’t handle that.

“Very good. Now, are you ready to ask me to correct you?”

Bran shot up from the table—or tried, to, anyway; Jonathan’s

fingers went bruisingly tight around his neck, and next he knew he

was being slammed back onto the leather cheek-first.

“You are out of your Goddamn mind,” he growled. “You’ve

had your fun, yeah? Teased me, humiliated me, groomed me like a

fucking
dog
, but there is
no fucking way
I’m gonna
ask
you to beat

me.” He tried to pull out from under Jonathan’s hand again, couldn’t;

pain flashed up his neck and down his shoulder, so sharp he choked

on a yell. How was the little fuck so strong? “Red,” he said, but still

Jonathan didn’t let go. Bran squirmed beneath him, grabbed at his

forearm, but Jonathan held him fast, maddeningly calm. “Red, you

fuck, I said red!”

Jonathan eased up but didn’t let go. “Are you quite finished?”

Bran bared his teeth at him but said, “Fine, yes. Are
you
?”

The fingers on his neck tightened warningly again. “I’m sure you’ll

recall me saying I get tetchy when my subs abuse the trust inherent

in safewording.” When Bran said nothing, Jonathan added, low and

cold, “Don’t say it again unless you mean it.”

“I did,” Bran growled. Fuck, he felt ridiculous, having an argument

bare-assed and bent over a table.

“Pride again,” Jonathan said. “Nothing more. One day you’ll

come to understand that these punishments are meant to help you.

For now, I’m content for you to try harder simply because you wish

to avoid pain. But you
will
follow my rules, Brandon McKinney, or

you will leave. The choice, as always, is yours.”

More silence. Bran knew if he opened his mouth before he calmed

down, he’d say things he couldn’t take back.

Finally he said, “I’m not going anywhere.” And, almost as an

afterthought, “Jonathan.”

“Then in that case, I think you’ve earned yourself another five

for that little display. Misuse your safeword again and it’ll be twenty.

Now put aside your pride—it has no place here, Brandon—and ask

me to correct you.”

Silence. Deep, shuddering breaths. The hand on his neck started

stroking again.

“You can always ask me for a moment if you need it, Brandon.

I may not always grant it, but you need never fear to ask.” The hand

drifted down to his shoulder, scratched lightly. It would’ve felt great

if he hadn’t wanted the smug fucker’s hands off him so fucking bad.

“Now . . . were you about to ask me something?”

Another breath. “Please, Jonathan,” he rasped through clenched

teeth, “will you—” God, it was like slicing every word from his throat

with a fucking razor blade. “Correct me?”

“Very good. And yes, I’d be delighted.”

I bet you would, you sick fuck.

The gloved hand smoothed across his left cheek, then his right.

“Remember, now,” Jonathan said, teasing with a finger down his crack,

behind his balls, “if you can’t hold still, I’ll have to restrain you.”

Bran wrapped his fingers around the far edge of the table and

held on tight. He wouldn’t give this fucker the satisfaction of tying

him down. Every muscle tensed, he put his head down and closed his

eyes, waiting for the first blow.

“No,” Jonathan said, the hand on Bran’s ass going still.

Oh, right. Of
course
Jonathan would want his eyes open for this,

even if he couldn’t see—and thank God for that—what Jonathan

was doing. He stared straight ahead, taking in a lovely view of all

the fucking whips and crops and shit hanging on the back wal .

Everything he had to look forward to.

The first blow wasn’t too bad, even though it landed with a loud

smack. For a second, the sound of leather on bare skin tore Bran

fifteen years into the past, but he clawed his way back; no way was he

letting himself fall down
that
hole ever again.

The second blow hit his other cheek with even greater intensity,

a little ball of fire right in the center. He went rigid, hands clenching

on the edge of the table, fighting against the urge to squirm. He sure

as hell didn’t need any more blows added to his count.

“It’s all right to squirm while I’m spanking you,” Jonathan said.

“In fact, I’d be insulted if you didn’t. But don’t try to avoid my blows.

That puts me rather out of sorts.”

Yeah, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we.

The next couple still weren’t too much to take—until the heat

started building up. And of course the sadistic little shit was hitting

him as hard as he could. Bran gritted his teeth and kept his eyes on

the back wal , biting back grunts as each fresh strike fell. He wasn’t

gonna cry out like some whiny kid over an open-handed spanking.

