Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (13 page)

make the choice to lock it on himself . . .

His gaze wandered of its own accord to the dungeon door, down

the hal . He couldn’t see the elevator from here, but he knew it was

there, waiting. Jonathan was waiting too, more patiently than Bran

might’ve thought.

He knows how hard this is for you.

The realization hit him with all the strength and meaning of the

steel cuffs. This really
wasn’t
all about Jonathan. He
did
care about

Bran’s feelings and fears.

Bran nodded and locked the second cuff on.

“That’s very good,” Jonathan said, so soft it was almost a whisper.

“Very good. Here”—he handed him the ankle cuffs—“these too, if

you please.”

Bran didn’t hesitate this time. The hard part was already over,

after al , and he hadn’t forgotten Jonathan’s talk of
punishment
.

When he finished fastening the cuffs and straightened back up,

Jonathan was smiling at him, all fatherly approval. And didn’t that

just make Bran want to punch the grin right off his stupid too-pretty

face. What kind of idiot had he been to let Jonathan’s approval mean

a
thing
to him, even for a single second?

“Now aren’t you lovely,” Jonathan practically purred.

Correction: he wanted to punch Jonathan in the fucking
throat
.

“Come along,” Jonathan chirped, threading a finger through a

ring on Bran’s wrist cuff before tugging him to one of the doors at the

back of the room. Did he even want
to know what lay behind those

doors? What could possibly be so awful that Jonathan had felt the

need to hide it, even from
this
place?

No, he decided, right around the second Jonathan took the

choice out of his hands.

But then the light went on beyond the door, and Bran’s thrashing

heart settled, more or less. Just a bathroom. A really, really
nice

bathroom, actually: marble sink and vanity, marble tiles, massive heat

lamp, ful -length mirror. Bright white, all of it, even the curtain on

the curved shower rod.

Nothing freaky here at al , it seemed.

“Sit,” Jonathan said, indicating the bare toilet lid. Bran eyed it for

a second, testicles creeping up into his belly at the mere
thought
of all

that chilly porcelain. He half-expected Jonathan to force him when

he didn’t move, but instead Jonathan merely said, “That’s three.”

Huh?
“Three what?”

“You’ve forgotten about the demerits you’ve earned already? And

that makes four, by the way. Third for hesitating, fourth for speaking

out of turn.”

Well, fuck.
Apparently all he had to do was
breathe
and he’d rack

up another demerit. He stifled a sigh and sank down on the toilet lid,

and
holy shit
it was every bit as cold as it’d looked.

Jonathan opened the medicine cabinet and drew out an electric

razor. As he flicked it on, Bran realized it had a hair clipper at the

end. His gut immediately tightened. “Wait, you didn’t say anything

about—”
Shit.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, cursing his flapping

tongue.

“Good effort, but that’s five. And I gave you every opportunity to

set limits when we negotiated our contract.”

“But you never said—”

“Six—”

“Oh,
come on!
”

“Seven. I can keep doing this all night. I
like
hurting you,

remember?”

Bran scowled.
Fucking pervert.

“Going to behave now?”

Bran gritted his teeth, but nodded. Then he remembered he

needed to answer out loud
and said, “Yes, Jonathan,” before the sick

fuck could make it eight.

Jonathan smiled and patted him on the head. “Good boy.”

Oh, fuck the throat. Bran wanted to punch him in the fucking

nuts
.But of course he didn’t—three million dol ars, after al—and

Jonathan grabbed a good handful of his hair and started shaving. Bran

watched the first clump of ginger curls float to the floor, wondering

what he’d gotten himself into, why he was letting
anyone
treat him

like this, if all the money in the world was worth it. If he’d wanted

to be bossed around, he would’ve joined the army. At least they’d let

him keep his clothes on while they sheared him like a fucking sheep.

The back of his head grew cold as more tufts of hair fell around his

shoulders.

