Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (46 page)

went back to his drink. His hand followed, and he gulped down half

the glass before slamming it on the table, standing suddenly, and . . .

leaving?

Jonathan’s first instinct was to call after him, but he bit it back,

watched him disappear down the hal , into his study. Watched him

come back a moment later, eyes widening as he saw what Brandon

was carrying: the cane that lived on his desk.

Brandon was blushing clear to the roots of his hair as he laid the

cane in Jonathan’s lap and knelt, with perfect posture, at his feet.

Oh really?

“So tell me then,” Jonathan said, picking up the cane and tapping

Brandon on the shoulder with it, “how things would be different on

your
end this time.”

The question seemed to stump Brandon. “I don’t know, Jonathan.

I don’t even know if I
want
a ‘this time.’”

Yes, you do.
He was strong enough to admit it, too; he just needed

a little help.

Jonathan tipped up Brandon’s chin with the point of the cane.

“Pretend you do. Now convince me you deserve a second chance.”

Brandon sucked in a deep breath, blew it out, looked like he

might be considering a protest. But he left his pride behind and said,

“Well, I know what I’m getting into this time.”

Even he seemed to know how weak that was. Jonathan shook his

head, poked him in the chest with the cane. “You knew what it was

when you left, too. That hasn’t changed.”

Brandon bit his lip, nodded. “I, uh, I realize now what

you . . . well, what you were trying to do for me. How hard it was for

you. How much of yourself you gave to me.” His eyes darted up to

Jonathan’s, dropped back to the carpet. “How dismissive I was. How

resistant. And I don’t . . .” He hunched in on himself for a moment,

hands fisting at the small of his back. “I don’t know if I’ll ever
be the

man you think I am. I don’t . . . I don’t
like
it when you hurt me. I wish

you wouldn’t. But I
do
know I’ve had the best sex of my life
here. That

I like the way you make me feel when you’re good to me. That I

like . . .” God, he was blushing again so hard he looked feverish. “That

I like how you make me forget to be ashamed. That you make me

feel like maybe it’s okay to want this, to want”—he broke position

to gesture with both hands, a floppy, helpless toss that seemed to

encompass the whole world—“
anything
. Everything. To stop living

like such a damn monk. To . . . to maybe trus—” He cut himself off,

reached over to the coffee table to finish his scotch, did
not
finish his

sentence.

But that was okay, because clearly, Jonathan had
gotten through

to him after al . Brandon had been so raw, so emotional, so angry all

the time, no wonder he’d needed a week to decompress and process

everything he’d been through here. No wonder the realization of

what he’d walked away from had left him aching, longing for more.

The question was, could Jonathan give it to him? He was so tired,

so drained himself. Another five months of this would probably do

him in. Except . . . well, except that he too was aching, longing for

more. Three weeks with this man . . . three trying, difficult,
stressful

weeks, and yet he’d not been able to get Brandon out of his head.

Hadn’t even been able to bring himself to put the man’s cuffs away,

and if
that
wasn’t him trying to tell himself something, he didn’t

know what was.

“There will be questions if you stay,” he said. Brandon perked

up, just a little, looking as cautiously hopeful as Jonathan had felt

before. “We’d talk. Every night. You would be
honest
. Can you handle

that?”

There followed a long enough pause to make clear that Brandon

was honestly considering the question. Finally, he said, “I’d do my

best, Jonathan.”

God, so easy. Slipping right back to where they’d been. Jonathan’s

heart twitched along with his cock. This might really work. They

might really be able to have this.

“And this cane would still have your name on it.”

Brandon swallowed, bit his lip again, but he nodded. “I’d try not

to make you need it, Jonathan.”

Jonathan quite appreciated that, but decided to test Brandon all

the same: “Sometimes I’d use it whether I needed it or not.”

Another hard swallow, but Brandon said, “I understand, Jonathan.

You, uh . . . you deserve your pleasure too.”

“And we’d need to do something about that filthy mouth of

yours. Cursing is so
crass
.”

Was that a smile playing at Brandon’s lips? “I’d do my best,

Jonathan.”

“And don’t think I’d count the week you’ve been away toward

your six months.”

“Of course not, Jonathan.”

Jonathan felt a smile playing at his own lips, and wiped it clean.

Stood up, squatted in front of Brandon, and laid his hand on the

nape of Brandon’s neck. Took Brandon’s chin with his free hand and

lifted it, gentle as could be, until their eyes met. “This won’t be easy.

You know that, right?”

Brandon blinked at him with those big green eyes, so full of hope,

of fear, of affirmation. “I know, Jonathan,” he said softly. Added,

almost as if to himself, “But I want this. I do.” He met Jonathan’s

eyes again and said, quite emphatically this time, “I
do
. And I know

it won’t be easy”—one corner of his mouth quirked up—“for either

of us, I suppose. But if I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that nothing

worth having comes easy, and you’ve gotta be willing to fight for what

matters to you.”

Wise man, that.

“So please, Jonathan, I want to come back.”

Jonathan rubbed his thumb over Brandon’s gently parted lips,

then leaned in to taste, his kiss soft, nearly chaste. “Yes, well,” he

murmured against Brandon’s mouth, breath passing warm and moist

between them, “just do be a dear and try not to fight me
too
hard.”

Brandon laughed, rubbed his cheek against Jonathan’s palm and

then ducked out from beneath it, leaning sideways toward the coffee

table. Before Jonathan realized what he was doing, Brandon had one

cuff already locked around his wrist and was halfway to fastening on

the other one. “I won’t, Jonathan,” he said. “Or”—another quirk of

the lips into that painfully adorable lopsided smile of his—“at least,

I promise to
try
not to. I don’t discount the possibility you’ll have to,

um, help
me break a few bad habits.”

Just a
few
? Jonathan grinned; he had a feeling the next five months

were going to be very . . .
educational.
But satisfying, too. Deeply so.

For both of them.

A special thank-you to our betas, Heidi Belleau and Alex

Whitehal , and to everyone on Twitter and Facebook and Goodreads

who cheered us on so heartily. Also to Oleg, for the muse-food gif—

yeah, you know which one. Gratitude to our editors, of course: Tal

Valante for the World’s Most Insightful Fix on the last scene, Carole-

ann Galloway for the ever-important (and repeated) sanity checks,

and Aleks Voinov for being his regular BAMFy self. Lastly, our

eternal devotion to Imaliea, our stunningly brilliant cover artist, who

plucked Jonathan and Brandon from our heads and rendered them

so exquisitely on paper.

The First Real Thing (Icon Men, #1)

Appearing Nightly (Icon Men, #2)

A Fool for You (Icon Men, #3)

Entangled Trio

Sonata Appassionata

Allegro Vivace

Once a Marine

Coming soon from Riptide Publishing
:

Priceless

Power Play: Awakening, with Rachel Haimowitz

Counterpoint (Song of the Fallen, #1)

Crescendo (Song of the Fallen, #1)

Master Class (Master Class, #1)

SUBlime: Collected Shorts (Master Class, #2)

Anchored (Belonging, #1)

Where He Belongs (Belonging, #2)

Break and Enter, with Aleksandr Voinov

Coming soon from Riptide Publishing

Power Play: Awakening, with Cat Grant

Cat Grant lives by the sea in beautiful Monterey, California with

one persnickety feline and entirely too many books and DVDs. In

her spare time, she reads (mostly for research), goes to the movies and

opera a lot and fantasizes about kinky sex with Michael Fassbender.

You can find Cat at http://catgrant.com.

Rachel Haimowitz is an M/M erotic romance author, a freelance