Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (21 page)

didn’t want to piss Jonathan off.

Jonathan was shutting the wardrobe doors, something small and

black in one hand. “Are they closed?”

Bran shuddered, swallowed audibly. “No, Jonathan,” he said,

voice shaking as hard as the rest of him. “But I . . .”

Jonathan turned to face him, crossed the room with his hands

behind his back. Odd, but he didn’t look angry at al , had that same

soft-focus look he’d had when he’d pulled back from the kiss. “But

you
want
to, yes? You’re
trying
?”

Mind reading again.
Thank God.
Bran nodded, simultaneously

trying to look at what Jonathan was hiding behind his back and talk

himself into closing his eyes. Surprise surprise, neither worked. And

Jonathan was
looking
at him, expectant, until he remembered . . . “Yes,

Jonathan. I’m trying. I’m . . .”

Fucking terrified.

Jonathan knelt between Bran’s thighs and touched the back of

one hand to Bran’s cheek. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Say it. Say

the words, and I’ll help you.”

Bran caught himself leaning into Jonathan’s touch—
a kindness,

any
kindness in this place
. Tried to stop his chest from heaving, tried

to gather enough moisture to speak. “I’m . . .” Shit, why was this so

hard? Why couldn’t he just admit
it?

Fucking pride. Keeps getting you into trouble, you dumb fuck.

“Yes?” Jonathan asked, still stroking-stroking at Bran’s cheek with

the backs of his fingers. “You’re strong, Brandon. Stronger than you

know. You can say it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bran sucked in a huge breath, and whispered on the exhale, “You

fucking
terrify
me.”

He half expected Jonathan to hit him for that, but Jonathan’s

whole face lit up, and he leaned in and kissed
him again, all soft and

sweet like lovers, and murmured against his lips, “There, that wasn’t

so hard, now was it?”

Ha.

“Don’t you feel better now?”

Oddly? Kinda yeah. “I guess, Jonathan.”

Jonathan pulled his other hand out from behind his back, held it

up in front of Bran’s eyes. He was holding a blindfold—a black leather

blindfold. “I promised I’d help you and I meant it.” It fastened with

a Velcro strap; Jonathan pulled the ends apart with a ripping sound

that cut right through Bran’s jagged nerves. Yet despite his panic, he

held his head still, let Jonathan fasten it tight without a fight.

“See? Now you don’t have to keep your eyes closed.” Another

brush of lips on lips—this one took him by surprise, he twitched but

then caught himself, kissed back like Jonathan no doubt wanted him

to. “It’ll be over before you know it,” Jonathan promised.

The next moments crawled by as Bran listened to Jonathan’s

footsteps move away and then back. What the hell was he doing?

Which instrument of torture had he decided to use first?

God, please, not the fist.
Please
not the fist.
It’d be one thing if

Jonathan meant to hit him with it, but Bran wasn’t stupid enough to

believe that. Shoving that thing up his ass would tear him apart, lube

or no lube.

But would it really be worse than that fucking stun gun?

Guess he’d find out soon enough.

He whipped his head around at a soft whooshing sound, the slap

of leather against skin. Had to be Jonathan smacking the crop against

his palm. Well, okay. That much he could take. Couldn’t be any worse

than Jonathan’s hand.

At least that’s what he thought until the first finger of fire seared

across his nipple, right where Jonathan had smacked him that

afternoon. It caught him so much by surprise he actually
forgot
to

scream. Then the next blow rained down, this time on the opposite

nipple. He groaned and threw his head back, teeth clenched. It was

the only way to keep from crying out.

Jonathan worked his way down Bran’s torso in tiny increments,

painting white-hot agony on his skin, every blow laid down with

merciless precision. Chest, belly, tops of his thighs. Insides of his

thighs
.
No fucking way to keep quiet through that. A moment’s break

in the rhythm, and then three hard raps on the sole of his exposed

foot, vicious enough to make his toes curl.

Then the blindfold came off, damp with sweat and tears he hadn’t

even realized he’d shed. Jonathan knelt beside him and cradled his face

in both hands, smoothed back the hair plastered to his forehead.

“You are so beautiful,” Jonathan murmured. “And you took that

so well. Thank you, Brandon. You’ve pleased me very much.”

Relief blossomed in Bran’s chest, right alongside the gallons
of

adrenaline still making his heart thrash. For several long moments he

just tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person, how not

to shake apart at the fucking seams.

But then, drawn as if by magnets, his gaze traveled to the collection

of toys piled on the carpet. Jesus, what if Jonathan wasn’t done yet?

“Don’t worry, it’s over,” Jonathan said, then reached out to loosen

the rope around his outstretched leg. God, it felt so damn good to be

able to move it again, even if the slight pins-and-needles sensation

made him wince.

But that was nothing compared to the cramping in his other leg,

the one that’d been drawn up to his chest for the last however long.

He couldn’t suppress a moan as the blood flowed back into it, or as

Jonathan dug strong fingers into his aching quads, kneading out a

whole endless day’s worth of tension.

“Mmmf,” he mumbled, head lol ing back against the footboard,

eyes drifting closed. “Please, don’t stop.”

Jonathan chuckled, but still his fingers worked their magic.

“You’re not two minutes off your last punishment,” he said, voice

light, filled with humor. “You want to make me start counting again

already
?”

“Sorry, Jonathan,” Bran murmured. Hard to be afraid when he

was so wrung out. Besides, for once it sounded like Jonathan didn’t

actually mean it. Still, better not slip again. Not tonight.

