Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (44 page)

those talented hands on his dick, that slim little plug up his ass, the

one just small enough to cause more pleasure than pain. His balls

were aching. He was hard enough to pound nails. He slid his hand

beneath the waistband of his pajama pants and grabbed himself.

Not too rough—not like Jonathan would’ve done. Just warm, firm

pressure, a steady rhythm, meant to get the job done.

Except . . . he didn’t want it to end so fast. Wanted to—
Goddamn

it
—
savor
it. He arched his hips up, shoved his pants down, kicked

them off. Pulled his shirt off too, after a moment’s thought. Rubbed

a hand up his chest, gave one nipple a light pinch. Pressed gentle

fingers to the fading bruises—a moment’s pain, hardly worth noting.

His dick twitched.

He’d be damn fucking glad of it when all these fucking marks

went away. When he wasn’t reminded of Jonathan every time he

looked in the mirror, every time he looked down at himself, every

time he touched
himself.

And yet here you are, touching yourself just like Jonathan did.

Well, he supposed he could concede that Jonathan had taught

him a new trick or two. Like this one: he sucked two fingers into

his mouth, then let them trail down behind his dick, fondle his

balls a moment, then rub over his hole, pressing gently. He pushed

one finger inside to the first knuckle, then added the second finger.

Worked them in as far as he could, found his prostate and rubbed at

it with gentle little rocking motions. Didn’t touch his dick, though it

practically wept for attention. If Jonathan had done this to him, he’d

have raged at the man for teasing, but in his own hands, under his

own control . . .

(It feels better when he does it and you know it.)

Under his
own
control, it was absolutely fucking amazing. He

let his legs splay open, canted his hips up, spat into his free hand and

gave his dick a single hard tug. He didn’t have lube, didn’t even have

hand lotion, but spit would do. Had a nice little edge of roughness to

it, actually, and—

And where the fuck did
that
come from? Since when do you like

edges
?

Since the night Jonathan fucked your mouth in a dirty back alley.

“Shut
up
!” he growled, jacking himself harder, thrusting his

fingers in and pressing with purpose against his prostate. He tilted his

head back, drove his fist faster and faster over his dick, thrust his hips

up into it, all thoughts of savoring
gone. He just wanted to come, just

wanted to relieve all that
pressure
and be done with it and go the fuck

back to sleep for an hour or two before he had to get up for work.

His orgasm slammed into him with all the force of a ful -body

tackle, left him drained and sore and
hollow
somehow as he pulled his

fingers from his ass with a hiss, wiped the cum off his belly and chest

with the T-shirt he’d left on the floor before bed. He closed his eyes,

let his breathing steady, and fought the absolutely fucking insane urge

to go again. He wasn’t seventeen anymore; he probably couldn’t get

it up again tonight even if his heart was really in it. Which it wasn’t.

Not even a little.

Bran’s alarm went off what seemed like five minutes later. Four

thirty, and it was still pitch black out. He rolled out of bed with a

groan and headed in for a quick shower. Fought the urge to jack off

again—just barely—dried off, went into the kitchen for coffee. The

cheap stuff he still had in the cupboard, tasted like battery acid. But

hell, it was
his
, and he could drink the whole damn pot if he wanted

to. It was freezing outside, but at least he had his clothes on. Which

didn’t make waiting for the bus any more fun. Or strap-hanging,

because the fucking bus was already ful . He got off a few blocks

from the job site and walked the rest of the way, hands shoved in his

pockets against the morning chill. Tomorrow he’d have to remember

his gloves.

Mike flagged him down as he walked up the unfinished driveway,

came over to slap him on the back. Bran flinched, but recovered

quickly and flashed a smile. “Looks like you losers survived without

me,” he said.

Mike laughed, slapped him on the back again. “You’re a real

Goddamned sweetheart, you know that? Come on, the boys

all pitched in and bought you breakfast.” Mike led him to the

construction trailer, gestured him through with an exaggerated bow.

About half the regular crew was there already, lounging around the

coffee pot and the drafting tables. They stood when he walked in,

clapped. Someone handed him a cup of coffee and a donut with a

candle in it. Wasn’t even lit.

“Um.”

“Welcome back, buddy.” More back slaps, and okay, yeah, these

guys were all right, but could they please stop fucking touching
him

so much? He sat down in the first open chair—a decent barrier

between himself and all the friendly hands. Mike sat down next to

him, whispered sidelong, “New foreman’s a real hardass.”

“Yeah,” said Pete, breaking a bite off Bran’s celebratory donut

without asking. “Fucking slave-driver.” He winked at Mike, popped

the bite of donut in his mouth.

Bran took a big bite of what remained before anyone else could

steal it from him, and turned to Mike, wide-eyed. “You? Mr. Sung

gave
you
my job?”

Mike looked like he didn’t know whether to keep smiling or

apologize. He settled for a shrug and said, “Sorry man, but I got three

kids, you know? Besides, we thought you were gonna be gone for a

while. So . . . how’s your dad?”

Bran pasted on a smile and took a long drag on his coffee. Really,

if anyone
was going to take his place, and of course someone was

going to, no one deserved it more than Mike. At least the mood on

the job site wouldn’t change. “He’s doing really well,” he said. Felt the

smile slip and covered it with another sip of coffee; he hated lying to

people he liked. “So well he told me to go home, stop putting my life

on hold.”

