Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (17 page)

robbed him of every ounce of coordination he’d ever had, and nearly

every ounce of strength. His wrists were really starting to hurt; he

needed to take the weight off, but he just—

Jonathan’s arm went around his waist, and the guy lifted him to

his feet like he didn’t weigh a thing. He leaned into Jonathan and just

breathed, eyes closed, cheek pressed to that thick head of hair.

He smells like apples.

“Better now?” Jonathan asked.

Bran
mmm’d
, found the wherewithal to open his mouth to

mumble, “Yes, Jonathan.” A tuft of hair slipped past his lips. He

didn’t care. “Thanks.”

Jonathan let him go, and he kept his feet. The buzz was starting

to fade a little, but he was high and sleepy and so sensitive he could

practically feel each individual molecule of air as it bounced and

skipped against his skin.

Jonathan reached up for his left hand and said, “Stay sharp. This

might wake you up quick.”

The clip came undone, and Bran’s arm dropped like a rock at his

side. A very, very
hot
rock covered with fire ants. He shook it out with

a hiss as Jonathan freed the other one, and then strong arms were

around his waist again, guiding him to the padded table. He debated

sitting on it—he still had
no
idea how his legs were working—but in

the end just propped his hip against it, let it take his weight. He lifted

his hands in front of his eyes, flexed his fingers. The cuffs slid down

his arms a quarter-inch or so, exposing the marks they’d made when

he’d struggled.

From barely a foot away, Jonathan watched him study himself,

then plucked one of his hands from the air and kissed the base of his

thumb, where the red marks were the worst.

“Are you back?” Jonathan asked, gaze intent on Bran’s.

Back from what?
“Sure? Um, Jonathan.”

Jonathan chuckled again, his thumb rubbing absently over the

wrist he was still holding. Felt kinda nice.

“Another shower, perhaps, then? You’ve worked up quite a

lather.”

Sure, why not. He nodded mutely, remembered the rules in a

flare of panic and hastened to say, “Yes, Jonathan, please.” Froze two

steps later and said, “Um . . . permission to speak?” because as much

as he really didn’t want to be hit again, he also
had
to know . . .

Jonathan nodded, and Bran asked, “You’re not, um . . . going to . . . you

know.” He pointed with his index finger in a manner he was pretty

sure indicated
enema
. “Again?”

Jonathan chuckled softly, no malice. “No, no, you’re quite clean

enough there, I assure you.” He dropped a hand on the nape of Bran’s

neck again, led him to the bathroom. “Water the grass if you need to,”

Jonathan said, and it took Bran a moment to interpret that as “Take

a piss,” but once he did, he realized he had to badly enough to empty

his bladder even with Jonathan standing there. Not like Jonathan

was watching anyway; he was busy fiddling with the shower knobs,

adjusting the spray until it was barely lukewarm.

Bran flushed the toilet, let Jonathan guide him to the shower. “In

you go,” Jonathan said. He didn’t strip to join Bran this time. Didn’t

try to wash him.

Bran didn’t bother with soap, just let the water sluice the sweat

and cum off. The water tempered the tingling in his ass, his nipples,

his
everywhere
, cooled what heat remained from the spanking. Or

maybe the pain was just fading on its own. It
had
only been a spanking,

after al . A stupid little spanking. He was just out of practice with the

whole getting-his-ass-kicked thing.

After a minute or so, Jonathan turned off the spray, wrapped Bran

in an enormous towel, and guided him from the tub. Bran followed,

grabbing the edge of the vanity to hold himself steady. Jesus, if he was

this wrecked after the first fucking
afternoon
, he didn’t even want to

think about tomorrow, let alone the other 178 days to come.

CHAPTER
9

omething to eat now, perhaps?” Jonathan asked, studying

Brandon for a moment. He’d done well. Better than Jonathan

had expected, given his earlier resistance. Jonathan had been worried

there for a minute during the spanking, when Brandon called “yellow.”

Afraid Brandon would give up too quickly or even that he’d pushed

Brandon too far, especially for his first day.

But rules were rules, and God knew Brandon needed
them. He

was wild, undisciplined, too full of stubborn pride. Much as Jonathan

might want to, giving Brandon even an inch of slack would just make

this all the harder for the both of them.

Though, he might need to get rid of the steel cuffs if Brandon was

going to struggle like that even during the
fun
play.

Brandon nodded, then quickly added, “Yes, Jonathan. I’m

starving.”

Jonathan grinned. It seemed Brandon had already learned—albeit

the hard
way—the proper way to address him. Was already correcting

himself without being reminded. Good.
Very
good.

Not, mind, that Jonathan wouldn’t have liked the excuse to beat

him again.

“Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen,” he said, ruffling

Brandon’s hair before leading him out of the dungeon and down the

hal . Brandon tensed, hanging back before they entered the kitchen,

but Jonathan’s hand closing gently over his elbow calmed him. “Don’t

worry, I’ve given my household staff the day off. It’s just you and me

today.”

