Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (19 page)

No asking stupid questions, if
you
would.

Tap tap tap.
“Should I even bother offering you supper?”

“Depends, Jonathan. Do I have to eat it from your hand?”

“You know you do.”
Tap tap tap.
“Sabrina made a lovely lasagna

florentine. Should I only heat a piece for me, then?”

Shit, that sounded good. But he’d eaten at breakfast—admittedly

just a piece of toast; he’d been too nervous for anything else—and

it’s not as if he’d never been hungry before. Hitching from Jersey to

California, he’d gone four or five days at a time sometimes without

food,
weeks
at a time with nothing more than he could scrounge from

truck-stop trashcans or sympathetic passers-by. Hadn’t gotten much

better when he’d made it to San Fran, either, at least not for a while. If

Jonathan thought he could break Bran this way, well, he had another

thing coming.

“Sixteen,” said Jonathan. Odd, but he sounded weary. Guess it’d

been a long day for both of them. Bran kind of liked the idea that he’d

worn the little fucker out.

Not so thrilled, though, about the demerits he kept racking up.

Better answer the damn question, then. “Yes, Jonathan. Just a piece

for you.”

In the kitchen, Jonathan made Bran kneel at his feet again. He

got it right in one, relieved not to have to endure the wicked little bite

of the crop on his nipples or the insides of his thighs—two places,

quite frankly, he’d never
realized could hurt so much. But holding

position for long was not going to be easy. He felt like he’d spent an

entire day hauling bricks up a hill; his muscles were protesting to the

point of trembling and cramps. And the lack of food wasn’t helping.

Staying still took all his energy. Staying warm was impossible. At least

his ass didn’t really hurt anymore, even with his heels digging into

it. Which was a damn good thing, seeing as he had a fresh beating

coming sometime soon.

Hard to decide which was worse: the thought of suffering that

pain on already-abused flesh, or the smell of lasagna wafting down

from Jonathan’s plate as the man moaned and hummed around bite

after bite of hot food.

Of course Jonathan left Bran to do the dishes, and when that

was finished, he led Bran back upstairs to his bedroom. Bran half

expected the dungeon—okay, more than half, what with
sixteen

hanging over his head—but then, Jonathan hadn’t gotten off in a

while, so he supposed the bedroom made sense. Especially given the

hard-on Jonathan had been sporting all day. If he’d been in Jonathan’s

shoes, he’d never have lasted this long.

Well, hopefully Jonathan would fuck him
before
he beat him.

Bran wasn’t looking forward to either, but being used would be ten

times worse with a sore ass.

Being used? Two weeks ago, sex with Jonathan would’ve thrilled

you.
Yeah, well, things change.

Speaking of, Jonathan’s bedroom was rather conspicuously

different than the last time Bran had seen it: a yoga mat lay on the

floor at the foot of the bed, complete with pillow and knit blanket.

No question of what that was for. He turned his gaze from the rough

approximation of a bed to Jonathan’s face and said, “Still not treating

me like an animal, then?” Why the fuck not—sixteen, seventeen,

what difference did it make?

“You don’t understand yet,” Jonathan said, “but you will. Are you

paying attention? What number are you on?”

“Twelve,” Bran lied.

Jonathan
tsked
, shook his head. “Oh Brandon, Brandon . . . give

me a
little
credit. You know that makes it eighteen, right?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. He’d known before he’d opened his mouth.

“Jonathan.”

“Have a seat.” Jonathan waved him to the yoga mat. “Back against

the footboard. I’ll be tying you up now.” Added, clearly tired, “Will

you fight me?”

Bran thought about it for a second, but some things just weren’t

worth the trouble. Besides, the last two times Jonathan had bound

him, he’d come out his fucking
ears
. “No, Jonathan.”

He sat as directed. The yoga mat wasn’t much better than the

floor, and for all he’d thought his ass had healed, it reminded him

now how unhappy it was. The footboard was wrought iron, black,

smooth, shaped into post-modern squares each big enough to put a

fist or a foot through.
Or a set of handcuffs.
Shocking cold against his

naked back. He let his legs splay out in front of him. The gleaming

hardwood was cold against his heels.

Jonathan rummaged in a wardrobe, came back with a red paisley

bandana and an armful of smooth black rope. Nylon. Five coils, he

realized, when Jonathan shook them out, each no more than a few

yards long.

He felt surprisingly calm about the whole thing when Jonathan

took his right arm and stretched it all the way out, tied his wrist near

head-level. Jonathan didn’t put the rope through an O-ring on his

cuff, but rather pushed the cuff back as far as it’d go and coiled the

rope around Bran’s wrist. He must have raised an eyebrow at that or

something, because Jonathan said as he took Bran’s left wrist, “You

move too much. You’ll hurt yourself.” A pause, a thumb swiping over

the bruising at the base of his thumb. “You already have.”

Yeah, and you had
nothing
to do with that, pal.

Jonathan stretched out Bran’s left arm, secured that to the

footboard as well. Guess it helped to have a king-sized bed when you

were laying out your sex slave for the night.

The next coil of rope went around his waist, not tight enough to

dig, but snug enough to feel—and to keep his back and ass pressed

firmly to the footboard. Which, he supposed, meant Jonathan planned

to use his mouth, since even his hands were unavailable now.

Huh, wonder what he’d do if I bit him . . .

He had to admit, the thought held some appeal.

