Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (2 page)

on the way. Even thought about inviting him over for second. After

al , the guy was cute in a scruffy puppy sort of way—if totally fucking

clueless—but Bran really wasn’t up for company tonight. He took

a swig from Mr. Tourist’s beer. Took another. Sank down and put

his back to the guy. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for . . . well,

anything
.

Fucking tourist looked made of money.
Bet his hands are soft.

Fucker.

But of course, Mr. Tourist couldn’t take a hint. He pulled out the

chair opposite Bran as if he owned the place, then asked, “Mind if I

sit down?”

Bran sighed. “Would you leave if I said no?”

Mr. Tourist shrugged, smiled with the kind of confident swagger

Bran imagined lawyers flashed at juries
.
“What’s bothering you?”

“Besides you, you mean?”

“Ouch.” Mr. Tourist sat down. “I did let you steal my drink, after

al .” He held out his hand. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.”

Bran stared at the outstretched hand, contemplating spitting into

his palm before shaking it.
That’d scare him right off.

For some reason, though, he didn’t. And yup, Jonathan’s hands

were
soft. “Bran,” he conceded.

“Short for Brandon?”

Bran’s gut tightened the way it did every time he heard his given

name. Old habits and all that. “Just Bran,” he said curtly. “So, you’re

obviously not from around here. Slumming it tonight?”

Bran tried to pull his hand back, but Jonathan held on for a few

more seconds, a sardonic smirk tugging up one corner of his mouth.

His very, very pretty mouth.

Pink, like a girl’s.

“Just wanted to get out of the house. I’ve lived here five years now

and there’s still so much of the city I haven’t seen.” Now Jonathan was

grinning in earnest. “How about you?”

For a moment, Bran nearly gave in to the urge to spill his whole

stupid story. He’d never see this guy again anyway, right? But all

he said was, “Getting drunk, actually. Isn’t that what people do in

bars?”

Jonathan’s grin turned downright filthy. “Among other things.”

Shit.
Bran drained the beer in one long gulp—Jonathan’s eyes

zoomed in on his throat and stayed there—then banged the empty

glass on the table. “Buy me another, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Fair enough.” Jonathan nodded and went to the bar for another

round.

Bran most definitely did
not
check out his ass while he walked

away.Jonathan came back a minute later with two whiskeys and that

same stupid, cocky grin plastered to his face. Bran took a sip. It was

the expensive stuff—the kind people only bought him when they

were trying to get into his pants.
Still not in the mood, pal, but I’ll

drink your liquor.

Jonathan held up his glass. Bran clinked it, then knocked back

his double in one go. It burned the whole way down, but damn if it

wasn’t good.

Jonathan’s eyebrow arched high and perfect over one blue, blue

eye. “We’re not running a race here, you know.”

“Good thing, cos I’m getting a little too drunk for that.”

Jonathan laughed, genuine and carefree, loud enough to turn

disapproving heads in the bar. If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Lost opportunity.”

“Can I help you find it?”

Bran snorted and grabbed the still-full shot glass from Jonathan’s

hand. “It’s not in my pants, you know.”

Another laugh. “Maybe it’s in mine?”

Touché, sir.
Bran leaned over the table and eyed Jonathan’s crotch.

“I dunno, looks a little small to be hiding three million dol ars.”

There went the other eyebrow. “What do you need three million

dol ars for?”

“My boss is selling his business at the end of the year. Wants me to

buy it—
I
want me to buy it. Little matter of scraping up the money,

though. No fucking clue where I’m gonna get it, but once I sober up

tomorrow I’ll figure it out.”

“I hear banks are pretty good for that kind of thing.”

“Not for guys like me. I’d have better luck with the Triad.”

“Don’t they break your legs if you miss a payment?”

Bran smirked and downed Jonathan’s whiskey. “One more drink

and I won’t even feel it.”

A hand slid onto Bran’s thigh, and he jumped at the touch.
“Do

you feel this?”

Now it was Bran’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Among other parts

of his body. But he held perfectly still and said, “Bit handsy, aren’t

you?”

The hand slid up his thigh, fingers brushing his swelling dick

through his jeans. “Let’s just say I’m used to going after what I

want.”

Bran nearly choked on his next breath as those questing fingers

squeezed his dick. “Guess you rack up a lot of restraining orders?”

Jonathan laughed. “I like you. Let’s get out of here.” He pulled his

hand from Bran’s crotch just long enough to slap some money on the

table—
A fifty? Jesus fucking Christ—
then grabbed Bran by the wrist.

Bran’s first instinct was to dig his heels in and shake the guy off, but

his dick was practically poking a hole through his zipper, whiskey be

damned.

Jonathan pulled him toward the front door, but Bran jerked his

head in the opposite direction. “This way.” They marched toward the

back, past the men’s room, which of course Jonathan tried to tug him

into. Bran tugged him back. “Don’t disrespect their space.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up again, but he didn’t argue.

They stumbled out the back door, into the alley. It’d rained

earlier, which helped to drown out the stench of piss and rotting

garbage at least a little. Too-bright sodium lights on the bar’s back

façade glistened off the damp pavement and burned halos through

the humid air.

Not the nicest place he’d ever fucked, but he kinda liked it exactly

for that reason; twenty bucks said Jonathan was appalled that even the

soles his shoes had to touch this filthy ground. He backed Jonathan

against the brick alley wal , a little harder than he’d meant to in his

urgency, but Jonathan only smiled up at him.

