Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (20 page)

Jonathan would take it easy on him when it came time to dish out his

next beating.

Jonathan wasn’t even that big, but tonight it felt like he was

cramming out Bran’s fucking teeth
.
Maybe he could speed this up;

he tried to give Jonathan a flick of his tongue, but the man just kept

going, stroking in and out in a slow, steady rhythm until Bran’s jaw

hurt so bad he had to pull away, had to close his fucking mouth, just

for a second, just—

Jonathan’s fist clenched tight in his hair and gave him a little

shake. He cried out, tried to protest, to warn him, to jerk away, but

Jonathan just held him fast, fucked him deeper, started gagging him

in earnest and he squeezed his eyes closed against the pain and the

urge to puke and the need to
breathe
, grunted around Jonathan’s

dick, then tried to scream around it when Jonathan
wouldn’t fucking

listen
,
and it was, quite frankly, the fucker’s own fucking fault when

Bran couldn’t hold himself back anymore and closed his teeth, just a

little, around Jonathan’s dick.

Jonathan pulled free of Bran’s mouth with a grunt, lips tightening

into a scowl. “What did you do that for?”

What the fuck did
he
have to be angry about? Bran just glared

at him, dragging in deep breaths. Anything he said was bound to get

him in more trouble.

Jonathan glared back. “Is there something you want to say?”

Yellow. Red.
What fucking difference did it make? His ass was

gonna end up black and blue by the end of the night anyway.

“Fuck. You,” Bran rasped.

Jonathan’s gaze went stone cold. He grabbed Bran’s hair again

in one hand, yanked his head as far away from the footboard as his

bindings would allow, and smacked
him.

The blow rattled his teeth, sheeted his vision. He hadn’t been hit

like that in years. Hadn’t
allowed
it. Not without giving as good as he

got. Not without sending the other guy to the fucking hospital. At

least Jonathan had pulled his head away from the footboard, or he’d

have cracked his skull on it.

He was expecting another strike, but Jonathan just let him go.

Hardness in his eyes, but no real anger. Hadn’t been, Bran realized,

even when he’d struck him, and Bran couldn’t decide if that perfect

fucking control made things better or worse.

“I told you,” Jonathan said, “I’m not going to choke you. If you

hadn’t tensed up, you would’ve been fine. You
were
fine; you were

hard until a second ago.”

Like he needed to be reminded.

He didn’t say “fuck you” again—didn’t dare with that frigid glint

still shining in Jonathan’s eyes and the hot imprint of the man’s palm

on his cheek—but the look he shot Jonathan said it al .

“Fine,” Jonathan said. “I was going easy on you, but I can see the

effort’s wasted. Maybe you’ll like it better this way. At least it’ll be

over faster.”

And with that, he twisted his fingers hard in Bran’s hair and

grabbed him at the pressure points at the hinge of his jaw, forcing his

mouth open. Then he shoved his dick back in.

He thrust deep into Bran’s mouth and just kept going, kept

gagging him, banging over and over into the back of his throat. Hot

tears spilled down his cheeks, chest shaking with rage and lack of

oxygen.

Serve him right if I puked on him.

His jaw was throbbing, his throat so sore he’d probably lose his

voice. All he had to do was drop the handkerchief, and it would stop.

But what would Jonathan do to him
then
? How would the man

make him pay for quitting on a stupid little blowjob—and worse, for

denying Jonathan his orgasm?

Before he could decide whether it was worth finding out or not,

Jonathan pulled back until just the crown of his dick remained inside

Bran’s mouth. “Suck it,” he ordered.

Just like that night in the alley, when Jonathan had twisted his

wrist until he’d fallen to his knees in that puddle.
When I came in my

fucking pants
. He realized that his lips had closed around Jonathan’s

dick—that his cheeks had hollowed, that he was sucking like a good

little sex slave and that he was
aroused
by it, Goddamn it—when

Jonathan burst in his mouth.