“You should consider yourself lucky,” Jonathan half-shouted over

the buzz of the clippers. “I normally shave my boys right down to the

scalp on their first day, but I must admit a certain fondness for your

hair.”
Yeah, if you shave it all off, what will you grab, you fucker?

Jonathan finished the back and then shaved down both sides.

He paused to change the cutting guard before shaving the rest, and

much less hair seemed to drift into Bran’s lap when he ran the new

guard through the top. When Jonathan turned off the clippers, Bran

reached up to feel what he’d done, but Jonathan knocked his hands

away. “Stand up and take a look.”

At first Bran hardly recognized himself. He hadn’t worn his hair

this short since middle school, when the girls had started trying to

touch it, never mind that it hadn’t been the girls he’d been interested

in. He ran his hand up the close-cropped hair at the back, then ruffled

the couple inches Jonathan had left up top, gentle curls spilling

through his fingers. It actually felt kinda nice. And he supposed it

didn’t look so bad, either. At least it’d be easy to take care of.

He debated asking Jonathan if he’d shaved his initials into the back

of his head, but decided it wouldn’t be worth an eighth demerit.

“Time for a shower,” Jonathan said, pul ing the shower curtain

back to reveal a jetted soaking tub big enough for two and a pair

of waterfall shower heads. Looked heavenly, like something from a

five-star hotel.
Jonathan turned on the water, waited for it to start

steaming, then began unbuttoning his shirt. “Go on, get in,” he said.

“I’ll join you momentarily.”

Bran had showered before he’d come over, but now that he had

hair clippings down his back—not to mention his ass-crack—another

one sounded like a good idea. Besides, no need to ask him twice to

enjoy
that
shower. He climbed in, moaning softly as warm spray

poured down his skin. He stood there basking in it for a few seconds

before Jonathan stepped in behind him and closed the curtain.

Jonathan’s arms encircled his waist as he pressed up behind Bran,

brushed a kiss to his shoulder blade. Bran tensed; it was impossible to

miss that erection pressing up against the back of his thigh. Jonathan

wasn’t gonna fuck him in the
shower
, was he? It’d been too rough for

Bran’s tastes in that nice soft bed, and at least they’d used lube
then.

“Shhh, relax,” Jonathan whispered. “I’m not going to fuck you

here,” and oh God, was he
psychic
now, too? “At least,” he added with

gentle humor, “not tonight.”

Bran reached for a nearby bar of soap, just for something to do

with his hands, but Jonathan took it from him and said, “Let me.”

What the hell?
Didn’t Jonathan think he was capable of washing

himself? Still, Jonathan’s soapy hands glided like silk over his skin, and

damn if it wasn’t nice. Better than nice, even, when strong fingers dug

into the tension at his shoulders, his neck, the small of his back. He

propped his palms on the shower wall and let his head hang between

them, closed his eyes and just enjoyed
himself. Easy enough to do if

he pretended this was two weeks back, before the contract, before

the talk, when they were just two guys hooking up, having some fun.

Jonathan leaned in, rested his chin on Bran’s shoulder and

whispered, “No disappearing on me, Brandon.”

Fuck.
Was he supposed to reply to that? It wasn’t a question

exactly, but . . . He took a chance and said, “I’m not, Jonathan.”

Jonathan slid a soapy finger down the crack of his ass and said,

“Good,” so he supposed he’d done right. “Turn around.”

Suddenly Bran realized things were perking up south of his

equator.
Great. As if the smug bastard weren’t smug enough.

And of course Jonathan went right for it the second Bran turned

around.

“Well,” Jonathan said to Bran’s tight-lipped refusal to moan at

that fantastic fucking touch, “it does need washing too, you know.”