Once the ache in his leg subsided to a dull throb, Jonathan moved

up to Bran’s right wrist. “Brace yourself, this will be a shock.”

Understatement of the century. He hadn’t been tied cruelly, or

at least it hadn’t felt that way at the start, but he’d been tied long and

he’d struggled hard. When Jonathan freed his hand and the blood

rushed back into his strained muscles and bruised wrist, the pain was

so intense he hazed out for a second.

He came back to himself with his face buried in Jonathan’s throat,

Jonathan’s hand at the nape of his neck, stroking softly. “It’s okay, it’s

okay,” Jonathan whispered. Jonathan’s other hand was stroking down

his arm, soothing his trembling muscles.
God,
felt like he’d sprained

every single one of them, right down to the little ones in the back of

his hand.

One more wrist untied, another wave of pain, and Jonathan held

him through it until he could breathe without shuddering. Then

Jonathan eased him down onto the mat, helped him roll onto his

back.“I’ll be right back,” Jonathan said, draping the blanket over him.

Bran sighed; so soft and warm and fuzzy.

Jonathan reappeared a minute later with a washcloth and a glass

of water with a straw. He helped Bran sit, held the water out. Bran

didn’t hesitate before wrapping his lips around the straw and taking

a deep pul .

“Here,” Jonathan said, moving the water just out of reach and

offering two white pills instead. “Ibuprofen.”

Bran didn’t need to be told twice. He opened his mouth and

let Jonathan place them on his tongue like some fucking baby bird,

drank from the straw when Jonathan offered it again. When the glass

was empty, Jonathan put it down, picked up the washcloth instead.

He wiped Bran down just like that night he’d handcuffed Bran to his

bed, except this time he was more careful, what with all the welts he’d

left.“Need to water the grass?” Jonathan asked. A little, but in truth,

he couldn’t be bothered right now. Wasn’t sure he could get his feet

under him even with Jonathan’s help, and his shoulders and arms still

hurt too much to hold himself up. His back teeth would be floating

by morning, but that was hours
away yet, and he’d deal with it then.

For now, he just shook his head, then mumbled, “No, Jonathan.”

Added, “Permission to speak?” It came out slurred; he sounded like

a fucking drunk.

“Go ahead,” Jonathan said, slipping an arm around his shoulders

and lowering him back to the yoga mat.

“I just want to sleep, Jonathan. Is that all right?”

Jonathan hovered over him, smiling at him like a favored child.

He reached out, brushed the hair from Bran’s forehead. “Of course.”

Jonathan leaned in, kissed the tip of his nose, then pulled the blanket

back over him and walked away.

Bran closed his eyes, ready to pass out right there on the hard floor,

never mind the lights were still on, never mind he hadn’t brushed his

teeth, never mind his stomach was grumbling and his bladder wasn’t

quite comfortably empty and his body was fucking
screaming
at him

and this was only his
first fucking day
. But then Jonathan squatted

down beside him again and said, “Shoulders up,” and Bran opened

his eyes to see the man holding out a heating pad.

Oh,
fuck
yes.

He lifted his head, let Jonathan slide an arm beneath his shoulders

and ease him off the mat just enough to slide the pad in. It was already

warm, big enough to cover half his back and neck, both his shoulders,

even bleed heat into his triceps. He may or may not have made a

completely
undignified moan as he settled back against it, but what

the fuck. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t checked his dignity at the door the

moment he’d stepped through that fucking elevator.

CHAPTER
11

ran cracked his eyes open, agony slicing through his brain. And

his legs. And his arms and back. Hell, every fucking fiber of his

body
.
All this from a riding crop and a few coils of rope?

The thought of all those other, much scarier-looking “toys” down

in the dungeon made him shudder. He rolled over, his bladder aching.

Jesus Christ, was there any part of him that
didn’t
hurt?

Maybe his hair, but only because most of it was gone. No, wait,

that hurt too, where Jonathan had grabbed it. Didn’t exactly help

his headache. Which, no wonder. He hadn’t had any caffeine since

yesterday morning, and he was usually a pot-a-day man.

His
one
indulgence. And he was seriously starting to regret it

now.He sat up very slowly, every muscle in his back protesting. The

heating pad had shut off during the night, and he couldn’t figure out

how to turn it back on again. A soft snore floated through the air—a

tiny whistling sound. Fucking irritating.

He lifted his head to confirm Jonathan was still asleep, then darted

a glance toward the bathroom. Should he risk waking Jonathan to ask

permission, or should he just get up and use the toilet? Satisfying

as the thought of waking Jonathan was, if it were Bran, he would’ve

preferred to remain sleeping.

Straightening up as gingerly as he could, he tiptoed to the

bathroom and closed the door behind him. He didn’t even need to

turn on the light; there was enough sunshine pouring in through

the window. Jesus, what time was it? He wasn’t used to getting up

after the sun. He took a quick but oh-so-satisfying piss, flushed, and

headed back to the bedroom—

Where Jonathan was sitting on the edge of the bed, arms folded

over his chest. “You aren’t nearly as stealthy as you think you are.”

“Um . . . sorry,” Bran said. “Jonathan. I didn’t think you’d want

me to wake you up.”

“Actually, I would have preferred you ask permission,” he said

around a yawn. “I’ll let it go this time because I didn’t give you clear

instructions. But now you know.” He pointed at the robe hanging