Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (33 page)

Halfway to subspace, and he’d only just finished the warm-up.

This looked promising. “I’m going to go a little harder now. All right?

You’ll tell me if I hurt you, even a little bit.”

“All right, Jonathan.”

“Good.” He stole a quick moment to wipe his face on his discarded

shirt, then turned back to the task at hand. Down came the flogger

with a bit more force, enough to knock Brandon against the cross.

Brandon grunted, but his fingers didn’t tighten around the cuffs like

before. His head was bowed now, resting against one of the struts.

Letting the cross bear his weight. As relaxed as if this actually
were
a

massage of the more traditional sort. Absolutely
beautiful
. The man

took to pleasure as exquisitely as he suffered.

Jonathan indulged in a single press of his free hand to his straining

cock, then pulled his arm back and laid the flogger down hard, over

and over, until he’d reached Brandon’s ass again. Groans and grunts,

but not a word of protest. Not a single signal that he’d gone too far,

pushed Brandon too hard. After al , he’d given Brandon license to

let him know if he was hurting him—and based on past experience,

Jonathan had no doubt he would.

Jonathan kept swinging until his arm felt ready to fall off, then

dropped the flogger to the floor and stepped forward, pressing

his sweaty torso to Brandon’s hot, reddened back. Stood there a

moment savoring the feel of Brandon’s body against his, hanging in

his restraints. To Jonathan’s delight, Brandon pushed into his touch,

pressing against him as if he craved it. As if he couldn’t get enough.

He draped a hand on Brandon’s neck, fingers sliding up into

Brandon’s hair to draw his head back. Not a hint of resistance. Not

a hint of iris left, either, pupils blown beneath the endorphin rush.

Lost in subspace. Flying.
Finally
.

“See how easy?” Jonathan whispered. “How
good
it can be when

you don’t fight it?”

Brandon’s head rolled on Jonathan’s shoulder, face turning in

toward Jonathan’s neck. Parted lips and a hint of tongue against his

pulse were the only reply. Past talking for once. Maybe even past

thinking.
Good.

He cupped Brandon’s head a moment, then slid his hand around

to Brandon’s sweaty throat, down to his chest, feeling his heart thump,

his lungs work. Down further, to the lax muscles in his belly, to the

flat of his pelvis . . . to the one part of Brandon not rendered loose

and liquid beneath the falls of a suede flogger. Jonathan wrapped

his fingers around that impressive erection, and Brandon moaned

against his neck, wanton and wasted, too far gone to even remember

there was such a thing as pride or shame.

“Do you want me inside you?” Jonathan murmured, and Brandon

hummed against his neck again, made a half-successful effort to lift

his head, to nod, to beg with those big black eyes. Still no words. No

need of them, either.

Jonathan kept slick in nearly every drawer in the dungeon, but he

couldn’t reach any without stepping away, even if just for a moment.

How cold the room suddenly seemed when he did—to Brandon, as

well, if his sad little moan as Jonathan pulled away, the way he tried

to follow Jonathan with his body, was anything to go by. Jonathan

considered telling him he’d be right back, but truth was, he was loath

to break the spell, and God knew what might do it. Brandon
seemed

down pretty deep, but it was his first time, and he was a skittish

thing.

Jonathan snatched up a bottle of lube and rushed back to Brandon,

pressed his chest against all that flaming skin again and worked a

slicked-up hand between Brandon’s spread legs. Two fingers, no

resistance. None
at all
. So loose the prep wasn’t even called for. Still,

no pain—he’d promised no pain.

Not that Brandon would feel it now anyway, even if you shoved

your whole hand up there.

Tempting as the thought was, he settled for three fingers instead.

A few quick strokes to spread the lube, and then he pulled out his

fingers and thrust in with his cock, taking Brandon’s own in his slick

fist. Even loose as Brandon was, that first thrust nearly undid

Jonathan. He’d been waiting for this since breakfast—heck, since the

moment Brandon had walked through his door—waiting for this

willing, pliant body beneath him, this needy, tactile creature. Waiting

for these moans, these quickened breaths, these thrusts back onto his

cock and forward into his fist, all these miles and miles of whip-kissed

skin, hot and red and burning just for him . . .

Jonathan sank his teeth into the meat of Brandon’s shoulder as

he came, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to mark,

and for one panicked moment through the bright blast of pleasure

that was his orgasm too long denied, he worried he’d hurt Brandon,

broken his promise, but then Brandon gave his own cry—loud,

drugged, utterly unrestrained—and came all over Jonathan’s fist.

It took Jonathan a few moments to come down, and even then

he clung to Brandon, pressing soft kisses to his reddened back. All

that heat felt incredible against his lips, and if Brandon’s drunken

little purr was anything to go by, Jonathan’s lips felt incredible too.

Loath as he was to let go, he had no choice. Brandon was going to

col apse when he took him down, but at least he was so far gone his

arms wouldn’t hurt.

Jonathan unsnapped the ankle cuffs from the cross first, then

reached up to unsnap Brandon’s wrists. Brandon’s arms slumped, but

Jonathan caught hold of one, tugged it over his shoulder and slung

an arm around Brandon’s waist, and together they staggered over to

the table.