But the slow, steady pump he gave felt
nothing
like washing, nor did

the stroke after, nor the stroke after that. Bran stumbled back a step

on the fourth stroke—with an added twist and squeeze around the

crown this time—and leaned against the shower wall lest his knees

go. The shock of cold tiles tamed his arousal a little, and Jonathan, the

little fuck, didn’t seem to have any intention of finishing what he’d

started anyway. One more pump and he pulled his hand away, slid it

down to Bran’s balls and gave them a too-rough soaping up.

“Hey, not so hard!” Bran said, then realized immediately what

he’d done.

Worst of it was, Jonathan didn’t get any gentler as he said,

“Eight.”

Actually, no, Bran was wrong. The
real
worst of it was that

Jonathan was reaching for a disposable razor with his free hand, and

he didn’t really mean to do what Bran thought he was gonna do, did

he? “Spread your legs and hold still,” Jonathan said, dropping down

to one knee beneath the shower spray.

Well, fuck.

No fucking way.

Jonathan held Bran’s dick out of the way with one hand and lifted

the razor with the other.

Bran jerked back.

“Brandon,” Jonathan said, slow and warning, but hey, at least

he hadn’t said
Nine.
He sat back on his heels, looked up at Bran,

water streaming over his shoulders and fal ing in fat drops from his

eyelashes. Fuck, his eyes were blue. “You’re a smart man,” he said, and

it seemed downright
surreal
to be lectured by a wet man on his knees

and yet here they were. “I know you remember my rules.”

Bran nodded, unsure of whether he was supposed to speak.

“Tell me what they are.”

“Don’t speak out of turn.”

Jonathan nodded. “And?”

Bran took a deep breath, another, thought about the money.

“And obey every order, without question or hesitation. Don’t make

you repeat yourself.”

Another nod. “And what happens if you break my rules?”

“You punish me,” Bran spat, lip curling in disgust. He wasn’t

some fucking child
to be lectured, patronized, turned over someone’s

knee and spanked.

“So you see where this leaves us,” Jonathan said.

“Let me guess. On nine.”

A little smile, more in the eyes than on Jonathan’s lips. “That

too, yes. And I won’t force you”—he held up the razor in the general

vicinity of Bran’s crotch—“but this? Is non-negotiable. You have a

safeword, of course; use it if you must, but I
know
you don’t need it

now, and I get understandably tetchy when my subs abuse my trust

about something that important. What we have here is a simple case

of pride, yes?”

Bran wasn’t sure he could answer with anything but
Fuck you
, so

he held his tongue.

“That’s ten, and yes, I see: pride indeed. Tell me, Brandon, why

don’t you want me to shave your pubes?”

Bran glared down at him, bit back another
Fuck you.
“Because it’s

ridiculous.
”

Jonathan pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows. “Humiliating, you

mean? Embarrassing for you?”

No shit.
Even
talking
about it brought heat to his cheeks that had

nothing to do with the shower. “Yeah, I guess. Won’t it itch, too?”

“A little,” Jonathan conceded. “Which is why we’ll wax next time.

But that’s a bit much for day one, don’t you think?”

Wax?
Fuck
that. No fucking way was Jonathan coming anywhere

near
his crotch with hot wax.

“I see you think you’ll find a way out of that one too, but you

won’t.” A statement of fact. Calm, assured, even a little bemused.

Like he thought he knew fucking everything
.
“Do you remember,” he

asked, “how we talked about tearing down barriers and walls? About

trusting me? About breaking you of all the destructive thoughts and

habits that prevent you from realizing your true potential?”

“Yeah,” he conceded.

“Yes
, Jonathan
,” Jonathan corrected. “And eleven, by the way; I’ve

let that slide too much already. Would you care to go for twelve?”

“No, Jonathan,” Bran groused. Added, at Jonathan’s raised

eyebrow, “I remember talking about all that stuff, yes, Jonathan.”

“Well, this is part of it. So either you trust and obey me now, or

you leave and we call the whole thing off.”

Well, that was no choice at all again, was it. Bran let his head

thunk back against the shower wal , covered his face with both hands,