It was fucking
disgusting
, salty and bitter and slimy, but with

Jonathan still clamping onto his jaw, he had no choice but to swallow

or hold it in his mouth. And no fucking
way
was he swallowing this

asshole’s spunk.
Soon as he lets go of me, I’m spitting it all over him.

Jonathan’s fingers dug even tighter into his jaw, pain so sharp he

cried out behind closed lips. “Swallow,” Jonathan ordered.

Bran glared at him.

Jonathan’s hand clenched in his hair with just as much force as the

fingers at the hinge of his jaw. He’d have gasped if he could’ve opened

his mouth. Tears pricked at his eyes again. He squeezed them shut,

felt wetness track down one cheek.
Fuck,
he really needed Jonathan

to let go of his fucking jaw.

“You don’t want to eat my food, fine. But you
will
take nourishment

from me one way or another. And you will
not
disrespect me by

spitting that out.
Swallow
.”

Those fingers tightened even more somehow, and the one tear

turned into five or six. Bran strained against his bindings so hard he

imagined the footboard bending. He couldn’t have unclenched his

own fists for all the money in the world.

But what did it matter? Nothing he did or didn’t do now would

erase that look of cold fury from Jonathan’s face. Nor could he break

Jonathan’s icy control any more than Jonathan could break Bran’s

iron will. Stalemate.

Except for the part where he gets to hurt you until you cry. All
you

get to do is irritate him.

Hardly seemed fair. Or very smart, quite frankly, and
God
but

this spunk on his tongue was getting grosser by the second, collecting

there with all the spit he hadn’t swallowed either. He turned his eyes

up to Jonathan—the only part of himself he could even move right

now—and Jonathan flashed him a nasty grin, let go of his hair, and

instead pinched his nose shut.

Well, fuck.

“Remember that part where I said I’m not going to choke you?”

Jonathan asked. “Well, apologies; it seems I may have been a bit

premature in my assessment.”

God, who
talked
like that?

“Swallow, and I’ll let you breathe.”

Bran’s chest hitched, muscles spasming. It hurt, fuck,
everything

hurt, his jaw felt broken in a thousand places, and he tried to jerk his

head away from that iron grip but couldn’t and his vision was starting

to swim and he was pretty sure he was wasting his last precious drops

of air screaming behind Jonathan’s hand—

And then suddenly he was free—had he dropped the

handkerchief without realizing?—and he went to hock the glob of

cum into Jonathan’s smug face and realized it was gone. He’d fucking

swallowed it? When had he fucking swallowed it?

“Get away from me,” he rasped.

Jonathan leaned in close, swiped a thumb across a drop of cum

on Bran’s lower lip. Bran snapped his teeth at him, grinned in feral

satisfaction as Jonathan snatched his hand away.

“I don’t think,” Jonathan said as he tucked himself back into his

pants, his face and voice gone oddly neutral, “they make numbers high

enough to account for your behavior these last several minutes. So I’ll

ask you once more before we move on to showing you the myriad

errors of your ways . . . Would you like to cancel our contract?”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” Bran growled without

hesitation, then wished he hadn’t;
fuck
, his throat hurt. Added, since

he’d be sticking around to face the music, “Jonathan.”

“Very well, then.” Calm as ever, Jonathan plucked the handkerchief

from Bran’s fist—didn’t need it anymore now that he could curse at

Jonathan out loud, he supposed—turned on his heel, and headed

into the wardrobe. He came back a moment later with a riding crop

in his hand, smiled and slapped it against his palm, then laid it on the

floor near Bran’s outstretched leg. Could be worse; Bran had gotten

through the croppings this afternoon just fine.

Then Jonathan went back into the wardrobe again. This time he

came back with a big-ass wooden paddle. Looked like a fucking boat

oar with three Greek letters carved into it. Jonathan had sworn he’d

never injure him, but if he hit him with that thing while he was still

tied to the footboard . . . He swallowed hard, watched carefully as

Jonathan placed the paddle beside the riding crop on the floor.

