Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (6 page)

getting off first. This smug little fucker owed him that much.

Which must have been permission enough for Jonathan, because

he elbowed Bran’s knees apart and thrust what felt like his entire

fucking
hand
up his ass.

“
Ow!
” Bran jerked back, cracked his head against the headboard

again. Jonathan’s fingers followed, still lodged firmly inside even as

he closed his legs, kicked at him. Jonathan captured his ankles one-

handed and pinned him with his body.

Bran struggled until he wore himself out. Couldn’t free his legs,

couldn’t even dislodge Jonathan’s fingers from his ass. Demanded

instead, “What happened to being gentle?”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said, batting completely un-sorry eyelashes at

him over his stupid fucking un-sorry Bambi-eyes. Then he pulled out

a fraction, crooked his un-sorry little fingers, and
pressed
.

Bran suddenly forgot what he was so upset about.

Holy fuck I’m gonna come, he’s not even fucking touching my dick

and I’m—

The fingers disappeared, and from a thousand miles away, a smug

little “Ah ah ah” floated round his head. “I
said
I wasn’t finished with

you yet.”

“Finish, then,” he growled. “For fuck’s sake,
please
.”

“Ah, there’s the magic word.” Jonathan hoisted up Bran’s knees,

settled his hips between them, and plunged inside.

Bran clenched his jaw on his shout—
I won’t give the smug fucker

that.
But Jesus, it hurt—for about thirty seconds, and then the sharp

stab of entry faded to a slow burn. He gritted his teeth until the

sensation eased into an ache that actually felt good. Too good. Every

thrust teased his prostate, made his own neglected cock bounce

against his belly.

“Jesus,
touch
me.”

“You’ve got a free hand,” Jonathan huffed, not even breaking

rhythm, “Go ahead and use it.”

He would have, but it was wrapped around the other bedpost, right

beneath the dangling handcuff. How the hell had that happened?

Before he could think too hard about that, Jonathan’s fingers

wrapped around his dick and drove all the thoughts right out of his

head. One stroke, two—

And he came so hard he splattered his own chin.

Jonathan never broke stride, pounding into Bran’s ass and carrying

him through the orgasm, on and on and fucking
on,
milking him so

hard he couldn’t breathe, milking him
raw,
and “Okay, enough,” he

panted. Peeled his fingers from the bedpost, shoved at Jonathan’s

shoulder. But his muscles had gone all limp and liquid, and yeah, it

hurt, but no more than the fingers had, and fuck if it wasn’t kind

of . . . well, not
all
bad, anyway, and the sight of Jonathan’s eyes fierce

and boring into him as intently as his dick, lips pulled back with the

force of his pleasure, was crazy fucking hot—

Jonathan stilled, hands tightening painfully on Bran’s thighs—

and what was
with
this guy and hurting him, anyway?—then pushed

in deep and let go with a strangled gasp.

His dick slid from Bran’s abused ass, and he col apsed on top of

him, slick skin to slick skin, panting into Bran’s chest. Bran wasn’t

much of a cuddler, but he had to admit he liked the feel of Jonathan

atop him, the heat and solidity of him, the gentleness of his kisses a

shocking contrast to what had come before.

When their breathing settled, Jonathan rolled off, sat up, and

grabbed the handcuff key.

Shit, he’d forgotten all about that. Odd, since now that he thought

about it, his wrist was stupidly sore and his hand was tingling, half

numb.

Jonathan peppered it with kisses as he freed it. “So lovely,” he

said, drawing Bran’s wrist down to where Bran could see it, running a

single fingertip over the redness there.

“Uh.” Bran pulled his hand away, used it to push his hair off

his face. “Yeah. Sure. But look, next time? Maybe we skip the cuffs,

okay?”

Jonathan fixed him with a steady gaze. “Look me in the eye and

tell me that wasn’t the best orgasm of your life.”

He opened his mouth to say exactly that, but then closed it. He

was too fucked out to lie.

CHAPTER
4

hat’s what I thought,” Jonathan said into Brandon’s reluctant

silence, but the truth was, he hadn’t been so sure a moment

ago. Had he gone too far? Brandon had certainly seemed to enjoy

himself, but was he starting to regret it now?

Brandon swung his legs over the side of the bed and said, “Where

the fuck did you throw my pants?”

Jonathan hesitated a moment before sliding his hand onto

Brandon’s shoulder, then up to his neck. He resisted the temptation

to grab his hair again and simply let it rest there, fingers skimming

over Brandon’s still-throbbing pulse. “Stay,” he murmured.

At first Brandon stiffened, head turning, eyes averted. “I, uh . . .”

He cleared his throat, stood, took a step away, toward where his pants

lay crumpled on the bedroom floor. “I should go home, shower.”

Jonathan stood, reached out, touched Brandon’s forearm with

his fingertips. “Please. Stay.”

Brandon looked up sharply, as if he couldn’t parse Jonathan’s

gentleness now, or maybe just because Jonathan had said “please.”

