Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (34 page)

for the garbage can. Finally found it—three of them, actually—in the

cabinet beneath the sink: one for trash, one for recycling, and one

that looked suspiciously like compost.
Fucker probably makes his own

fucking
soil
for the vegetables he grows out on his balcony.
He popped

the rest of the banana free and dumped the peel in the compost bin.

Closed the cabinet softly and crept, banana-prize in hand, down the

hall to the dungeon.

It hadn’t been a very big banana, but he managed to make it

last until he’d crossed through the dungeon and into the bathroom.

Licked the last sweet remnants off his fingers.
Fuck
, it was good. But

then, anything probably would be, seasoned with the delicious taste

of feeding-yourself-like-a-fucking-adult. Not that he’d know these

days.He turned the shower on steaming hot and stepped beneath the

spray. Felt
amazing
. Usually he was too damned welted and bruised

for anything more than a lukewarm wash, but he’d been so careful

since he’d come out of that fucking coffin, and Jonathan had been

so oddly gentle. No new bruises in four days, and the old ones had

begun to fade, didn’t really hurt anymore. Even his wrists and ankles

were healing up nicely. Strange that Jonathan hadn’t tried to put those

steel cuffs back on him, but he certainly wasn’t gonna look a gift horse

in the mouth. It was too fucking nice not to look—and feel—like a

battered spouse or some fucking crash-test dummy anymore.

You know, it’s actually pretty nice here when he’s not hitting you.

Apartment was gorgeous, food was great. And the sex . . . fuck, it was

mind-blowing.

Bran snorted.
Yeah. Keep telling yourself that and you’ll have no

one to blame when you
do
look like a battered spouse again.

He scrubbed the thought away with an actual sea sponge and a bar

of soap that was probably made from, like, free-range cashmere goat

milk and the first baby petals of some rare flower that only grew on a

unicorn’s ass. Washed his hair with equally rich shampoo that came

in bar form for some fucking reason. Probably had a smaller carbon

footprint that way.
Yeah, assuming Jonathan doesn’t make that in his

garden too.
His hair was just beginning to grow out a bit on the back

and sides, starting to curl over the tips of his ears again. He felt a little

more like himself this way, hoped Jonathan wouldn’t make him shave

it again. He rinsed the shampoo from it and just stood there under

the spray, reveling in the pounding heat, the steam, the white noise,

the privacy. Strange how he’d come to like this morning ritual, take

comfort in it, even. Despite the shaving-every-day bullshit. Despite

the
enema
. It was his own little quiet corner of space. His chance to be

good to himself. Even better this morning for not needing to rush.

He turned his face into the spray, closed his eyes and opened his

mouth. He always drank in the shower now—made him less thirsty

later, less liable to have to cave to drinking from Jonathan’s hand.

Besides, he was in no rush to use the fucking enema. Bad enough—

way
beyond
bad enough; downright fucking
mortifying
—that it’d

started turning him on once he’d learned to go slow enough. Even

worse that he couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t even touch

himself, let alone relieve himself.

Except . . .
Jonathan’s still asleep. He’d never know.

Bran grabbed the nozzle, lubed it up, slid it inside himself. Closed

his eyes at that first fresh rush of pleasure, the gentle stretch, the not-

quite-burn, the sense of full but not nearly full enough. His dick, as

always, got very interested in the proceedings. He angled the nozzle

to hit his prostate, thrust it in and out ever so slightly, just a few times.

Let his forehead thunk against the tiles and leaned his weight there,

eyes closed, hot spray running down his back like fingers.
Like the

falls of a suede flogger.

Shit. Where had
that
thought come from?

He let his hand wander down his belly. To his navel. Beneath

it. Rasped fingertips over the hint of stubble where his pubic hair

used to be. Clenched his hand into a fist before he did something

even dumber than steal food and pried it away from his body. Turned

down the water temperature, turned down the flow, and flipped the

toggle on the shower shot. Closed his eyes again as that first warm

trickle of water pushed up inside him.

More, and more, and more still, slowly, sensuous—a careful,

aching,
teasing
build. Like that fucking bite of pancake in front of his

lips: scent, a dab of whipped cream, a hint of chocolate, then texture,

warmth, an explosion of flavors, fucking
orgasmic
. . .

Shit.
He yanked his hand from his dick with a mean pinch, half

punishing himself for having slipped so badly, half hoping to make

his erection go away. Not a fucking chance, though, not with all that

warm water filling him up, pressing against him so deliciously all at

once, creeping into places dick and fingers could never reach . . .

Jonathan’s sleeping. He’d never know . . .

“He knows
everything
, asshole,” he whispered between clenched

teeth.
Don’t be an idiot. Not worth the risk. He’ll get you off soon enough

anyway.

And like one of Pavlov’s fucking dogs, he’d salivate at the mouth

for the mere
chance
of it, beg and writhe and come out his fucking
ears

for Jonathan, and just why did he let the man do that to him anyway?

Why was Jonathan the one who got to decide when he could and

couldn’t have some fucking fun?

Three million dollars, remember? It’s not like you didn’t know what

you were signing on for.

Except, he supposed, for the part where he really actually kinda

hadn’t
known.

Whatever. These thoughts were bad news. The whole fucking

thing
was bad news. He flipped the water off. Pulled the nozzle out.

Voided his bowels and did it again. Faster this time—fast enough to

cramp. Better that than tempt himself with things he could no longer

have. Even if he had signed them away willingly.

Even if he was, quite frankly, having the best fucking sex of his

entire fucking life, Jonathan’s terms or no.