Bran wanted to ravage that smile right off his smug little face.

“I wanna fuck you,” Bran growled into Jonathan’s neck. He had

four or five inches and twenty pounds on the guy; he could pick him

up, fuck him right against the wal . “I wanna—”

Fingers closed over his wrist as he reached for Jonathan’s zipper. A

sharp flash of pain, and next he knew, he was on his knees in a fucking

puddle, cold water seeping through his jeans, wrist still clamped in

Jonathan’s hand.

“What the
fuck?
” Bran tried to pull away, couldn’t.
Fuck,
that

hurt. Tried swatting at Jonathan with his other hand, but ended up

grabbing the wall to keep from toppling over. The first stirrings of

fear cut through the pleasant haze of liquor and lust he’d been dumb

enough to let himself sink into.

And yet he couldn’t quite shake it off. Didn’t want to—too

fucking horny. And how fucked up was that?

No more fucked up, he supposed, than Jonathan, who caught his

eye and smirked that self-satisfied smirk as he worked down his zipper

with his free hand and pulled out his dick. He was already rock hard,

and surprisingly well-endowed for such a short guy. Longer than

Bran’s, actually, straight and thick . . . and sprinkled with freckles, just

like the bridge of his nose. Bran’s mouth watered.

“Suck it.”

Was he
serious
? “You’re out of your fucking mind. Let go of my

hand.”

Jonathan let go—and grabbed hold of Bran’s hair instead, tugging

his face into his crotch. That impressive erection slid right past Bran’s

shock-slackened lips.

For a split second, Bran considered biting him, but . . . damn,

he tasted good, felt even better, firm and heavy on his tongue. His

hand drifted down, cupping his own dick through the confines of

his jeans. He was already so fucking hard he knew he’d come if he

touched himself skin to skin.

“That’s right,” Jonathan said. “Hands on
me
. Take that cock—you

know you want it.”

The hell of it was, he
did.

Jonathan’s fist tightened in his hair until it felt like he’d rip it

right out, shoved his head forward until his chin hit Jonathan’s nuts.

He gagged, tried to pull back, but Jonathan held him firm.

“I said
suck it
,” Jonathan growled, yanking Bran’s head back until

only the tip was in his mouth, then jerking him forward again.

Bran’s hands came up to Jonathan’s hips, grabbed hard, but

whether to shove him away or drag him closer, he couldn’t quite tell.

All he knew was his balls were hot and tight, his dick pulsing with

every rapid beat of his heart, every thrust of Jonathan’s dick down his

throat, every painful tug on his hair, and if he let go of Jonathan’s hips

he’d touch himself and come until he passed out in this filthy fucking

alley and he didn’t want it to end yet, didn’t—

Jonathan groaned and came, flooding his mouth with salty

bitterness. He tried to pull off, but Jonathan held him there, fingers

tightening until his eyes watered and the pressure in his belly, back,

and balls fucking
exploded
, set the world to swaying, and only

Jonathan’s hand in his hair kept him upright as his chest hitched and

his muscles spasmed with the force of it.

“Swallow it.” He did, since Jonathan was giving him no choice. It

tasted fucking disgusting, but he felt too good to care very much.

Jesus, like a fucking teenager again, coming in my own pants.
He

wiped his mouth, looked up at Jonathan’s smug smile.
How did he

fucking
do
that to me?

Bran wobbled to his feet, hand flailing out to catch hold of the

wal . Jonathan stared at his lips—no doubt red and swollen from

their recent punishment—and licked his own. He leaned in to peck

Bran on the cheek, then ducked his head to refasten his pants.

“So . . .” Jonathan said. He fished into his pocket, retrieved his

wallet, snagged a business card and handed it to Bran. “Perhaps you’d

like to see me again sometime? Dinner maybe? Do it right?”

Do it
right? What was he, some blushing virgin? But he had to

admit, he
was
feeling better than he had all day. Hell, better than he

had in the last couple of months.

“Yeah, maybe.” He took the business card, stuck it in his pocket.

“Don’t get lost on the way home,
Gweilo
. This neighborhood’s a little

rough at night.”

Jonathan laughed, winked at him. “Oh, don’t worry about me,”

he said. “I can take care of myself.”

Bran didn’t doubt that for a second.

Bran landed face-first in his pillow the moment he got home,

and slept like the dead. Didn’t stop him waking up with a monster

hangover, though, his eyes burning in his skull like a pair of boiled

eggs. That’s what he got for being stupid enough to get shitfaced.

Usually one beer was his limit.

He dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the kitchenette

for a glass of water, realizing two steps in that he was still wearing his

jeans—and they were fucking disgusting, knees still damp with alley

slime, crotch stiff and crusted with last night’s loss of control. Jesus,

what the fuck had come over him?

Jonathan, apparently.
Or whatever his name really was.

He knocked back his water in one huge gulp, then unzipped his

jeans and peeled them off. They stuck to him, pul ing at his pubes.

That’s what you get for having casual sex in an alley, idiot. Probably

have herpes now.

And I’d fucking deserve it.

. . . But damn, it really had been kind of hot.
Fuck “kind of.” Try

“
insanely
.”
He chuckled, and his headache spiked.

Gritting his teeth, he gingerly disengaged his pants from his

pubes, dropped them where he stood, and headed for a shower. He

stayed under the hot spray until his skin stung, toweled off, threw