He’d not intended to throw Brandon quite so off guard with his

request, but he might as well make the best of it. “Come on,” he said,

stepping close, sliding his arm through Brandon’s, pressing shoulder to

shoulder and hip to hip. He led Brandon back to the bed, guided him

down onto his back. Brandon followed mutely, strangely stunned.

Had he never
stuck around after sex before?

How terribly sad.

“Here.” Jonathan pulled the comforter up to Brandon’s waist.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

He padded into the bathroom to wet down a washcloth, then

brought it back to bed. Brandon had curled onto his side, breathing

slow and calm, watching Jonathan through heavy lids. At least he

seemed a bit more relaxed now.

Taking care not to jolt him, he put a gentle hand on Brandon’s

arm and rolled him onto his back. “Nice and warm, I promise,” he

murmured, wiping a streak of cum off Brandon’s chest with the

washcloth.

Brandon huffed softly, already half asleep. “What happened to

your evil twin?” he mumbled.

Jonathan laughed. “I drowned him in the tub.”

A mischievous little smile curled up Brandon’s lips. “Too bad. He

was great in bed.” Jonathan smiled back, absurdly pleased, and nudged

Brandon to roll over. The washcloth was cooling, but Brandon might

appreciate that now; he wiped it gently between Brandon’s cheeks

to wash away the lube, and Brandon hissed. “On second thought,

maybe I won’t miss him after al .”

Liar.

Jonathan gave him a playful slap and finished cleaning them both

off, then tossed the washcloth in the hamper and came back to bed.

Brandon’s breathing had slowed again, so Jonathan merely tugged

the covers up over both of them and switched off the light.

Impossible, though, to ignore that lovely body, even in the dark,

and besides, he was feeling rather oddly fond right now. Rol ing over,

he slid an arm around Brandon’s waist, but Brandon jerked away,

ended up curled with his back to Jonathan on the far, far edge of the

bed.“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Jonathan said, but

Brandon was breathing deep and even again, asleep or maybe just

pretending to be. Jonathan wasn’t sure which he’d have preferred.

Either way, message received, loud and clear.

Bran awoke to find himself alone in a soft warm bed the size of

Chinatown. Early-morning sunlight streamed in through far too

many windows, sounds of traffic so muffled and distant he wasn’t

even sure he was in the city anymore.

What the hell . . .?

He sat up, realized he was naked. And holy fuck did his head

hurt. Not to mention his ass.

Jonathan.

Where was the little fucker anyway?

And where the hell were his clothes?

Something black and shiny lay across the foot of the bed. A robe.

Since he had nothing else to wear, he slid it on, warm silk gliding

over his skin. He found the bathroom, gulped water straight from

the faucet, then took a piss. Shower next, using Jonathan’s ridiculous

boutique soap and shampoo. He put the robe back on once he’d

toweled dry.

So what now?

“Jonathan?” he called. Had the guy left him alone in his bazillion-

dol ar home? Seemed unlikely. Wishing he’d paid more attention

on the way in, he stepped out into the hal , called Jonathan’s name

again.

No answer. Maybe he was in the kitchen, wherever that was.

Stomach rumbling, Bran wandered through the living room, taking

stock of the vaulted ceiling and minimalist furniture, all clean lines,

dark wood and natural fibers. It was a huge room, cavernous, even—a

thousand square feet at least, with a spiral staircase at the far end

leading down to another floor. Skylights directly above let in the sun,

scattered rays poking through the thick March cloud cover.

Through the built-in saltwater aquarium taking up almost the

entire left wal , he could just discern the rippling outline of an office.

He peered through the tank, half to see if Jonathan was in the other

room, half because the coral reef inside was so damn pretty. At last

he tore his gaze away and cast it to the floor-to-ceiling windows

overlooking a spectacular view of the city stretching out beyond the

Golden Gate.

Jesus, a place like this must’ve cost ten million, easy.

As he wandered back toward the hal , a silver-framed photograph

on the coffee table caught his eye. A smiling couple standing in front

of a boat with a little boy between them. Obviously Jonathan—same

toothy grin and thick mane of hair. Couldn’t have been more than

twelve. Same age as Bran when . . . well, no point dwelling on that.

He turned away from the photo. Spotted a balcony at the opposite

side of the room, its sliding glass door separating him from a familiar

figure sitting at the table outside.

Bran’s bare toes sank into the decadently plush carpet as he

ambled over and rapped softly on the glass.

Jonathan smiled, put down his newspaper and beckoned him

outside. No robe for him: he was dressed in clean, pressed jeans and a

blue sweater that looked like it’d been knitted by hand. Made his eyes

sparkle like the water in the aquarium. “Good morning,” he said.

“Morning.” Bran hesitated before stepping out and sliding

the door shut behind him. The whole balcony was enclosed like a

greenhouse, and just as warm and sticky with the morning drizzle

fogging up the glass. Potted orchids, birds of paradise, and small

orange and date trees clued him in on the reason for it.

An awkward silence, then Jonathan cleared his throat. “Sit. Have

some coffee.”

Bran sucked in a breath, slid his hands down the robe. Why the