Wasn’t like he hadn’t taken a lot worse. Still, it’d been a damn long

time since he’d let someone do this to him, and shit but he’d forgotten

how much it could hurt.

But he wasn’t going to yell. He
wasn’t.

He quickly lost count of how many blows he’d taken. What was

it now—eight, nine? At least ten more to go, and he already wanted

to scream.

“Relax,” Jonathan said, and somehow his lips were at Bran’s ear,

brushing across the lobe. “Let it wash over you. It’s easier if you don’t

fight it.”

Easy for you to say.
Still, it’d hurt him a lot more to open his mouth.

He let out a breath and went limp against the leather padding, tried

to peel his fingers off the edge of the table.

The next blow knocked him forward, forced a gasp from his lungs.

No mercy, no respite, nothing except Jonathan’s leather-covered hand

hitting over and over, leaving barely a moment in between to process

the pain. Jesus, how could the smug bastard keep it up? Didn’t it hurt

his hand?

Apparently not, because Jonathan sped up even more, one blow

on top of another, until Bran couldn’t even tell where they were

landing. His entire ass was one huge mass of pain and heat. Tears

stung his eyes, but he blinked them back.
No way I’m gonna cry over a

fucking
spanking
. Not gonna give him that.

The next blow landed on a viciously sore spot. Jesus, had he meant

to do that? And another right on top of it—

“Ow, fuck! Yellow, Goddammit,
yellow
!”

Jonathan stopped immediately, the hand at Bran’s neck going

gentle. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘What is it?’ Jesus Christ, that fucking

hurts
!”

Jonathan blinked at him like he was a particularly dense child.

“Yes. It’s supposed to. That’s why they call it
punishment
.”

“But—”

“Is that al ? Are you feeling ill?”

A choked breath. “No.”

“Then lie back down. You still have five to go.”

Five?
Might as well be fifty.

“Unless you want to—”

“
No.
” Jesus, it didn’t even hurt that bad. He was just wound up,

humiliated,
furious.
“And stop asking.”

“Six more, then,” and God but did Jonathan have to sound so

fucking
cheerful
about it?

So much for not hurting that bad. Bran cried out when the next

blow came down, skin on fucking fire. Every strike hit a raw spot.

His stomach roiled, sweat pouring down his face. How many more?

He’d lost count again.
Red
sprang to his lips, but he choked it back;

this was nothing. Just a spanking. If he couldn’t get through this, he

was never gonna make it through the next six months, but
holy fuck

it was—

. . . Over?

Bran sniffed, realized he’d been crying . . . Well, not
crying,
but

his eyes and nose were running. He wanted to ask if it was over or if

Jonathan was just toying with him again, but for the first time in a

long
fucking time he was honest-to-God afraid to open his mouth.

So he was almost grateful when Jonathan pulled his mind-reading

trick again and said, “There now, all over.” The hand on his neck

moved up into his hair, petting like he was a child or a fucking cat

or something. Strange how after all the pain Jonathan’s other
hand

had inflicted, this one actually felt damn good. He caught himself

pressing up into the touch and stopped.

“It’s all right,” Jonathan said. “Come on.” An arm around his

waist, another at his shoulders. Jonathan stood him up, held him

steady as pain washed through him all over again, took his breath

away and nearly unhinged his knees.

Jonathan’s erection digging into his thigh didn’t help matters.

He sniffled, and a tissue materialized in Jonathan’s hand. But he

didn’t pass it to Bran; merely dabbed at his eyes for him, then his

nose, then held it there and said, “Blow.”

Bran was too sore to argue.

Well, he didn’t hurt
that
much anymore, but he felt
strange
now,

crazy jittery, heart thrashing like he’d run for miles, like he hadn’t

slept in so long he’d gone way past tired and out the other side into

loopy. Like he’d burst out laughing—or maybe just cry—at the

slightest provocation. Not so different, come to think of it, from that

time he’d woken up in the hospital stoned off his ass on morphine, if

perhaps a little less itchy and nauseous.

“I know you probably don’t think so,” Jonathan said, hand warm

and sure at the small of Bran’s back, “but you took that
very
well. I

didn’t go the least bit easy on you”—
No shit
—“and for your first

time . . . Well, to be honest, I thought you might try to safeword

again.”

Bran swallowed hard but said nothing.

“It’s all right,” Jonathan said. “You can speak if you’d like.”