And just why was he thinking about sex so much, anyway? Never

had before. He stepped out of the shower, emptied himself again,

wrapped a towel around his waist and scrubbed another through his

hair. Slung it around his shoulders and shaved. Carefully as always

here—nice and slow, no missed spots, no nicks. Against the grain so

as not to leave the slightest hint of stubble. Shaved his crotch, too.

Balls were a little tough to reach, but fuck knew he didn’t want to

cut himself there, and that had nothing to do with Jonathan’s threats.

Finished up, rinsed off, smeared rich scentless lotion from head to

toe. He was losing the cal uses on his hands. Ran a fingertip across

the top of his palm and shivered at the sensation—so odd to have

any
sensation there from such a light touch. He felt . . . pampered.

No.
Foppish.

He sighed, scrubbed his hands through his hair. No real need to

comb it yet, not as short as it still was, and anyway Jonathan seemed to

like it undisciplined, loose with its hint of curl.
Not like he’s not gonna

fuck it all up within the hour anyway.
The man seemed incapable of

keeping his fucking hands to himself. Or at least out of Bran’s hair.

One last careful inspection in the mirror—he found a few beads

of moisture at the small of his back that he toweled away—before

cleaning up the bathroom and creeping back upstairs. He’d have

stayed in here a while yet, but he really had no idea what time it was,

and didn’t plan to start his day with fresh cane welts across his ass.

He found Jonathan out on the balcony, sipping tea and reading the

paper. Bran came in and knelt on the cushion at his feet, eyes straying

to the table. No food yet; just Jonathan’s teapot and favorite green

ceramic mug. Jonathan didn’t say a word to him, just kept turning

the pages of the financial section. Didn’t even offer Bran the front

page to read, like he usually did when he was done with it himself. So

was Jonathan just ignoring him on principle, or . . .? No, he couldn’t

know. If he did, he’d be beating Bran black and blue by now.

. . . Wouldn’t he?

Bran’s back went rigid, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, focused

on Jonathan. After a few minutes, Sabrina came in with a tray. Only

one covered plate on it this morning. More pancakes? Maybe an

omelet? Bran’s nostrils flared, trying to figure out what she’d made.

Jonathan’s eyebrow quirked up as she set the tray down and lifted

the cover. “Only enough for one?” he asked.

Sabrina flashed Bran a wide slice of teeth. Not the least bit

grandmotherly.
No, more like the wolf who ate her.
“Brandon’s already

had his breakfast.”

Bran’s gut went ice cold, every part of him starting to shake.

“There was a banana missing this morning. And I
was
planning

to use them to make muffins. For you
both
,” she added, that last bit

directed straight at Bran.

“Oh,
really
?” Jonathan turned his own very calm, extremely

fucking alarming gaze on Bran. Whenever he got that cool,

unflappable look, Bran knew he was in for some
serious
hurt. “And

he’d been doing so well these past few days.” A tiny sigh, and he put

aside his paper. “Thank you for telling me, Sabrina. I’ll take care of it

from here.”

Bran almost called out, begging her not to go, but it wouldn’t

make one bit of difference. Jonathan would beat him with or without

her in the room. The bitch would probably enjoy watching. That gray

hair didn’t fool him anymore.

“Well, Brandon, what am I going to do with you?” Jonathan

sounded more disappointed than angry, but that didn’t fool Bran

either. “You do realize you have thirty cane strokes in store. Remember

what I told you last time?”

Oh God. Oh fucking
fuck. No. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take

thirty cane strokes. It’d drive him out of his fucking mind.

Without thinking, he broke position, grabbed Jonathan’s ankle

and bent his head, pressing his lips to Jonathan’s plaid flannel slipper.

“Please, Jonathan, please don’t. I’ll do
anything
, just please please

fucking
please
don’t do that . . . Red, okay? Red!”

Jonathan’s fingers slid into Bran’s hair, curled around a rough

handful, jerked him back up. “I haven’t even touched you yet, and

you’re already safewording? No, I’m afraid that will not do.”

So even his fucking safeword wasn’t gonna get him out of this?

What the fuck was it for, then? “Y-you’re gonna punish me anyway?

Even though I said I was sorry?”

“Actually, you didn’t say you were sorry. You asked me not to

hit you. Not the same thing.” Jonathan pushed back in his chair and

stood up. “If you’d like to apologize, I won’t stop you. But it won’t

affect your punishment.”

Maybe not a chance to get out of this, but maybe he could . . .

make it less painful? Less humiliating? Fat fucking chance, but he

had to try. “I-I’m sorry, Jonathan. It’ll never happen again.”

“Then why did it happen this time? Don’t I feed you enough?

What’s it been . . . six, eight times a day? You need only
look
at me and

I drop everything to satisfy you. You know that.”

“I . . . I don’t know, I was just . . . I woke up real y hungry, and I . . .

I didn’t want to wake you, and—”

“And I don’t believe you for a moment. You’re making this up as

you go, aren’t you? You do realize you’ll get an additional demerit for

every lie or prevarication.”

“It’s the truth! I was hungry, a-and I was afraid you’d get mad at

me if I woke you—”

Jonathan’s mouth tightened, his eyes going icy.
Shit.
“You

obviously have no regard for my rules. Or for me.” He gestured for

Bran to rise. “Get up. We’re going to the dungeon.”

Bran’s knees shook as he rose, but somehow he managed to follow

Jonathan to the staircase. He shot Sabrina a dirty look as they passed

by the kitchen. She caught his gaze, and returned it with a sardonic

grin.
Fucking bitch.

Jonathan opened the door and gestured Bran ahead of him. Bran

never
got to walk ahead of him, but maybe Jonathan just wanted to

give him a little extra time to look at all these implements of torture

before he strapped Bran into one.

Maybe if I don’t fight him . . .

Bran forced himself to walk to the suspension bar hanging in

the middle of the dungeon, even though every single step was like