A Costco-sized pump-bottle of lube came next. Who used
that

much lube? Bran’s gaze flicked from the lube to the paddle and crop.

What the fuck was going on here?

Jonathan shot him a bemused grin, then disappeared back into

the wardrobe.

How much crap did he
have
in there? Thing must’ve reached

right through to fucking Narnia.

What’ll he bring out next? A fucking
lamppost
?

Well, that would explain the lube . . .

What Jonathan came back with instead was actually worse. Bran

didn’t even recognize it for a second, all black and shiny rubber as it

was, but then Jonathan gestured toward him with it, grinning wide,

and he realized it was a fist. A fucking rubber fist
.
On an
arm
.

“Calm down before you hurt yourself,” Jonathan said, and Bran

realized he was struggling, yanking over and over at the ropes around

his wrists and outstretched leg. Breathing hard, sweating bullets.

Why the hell couldn’t Jonathan just beat him and get it over with?

“Why, would that take all the fun out of it for you?”

Jonathan froze, eyes narrowed, then spun around and stalked

back to the wardrobe. This time he came back with . . . was that a

Taser
? So much for calming down.

“Hey, man . . .” Bran whispered, licking at frozen lips. “Look, I

didn’t mean—”

Jonathan flicked the stun gun on, triggered it. Bright blue

electricity arced between the contact points. “I know
exactly
what

you meant,” he said, kneeling between Bran’s legs and pressing the

contacts to his neck, right below the ear. Bran squeezed his eyes shut,

jerked his head away with a whimper, but Jonathan just grabbed him

by the hair and held him still.

“Please, Jonathan . . .” God, he could barely get the words out,

couldn’t suck in air deep enough or fast enough and
Jesus fuck,

Jonathan was gonna
kill
him—

“Shhh,” Jonathan said as he ran the stun gun down Bran’s throat,

along his col arbone, lingered long at his left nipple. “You talk too

much, Brandon. You know that, don’t you?”

Jonathan let go of his hair, and he nodded his head like a fucking

bobble dol . “Please don’t do this, Jonathan.” A panting rasp, hardly

intelligible. He followed the stun gun with his eyes as Jonathan

dragged it down his belly. Couldn’t help it. Thought he might fucking

puke
when he realized where it was going, tried to beg again but only

managed a whimper.

“Shhh,” Jonathan repeated, dragging the contacts down Bran’s

sweat-slicked skin, down between his legs where his pubic hair used to

live, touched the base of his dick with it and Bran jerked, whimpered

again, pulled so hard against his bindings that pain flashed bright in

his elbows, wrists, and shoulders.

“Easy now.” Soothing. Chiding. The contacts slid lower, around

the back of his dick, nestled with a gasp-inducing shove against his

balls. Jonathan leaned forward, slid his free hand around the back

of Bran’s neck. Gentle, a lover’s touch. So was the kiss that followed,

soft, only the faintest hint of tongue, and Bran kissed him back like

his fucking life depended on it, then tried to pull away when he ran

out of air but Jonathan wouldn’t let him. He moaned against those

ful , demanding lips—
please let me go, please don’t do this
—and at last

Jonathan pulled away, kissed him on the forehead, and stood.

Bran sagged in his bindings like someone had dropped a brick on

his head, relief so strong he might have wet himself if he’d been even a

little less attentive. He couldn’t catch his breath, could still feel those

twin cold contacts between his balls, even though Jonathan had laid

the stun gun on the floor beside all the other implements of torture.

Bran had been so fucking scared, it only occurred to him as

Jonathan headed back to the wardrobe—
Oh God, what now?
—that

he could have,
should
have, said
yellow
.

“Close your eyes,” Jonathan called from the wardrobe.

Bran wasn’t sure he could
right now, no matter how much he