Jonathan pulled out a tall stool from the center island and sat

down, waving Brandon over to the fridge. “Get us some water and

grapes. There should be a cheese tray as well.”

Brandon just blinked at him for a second, all that orgasmic bliss

slowly draining from his face. “Oh, uh . . . you want me to—”

“Yes, I do. And that’s four. Do you know why?”

Brandon winced. “Um, one for hesitating, one for speaking out

of turn?”

“Yes. Very good. Now go on, get the food.”

Shoulders stiffening, Brandon turned to the fridge and rummaged

in it for the items Jonathan had requested. What a nicely reddened

ass, the color so symmetrical on both sides. He’d done a good job,

even with Brandon squirming like he’d taken a cane to him.
Later
.

He could hardly wait. And with the way Brandon was racking up

fresh demerits, he wouldn’t have to wait long.

Brandon shuffled back to the table and set everything down,

eyeing Jonathan warily. “Um, can I ask a question, Jonathan?”

“Feel free.” Jonathan plucked a cube of cheese off the tray,

relishing the way Brandon’s famished gaze followed it all the way to

his mouth. At least Brandon was smart enough not to take any for

himself without asking.

“Can I sit down?”

Jonathan held Brandon’s gaze, then very slowly and deliberately

grabbed the cushion off a nearby stool and dropped it on the floor at

his feet. “By all means. Please sit.”

Brandon’s eyes flashed pure murder, but he sucked in a breath

and lowered himself onto the cushion, grimacing as his reddened ass

made contact.

“If you’d prefer to kneel,” Jonathan said, taking a cube of cheese,

“I have no objections.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t,” Brandon mumbled.

“What was that?”

Even Jonathan could see the effort it took Brandon to unclench

his jaw long enough to say, “Nothing, Jonathan.”

Jonathan cocked an ear toward Brandon, raised his eyebrows.

“Are you sure? Because it sounded rather suspiciously like
five
to

me.”Brandon chewed his lip, but was wise enough to hold his tongue

this time. “May I ask you something else,
Jonathan
?”

Jonathan let him sweat for a moment, plucking up a few grapes

and eating them before he said, “Go ahead, but I suggest you watch

your tone.”

“May I fix myself a plate
please
, Jonathan?”

So much for watching his tone. Still, it was kind of amusing.

“That’s six. And no, you may not fix yourself a plate. Here.” He pulled

a couple of grapes off the stem and lowered his hand to Brandon,

but when Brandon tried to take the food from him with his fingers,

Jonathan shook his head. “No. In this house, if you want to eat, you

eat from my hand.” When Brandon didn’t seem to get it—or maybe

just didn’t
want
to get it—he added, “With your mouth. You don’t

get to use your own hands.”

Brandon jerked his head away and clenched his hands, white-

knuckled, in his lap. “May I ask you
another
question, Jonathan?”

“You are perilously close to seven, but go ahead.”

“Do I really have
to behave like an animal here?”

Jonathan’s mouth tightened, but he did his best to conceal his

irritation. Brandon wouldn’t learn a thing if Jonathan reinforced

his negative behavior by letting the man visibly affect him. Besides,

Brandon was new to this world. He didn’t understand yet. And he

never would if Jonathan didn’t keep his patience.

So he reached down to stroke the top of Brandon’s head before

he answered. Brandon allowed it, but no doubt only out of fear;

Jonathan could practically see the smoke coming out his ears.

“Honestly, Brandon, that’s not what this is,” he said, ironically in the

same tone he might use to address a spooked pup. “I’m not interested

in dehumanizing you. Quite to the contrary, believe it or not. But to

answer the question you
should
have asked—and that
is
seven, by the

way, for your lip—yes. If you wish to eat, you’ll eat from my hand.

If you don’t wish to eat, then don’t. I won’t force you, and I won’t

punish you. The choice has to be yours.”

He pulled his hand back, used it to pluck up another cube of

cheese and popped it in his mouth. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said,

“if you’re not going to eat, I certainly will. This is a
very
good aged

gouda.”

Jonathan finished his meal with as much gusto as he could muster,

trying to tempt Brandon into eating half a dozen times before giving

up. He hadn’t expected anything different; a man that proud wasn’t

going to give in on an issue like this so quickly. Let hunger settle in

first; it would win in time. At least he’d coaxed the man into drinking

some water. Sipping through a straw wasn’t quite as humiliating as

eating from his fingers, he supposed. Besides, thirst was a much more

merciless master than hunger.

Brandon shifted restlessly on the cushion, ass obviously sore,

too stubborn to get on his knees instead. Jonathan let him for now,

but he’d have to address the man’s posture soon, not to mention his

propensity to fidget. The next few weeks would likely end up being

one never-ending patience training session—no doubt that’d go over

about as
well as a whole herd of deer in his vegetable garden. He

smiled, shook his head.
It’s your own bloody fault for taking on such a

raw sub.

“Well,” he said, at least half to himself. It’d been over a year since

he’d had a live-in; he wasn’t used to giving quite so much of his focus

to another human being these days. “Some of us have to work”—and