Mike grinned, checked his watch. Bran had tried to put his own

on this morning, couldn’t quite bear the feel of the strap around his

wrist. “That’s good, man, that’s good. Real glad to hear it. And you?

You all right?”

How the fuck was he supposed to answer that? Didn’t seem

like one of those polite “How you doings”; seemed like Mike really

wanted to know. And he supposed Mike was his boss now, after a

fashion. He took another long pull on his coffee, and Mike’s gaze

zeroed in on his hand.

Shit. Not his hand; his wrist. His still-very-bruised wrist.

“Dude, what the hell? Nurses couldn’t bear to let you leave?”

Before he could stop himself, he said, “Actually, some rich guy

chained me up in his basement.”

For a second Mike looked like he wasn’t sure if Bran was joking,

but then he burst out laughing and slapped him on the back again.

“Well, you do kinda look like hell. Finish your donut, slave-boy, and

let’s get to work.”

The rest of the day went on the way they usually did on a work

site—lots of fetching and carrying, good, physical work with results

he could see unfolding before his eyes, joking around with the guys,

stealing Mike’s lunch out of the fridge. Before he knew it, the three

o’clock whistle rang, and the first shift filed out as the second filed

in. Mike came up and laid a hand on his neck—way too
damn close

to where Jonathan used to put his—and said, “Hey, you wanna come

have a beer with me and some of the guys? I know it’s not your usual

thing, but what the hell. Our treat?”

Bran thought about saying yes, but the word wouldn’t come. He’d

never made a habit of going out drinking with the guys before, mostly

because . . . well, he used to be their boss, and the idea of socializing

with guys he had to supervise made him uncomfortable. But that

wasn’t a problem anymore, so . . . why was he hesitating?

Truthfully, all he wanted was to go home and fall into bed.

Couldn’t face the thought of having to make smal -talk
for the next

hour or two. Besides, he was still pretty sore, and all the lifting and

carrying today hadn’t helped. Felt good to use his body for something

practical—that satisfying good-day’s-work kind of sore—but sore

nevertheless.

“Mind giving me a rain check? I’m still pretty wiped.”

Mike’s cheerful expression fell, but he nodded. “Sure, man. I get

it. Maybe on Friday, huh?”

Bran nodded back and started off for his bus stop. “Sure.”

And yet, when he got off the bus, he found himself walking

toward Jian Li’s, right around the corner from his apartment. Wasn’t

terribly crowded yet, so he slid onto a stool at the bar.

Jian Li’s eyebrows shot up the second he saw him. “I saved your

stool for you all month. You were missed, Mr. Bran.”

His way of saying
What happened
and
Are you okay
? Bran smiled

as Jian Li drew him a beer and slid the glass over with a respectful

nod.Bran nodded back, took a sip. “As were you, Jian Li.” He’d spoken

in Chinese without even realizing until he’d finished. Felt good.

So he sat and drank his beer, casting a glance around the bar. A

familiar sea of Asian faces, though he found himself looking at the

door, half-hoping, half-dreading to see someone else. Never used to

bother him that the only person who ever talked to him in here was

Jian Li. He used to like this place for exactly that reason; nobody ever

hit on him here. He could sit quietly, drink his warm beer, and head

on home.

But tonight, for some reason, he longed for a little conversation.

A little banter, a little flirting with someone fun. The people here

respected him—he was a
Gweilo
who’d taken the time to learn their

language and culture—but he wasn’t one of them. Seemed like he

wasn’t one of anything, these days.

And really, wasn’t that his own damn fault? The guys at work

kept inviting him out, and he kept saying no. Kept making excuses—

he had nothing in common with them, he couldn’t afford the bar bill,

he was their boss—but that’s all they were.
Excuses.
Real reason was,

he didn’t like letting anyone in. Didn’t trust people. It always ended

badly.

So here he was, exactly where he’d been a month ago. Sitting in

a bar by himself, going home to his shitty apartment alone. Nothing

had changed.

I don’t know how to fix this.

He sighed, dragged the tip of his finger through the foam of his

beer. Had he really been lonely so long he couldn’t even
tell
anymore?

And why did it suddenly hurt so fucking bad? After fifteen fucking

years
?Jonathan. Fucking
Jonathan
. Making Bran
savor
life. All that did

was make the shithole that was reality all the more shitty when he

had to go back to it. He wasn’t a gazillionaire. Couldn’t spend his

life living in a fucking bubble
like Jonathan did. Guy had no right to

do this shit to him. To open all those old wounds, leave him so raw,

feeling so fucking much.

Bran propped his chin in his hands, closed his eyes. Felt, for an

instant, the brush of Jonathan’s fingers on the back of his neck, so

fucking
real
he spun around, heart pounding—

Didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when

Jonathan wasn’t actually there. Hated not knowing just as much as

he hated what Jonathan had done to him.

Fucked you up worse than your dad did, Bran.

Yet he was also the first person to lay selfless hands on Bran since

his high school boyfriend. First person since he was fourteen to touch

him out of kindness, be
gentle
, who didn’t want to hit or hurt him or

just get their rocks off and leave.

Well,
sometimes,
anyway.
Bran snorted into his beer, took a

mouthful and swooshed it around before swallowing. Maybe if he