Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (37 page)

marks in it.”

Jonathan grimaced. “If this is a bad time . . .?”

“Nah, we’re in between setups. I’ve got . . . fifteen? Fifteen. New

boy still not eating?”

“No, he’s eating. I finally had to put him in the sarcophagus and

shock him on a timer. He still lasted half the night.”

Devon whistled. “Stubborn son of a bitch. Sounds more and

more like Nicky every time we talk. You
sure
he’s not a hardcore

masochist? Certainly seems to
invite
pain.”

Jonathan shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be. Not from the way he

reacted to the spanking I just gave him.”

“He come?”

“Eventually, when I stopped hitting him and started fingering

him, but . . .” He sighed. “He’s exhausting me. Every time I think he’s

getting it, he pulls back. I’m not sure how much more of this either

of us can take.”

“You know how it is sometimes when you’re breaking a boy

fresh. Nicky was a
disaster
. Just out there punishing himself. Sounds

like maybe Brandon’s doing the same. In a different way, maybe, but

from what you’ve told me? Guy like that’s too proud to lay it down.

Can’t admit it to himself. Growing up in his house? Probably learned

never to show an ounce of weakness. Never to give in, show emotion,

indulge himself or anyone else. So what you’ve got to ask yourself now

is, is he worth it? A road like that, it’s a long one.” A pause—Jonathan

could practically hear him shrugging. “But hey, I found my husband

at the end of my road. Worth every exhausting, blister-inducing step.

And
he
found
him
self, too. Just needed a guiding hand.”

If only it were that simple. “But you
knew
. You looked at Nicky

and you
knew
. He
craved
it. He
asked
for it. All Brandon’s ever done

is fight me.”

“You’re telling me you don’t know if he’s submissive?”

Jonathan slumped forward, leaned his forehead on his palm. “I’m

telling you I may have . . . misjudged the situation. May have made a

terrible mistake.”

“I—” A scuffling noise on the other end of the line, and Devon

said, “Thank you, five,” to someone. “Sorry, gotta run soon. But look,

I think you know better than that. That night in the alley? That first

night with the cuffs? He may not realize he wants it, may not be

strong enough yet to
admit
he wants it, but he wants it. And maybe

you and he need to sit down and
talk
about that, yeah?”

Jonathan cracked a brittle smile; hard to talk to Brandon when

the only two words he seemed to know were “fuck” and “you.”

“No roles, no pretense, no fear. I realize it may be too late to

renegotiate your contract, but it’s not too late to open a dialog,

right?”

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” Jonathan conceded. They’d found each

other so fascinating once upon a time. He still wanted that. Perhaps,

somewhere deep down, Brandon did too.

“And if you two can’t find a way to make things work, well, then

maybe it’s time to part ways, no hard feelings. Listen, I’ve gotta go,

man, but you call me back anytime. If I’m shooting, Sarah will take a

message and I’ll get right back to you.”

“Thank you, Devon.”

“Like I said, anytime. Oh, hey, I have next Friday and Saturday

off, and Nicky’s coming out to LA this week to shoot a guest spot on

Show Choir.
”

“Really? That’s fantastic!”

“I know! He’s very excited. Anyway, look, we could come visit

next weekend if you think that’d help. Maybe let Brandon see what it

could
be. He and Nicky have a lot in common; I bet they’d get along

great.”

Not such a great idea—at least, not now. Brandon wasn’t ready

for that yet. Maybe not ever, if Jonathan were being honest with

himself. “We’ll see. Give me a call when Nicky arrives. Maybe I can

come meet you for lunch.”

“Okay man, will do. Off to go get my ass kicked by a girl now. No

stunt double; pray for me.”

Jonathan laughed despite himself. “Admit it, you love it.”

“Not a chance. See you later, Waveboy!”

The phone went dead before Jonathan could tell him to
stop calling

me that
, though he supposed it was at least slightly less embarrassing

than his
actual
name. He clicked off the line, then turned back to his

computer and flicked on the infrared camera feed inside the cubby.

Brandon was huddled in the middle of the room, arms wrapped

around his drawn-up knees. His face was turned away from the

camera, but Jonathan could hear the soft sound of his breathing, the

tiny hitch that might have been cold shivering or might have been

crying. For a second, Jonathan was tempted to get up, go down there

and let him out. But then he’d have to deal with Brandon’s sullenness

and bad behavior for the rest of the day, and he most definitely was

not
up for that right now.

Truth to tell, he wasn’t sure he was up for it anymore, full stop.

Was Brandon really worth it? Last week Jonathan would have said

yes without hesitation, but today . . . today he was just plain
tired
.

Tired of fighting an endless battle of wills with a submissive he wasn’t

entirely sure
was
submissive. Maybe he really had misread Brandon,

despite Devon’s certainty. But then, Devon had never met Brandon.

He didn’t know how bad things could get. How bad they were right

now.Somehow, he didn’t think a mere talk
was going to fix this. But

he supposed he had to try.

CHAPTER
17

ran’s eyes squeezed shut instinctively as the door creaked open,

a faint sliver of light leaking in from the hal way. Dread twisted

through him, tension bunching up his muscles as he skittered away,

putting his back to the wal . The shadow in the doorway looked . . .

not as familiar as he was expecting. Shorter. Thinner.