“Knee up, please,” Jonathan said, squatting between Bran’s legs

and tapping his right thigh. Bran eyed the rope in Jonathan’s hand

and bit his lip. There was no way this could end well for him, letting

Jonathan spread his thighs like that, expose his genitals. But what was

he gonna do—kick the guy?

Actually . . .

No, he wasn’t that stupid.
Or suicidal.
He pulled his leg up right as

Jonathan started to say, “Nineteen.” Did that count? Jonathan didn’t

take it back as he started wrapping rope in a figure-eight around

Bran’s shin and thigh to keep his knee bent, so he supposed it did.

Jonathan gave the rope a good tug, and Bran tried to straighten

his leg out and couldn’t. What a strange sensation. Not bad, not even

uncomfortable, just . . .
strange.

And kind of worrisome, quite frankly, when Jonathan pushed

Bran’s bent leg out to the side and anchored it to the footboard,

opening him up wide.

Jonathan’s fingers skated over the inside of his thigh, just the

barest hint of pressure and fingernails, and Bran jerked, bit back a

laugh. He was
ticklish
? When had that happened?

Great. Never gonna live
that
down, Bran.

Jonathan did it again, and that impish fucking grin crawled onto

his face. “I see you’ve been keeping secrets from me, Brandon,” he said,

bringing both hands to bear now on Bran’s unprotected thigh. Bran

couldn’t hold back the laugh this time, jerked so hard he banged his

head on the footboard. “Fuck, please!” he managed between gasps,

his one free limb kicking out and accidentally catching Jonathan on

the shin—

Oh, shit.

Jonathan stopped, turned to look at him, his face just inches from

Bran’s own. Bran was panting, desperate to scratch his thigh and,

curiously enough, hard again. Even though Jonathan was probably

going to kill him for what he’d done.

Jonathan’s hands came up to Bran’s face, and he flinched away but

then caught himself, let Jonathan touch him, fingers curling round

his ears, thumbs stroking across his cheeks. “It’s okay,” Jonathan said.

“It’s my fault. I should have finished binding you first.”

Relieved as Bran was, he couldn’t stop thinking,
Please don’t

fucking tickle me again. Please.

One of Jonathan’s thumbs dipped down from Bran’s cheek and

swept over his mouth. Bran parted his lips, even though Jonathan

hadn’t asked him to. Instinct, he supposed.

God, he could smell a faint echo of tomato sauce on Jonathan’s

skin.Jonathan left his thumb there, resting against Bran’s teeth, and

just stared and stared. Okay, this was starting to get weird. Was he

gonna say something? Do something? Or just squat here forever?

At last Jonathan stood up, stepped back, grabbed the last coil of

rope and wrapped it around Bran’s free ankle and foot. The other

end he secured to an O-ring that’d been hiding flush beneath the

corner of a nearby area rug, pul ing Bran’s leg straight and open just

wide enough to strain a little. Bran tried not to think too hard about

the fact that he couldn’t turn his foot—that the tender inside of his

thigh (and his even more tender cock and balls) was right there for

Jonathan to do with as he wished. He also tried not to think too hard

about where else Jonathan might be hiding rings and hooks, where

else he might be able to bind him. In the kitchen for the maid or cook

to see? In front of a window for the whole fucking
world
to see?

Turned out he fucking
sucked
at the whole not-thinking-too-

hard thing.

Speaking of too hard . . . his dick was definitely interested in the

proceedings, the traitorous thing. It twitched against his thigh—and

thank God he was tied up, or he wouldn’t have been able to keep

from squirming. Didn’t stop Jonathan’s gaze from zeroing right in on

it—or that fucking smug smirk from spreading across his lips as he

unzipped his fly and pulled out his own erect dick.

The sight of that single bead of pre-cum pooled at the tip made

Bran suck in a breath, his dick growing stiffer.

The little fucker’s programmed it to sit up and beg every time he ties

you up. Doesn’t mean anything.

Jonathan took his own dick in hand, gave it a few quick strokes—

not that it needed it. He already looked hard enough to drill concrete.

Jesus, had really he been that aroused all day? Then he picked up

the bandana off the floor and stuffed it into Bran’s right hand. “In a

moment you won’t be able to speak. This handkerchief means ‘red.’

Drop it and I’ll stop. Do you understand?”

A safeword for a face-fuck. Bran didn’t know whether to be

worried that Jonathan thought he might need one or impressed at

Jonathan’s cleverness. Didn’t really matter, though, so he just nodded

and said, “Yes, Jonathan.”

Jonathan nodded back. “Good. Now relax and breathe through

your nose. I’m not going to choke you.”

Then he sank his fingers into Bran’s hair and shoved all the way in

his mouth. Bran fought back panic—
the handkerchief, remember you

have the handkerchief
—as the tip of Jonathan’s dick bumped against

the back of his throat, just like that night in the alley. Only this time

he didn’t have the option of getting up and walking away. Hell, he

couldn’t even
move
.

Not that he didn’t try—twisting his wrists, pul ing hard against

the rope around his waist. But Jonathan’s knots held tight, no give in

them at al . Black spots danced in front of his eyes, chest hitching from

lack of air, fingers beginning to slacken around the handkerchief—

until he remembered what Jonathan had told him.
Breathe through

your nose, moron. It’s not like you’ve never done this before.

True, but it’d been awhile, and he’d never been that good at it.

Never really liked
it enough to be good at it, and most of his flings

had been more than willing to suck him without reciprocation. And

he
could
stop this if he needed to. But maybe if he did his best here,