Brandon needed no more than the tiniest nudge to flop down

on his belly, one leg and one arm dangling over the edge. Jonathan

grinned at the boneless sprawl, carefully arranged Brandon’s wayward

limbs and took the opportunity to plant fresh kisses across Brandon’s

skin.He worked his way up Brandon’s arm, to his shoulder, his neck,

tasting salt and heat and a heady buzz of pleasure. “Do you want to

talk about it?” he whispered in Brandon’s ear when he reached the

lobe with his lips. Brandon just blinked, once, sluggishly, then gave a

tiny shake of the head. That was fine; whatever he needed, whatever

he wanted, it was his.

CHAPTER
16

ran woke to the first hint of pre-dawn lightening the shadows in

Jonathan’s room. Earlier than he needed to be up—earlier by an

hour, at least—but he couldn’t bring himself to care; for the first time

in five days, he hadn’t woken from a nightmare of being shocked.

He thought about going back to sleep, but frankly, the yoga mat

wasn’t comfortable enough to stay on without the aid of exhaustion.

He’d thought he might get used to it with time, or at least less

bothered by it as the welts and bruises faded, but no. Still miserable.

Why had Jonathan kicked him out of the bed again anyway? He

hadn’t done anything wrong. Had been desperately careful, in fact,

to do everything right.

Cowering like a kicked dog. Disgusting.

The thought made him flinch. His stomach rumbled. Did that

a lot these days. Not that Jonathan didn’t feed him, but he was still

gaining back the weight he’d lost last week, and it turned out that

holding a kneeling position for hours and coming two or three times

a day actually burned quite a lot of energy. He felt as sore at the end

of a “training session,” as Jonathan called all those hours on his knees

with his thighs spread and his back straight and his shoulders squared,

as he often felt at the end of a long day of construction.

Shit, I miss making stuff.

Didn’t miss his crappy apartment, though. Or his fresh-from-a-

can cooking. Fact was, a guy could get used to a place like this. To

Sabrina’s meals. To the housekeeper—
What’s her name again? Jenny?

Jeanie?
—washing his bedding, keeping the place spotless.

To Jonathan’s mouth on your skin, hands on your dick—

“Stop it,” he scolded himself—very, very quietly. Fuck all only

knew what Jonathan would do to him if he woke the guy too early.

Well, best to get out of here then. He had to get ready anyway.

He rolled onto his hands and knees and pushed himself to his feet,

keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulders for just another

moment. Cold in here—always too cold for a guy without clothes.

Comfortable for Jonathan, no doubt.
Everything
was comfortable

for Jonathan. Look at him, sleeping away the morning in his big soft

bed, cocooned in a fine down blanket, head propped on two gigantic

pillows.

While I sleep on the floor like a fucking animal.

With a sigh, Bran shucked his blanket and crept into the hal .

Down the spiral staircase. Turned right to the dungeon . . . stopped,

looked left, to the kitchen. Still dark. Sabrina wasn’t up yet. His

stomach rumbled again.

Jonathan’s sleeping. He’d never know.

Fucking ridiculous he couldn’t feed himself anyway. Fucking

ridiculous he had to wait for Jonathan to wake up, for Jonathan’s

permission
, to do something as basic and fundamental as fuel

himself.

Food isn’t just fuel
. He could practically hear the smug little fuck

in his head.
A luxury
.
A banquet of the senses. Savor. Enjoy.

Fuck you, you fucking rich asshole. You can
afford
to savor your

aged gruyere and your fresh fruit and your fucking chocolate pancakes.

To linger for an hour over your gourmet coffee beans shit from a civet

and your copy of the
Wall Street Journal.
The rest of us have to make do

with whatever’s on sale at the local Safeway, scarf it down on the way

to work. The rest of us can’t afford to buy people to do our cooking and

cleaning for us.

Or live-in whores to fuck. Don’t forget that one, Brandon.

Yeah, well fuck you too, Dad.

And fuck all of this. He was
so done
with this shit. Jonathan

wanted him to savor his food? Fine, he would. “Without you shoving

it down my fucking throat,
Jonathan
.”

Felt good to make the decision for himself. Hell, felt good to

speak
for himself, without waiting for Jonathan’s permission for that,

either. Without waiting to be asked a question. Like he was some

fucking kid again.

The kitchen was dim, even with the light spilling in from the

hal . And though it wasn’t likely anyone would notice if he turned

on the light in here, just the
thought
of getting caught curbed his

appetite. Not worth the risk. He fumbled his way past the center

island, stubbed his toe on the edge, cursed a blue streak beneath his

breath and limped over to the fridge. Had a moment of paranoia

strong enough to make him check for a hair or a piece of tape or

some bullshit that would let Sabrina see the door had been opened by

someone other than her. Jesus, was this
what his life had come to?

Nothing. He was being ridiculous anyway; Jonathan hadn’t

alarmed his fucking fridge.

. . . Had he?

Eh. Fuck it. There was fruit on the counter—he’d take that

instead. His mouth watered at the sight of it. Apple or banana? He

kind of wanted the pear, but there was only one left. Someone might

miss it. Five bananas, a couple already missing from the bunch by the

looks of it. No way anyone would notice. He snatched one, peeled it,

wolfed down half of it in one gigantic bite when he realized . . .
Shit.

What do I do with the peel?

Where was the fucking trash in this place? He chewed, chewed

some more—
I’m
savoring,
Jonathan, so fuck you
—swallowed down the

bite he’d taken as he very quietly opened and closed cabinets, looking