Then the light overhead flicked on, and he flung an arm over his

eyes.“Come on,” Jonathan said, stepping inside, holding out his hand.

Bran’s vision finally adjusted to the sudden burst of light, but still he

blinked, gazing at what looked like a terrycloth robe in Jonathan’s

other hand.

What the fuck?

“Dinner’s ready. You haven’t eaten all day.” A blazing hot hand on

Bran’s shoulder now, under his arm, helping him up. His legs were still

stiff and shaky, mostly from the fucking cold
in here. Jonathan pulled

him up, strangely gentle, held out the robe for him. Bran slipped his

arms into the sleeves, shivering at soft fabric on sore skin. When was

the last time he’d had on more than a pair of fucking cuffs? A week?

Two? Three? He’d lost all track of time since he’d arrived.

The robe covered him from neck to mid-calf. He tucked it

tightly around himself, but when he went to knot the belt, his fingers

wouldn’t cooperate. They felt like frozen sausages, too clumsy to do

any good. Jonathan reached over and did it for him, then patted him

on the shoulder again. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Jonathan led them to the elevator—
probably because he’s afraid

I’ll fall and break my fucking neck
on the stairs—
a hand under his

arm to steady him. When the doors opened, he guided Bran into the

dining room.

Bran’s gaze locked immediately on the dining room table. Two

places set. And no cushion on the floor by Jonathan’s chair.

“Have a seat,” Jonathan said, gesturing toward the chair opposite

him. Bran sat gingerly, his tender ass sending up a protest as he did.

Still, it hurt less than kneeling on the fucking floor.

Jonathan lifted the covers on the serving dishes and began

spooning food onto Bran’s plate. Whatever it was, it smelled good—

even for vegetarian crap. Something with stir-fried veggies and tofu.

Something else with greens and fruit and nuts, like a Waldorf salad.

He put his nose closer to the plate, inhaling with lust. He was hungry

enough to eat with his fingers, but thankfully there was a fork right

there.

“Um . . . may I ask something, Jonathan?”

Jonathan finished fixing his own plate and sat down. “Go ahead.

But if you’re wondering if you can feed yourself, that’s why I gave

you the fork. And if you’re wondering why I’ve dressed you and let

you sit at the table, well, I’d like to discuss some things with you

tonight, and I want you to feel free to speak your mind, as an equal,

without fear of reprisal.” He pulled a familiar key from his pocket,

slid it across the table. Bran snatched it up and unlocked his wrist

and ankle cuffs before Jonathan changed his mind. “Just you and me

as two . . .” He bit his lower lip, an irritatingly sexy little quirk of his.

“As two friends,” he offered hesitantly, like maybe he worried Bran

would contradict him.

Actually . . . no fear of reprisal? In that case, “We’re
not
friends.”

Jonathan winced, nodded. “I rather thought you might say that.

But we were once, weren’t we?”

Bran glanced up at him, rubbing at the bruising on his left wrist.

The marks went so deep it hurt to move his fingers. “We were two

guys fucking in an alley,” he said, cold as he knew how to make it.

Jonathan winced again. There’d been more between them than

just that and they both knew it, but no way was Bran admitting that

now.“I do . . .” Jonathan began, then stopped. What’d happened to

all his fucking
confidence
? “I do
care
for you, Brandon. I think I have

from the moment I met you. And I would very much
like
to be your

friend again.”

Bran picked up his fork, stabbed angrily at a perfectly-cooked,

perfectly-seasoned crown of broccoli and said around it, “You have

a funny way of showing it.” Speared a potato and added, “You could

start by using my actual fucking
name
, you know. Or maybe I should

start cal ing you
Ocean Windsong
?”

Another wince, this one more self-conscious than the ones before.

Was he
blushing
?

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who can use Google, you smug

little fuck.”

Jonathan’s jaw clenched and his hand tightened around his

fork—as yet unused; he hadn’t touched his food—but all he did was

duck his head and say, very softly, “I suppose I deserve that.”

“Oh, you
suppose
, do you?” There was something very satisfying

about getting this all out of his system. In knowing he could speak

freely and not be fucking flogged or caned
or spanked for it. Or put

in a motherfucking
coffin.

“But you have to understand, being a Dominant . . .” Jonathan

shook his head. “It’s not about
smugness
. It’s about
steadiness
. It’s my

job to understand you, inside and out. It’s my job to know things, to

be able to act on them with confidence. To be your anchor when you

fly. To be the rock you can depend on when the ground tilts beneath

your feet. It’s my job to take care of you, just as surely as it’s your

job to take care of me. And you’ve not permitted me to do
any
of

that. You’ve not
trusted
me. Even though I’ve never lied to you. Even

though I’ve never indulged my own desires ahead of yours, never

beat you just for my own pleasure, never set you to tasks you can’t

accomplish. Even though I’ve held you when you’ve cried, and cared

for you when you’ve suffered, and tried with all I have to open your

eyes to the wonders of this world, to show you the pleasures inside

yourself. And I think . . .” Another sexy lip-bite; Bran very seriously

considered punching him in the mouth just to make him
stop that
.

“I think that if you’re going to continue refusing these things—the

most valuable, precious things I know how to give—if you’re going

to keep insisting you don’t want them, then it’s time I start believing

you. Time for you to leave.”

What?
After all he’d been through—the punishments he’d taken,

being stripped naked and treated like a fucking
animal
—Jonathan