Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (29 page)

in unison, but he gritted his teeth and slowly straightened. Well, at

least he was standing, which was more than he could have done a few

minutes ago. However, something told him putting one foot in front

of the other would be a different story.

Sure enough, he only made it a couple of steps before he faltered,

slumping over, fresh pain hitting him from all sides. Jesus, wasn’t

there even one fucking
tendon
Jonathan had managed to miss with

that flogger?

“Put your weight on me,” Jonathan said, his arm sliding around

Bran’s waist. Bran couldn’t help stiffening, though the added tension

flooding his body made him bite back a groan. Jonathan was half a

foot shorter than him. How the hell was he supposed to get them

both up that staircase?

Bran pulled away, lurching ahead a step or two, until he had no

choice but to grab hold of the wal . Breath coming in ragged gasps, he

almost tumbled to the floor.

“Still so stubborn,” Jonathan murmured, sidling up to wrap his

arm around Bran’s waist again. “Lean on me, Brandon. I promise you,

I will
not
let you fal .”

Jonathan had done a lot of awful things, but he’d
never
reneged

on a promise. He’d come down in the middle of the night to take

Bran out of that fucking box, hadn’t he? Besides, there was no way

Bran could make it any further on his own; his legs were shaking just

with the effort to stay upright.

So he nodded and let Jonathan lead him out of the dungeon. He

started to veer toward the staircase, but Jonathan shook his head, led

him past it, to the kitchen. Correction, to the elevator across from

the kitchen. How had he forgotten about that?

He felt kind of silly taking an elevator one floor, but honestly, there

was no way he’d ever have managed the stairs. He barely managed the

elevator; two steps into the upstairs foyer, he had to press a shoulder

to the wall and just breathe for a minute. Jonathan waited patiently,

hand rubbing up and down Bran’s back, a warm, reassuring touch he

could feel even through the blanket. “Almost there, Brandon.”

Jonathan helped him along to the bedroom. God, that fucking

yoga mat looked so damn good right now, but when he started to

lower himself onto it, Jonathan shook his head and gestured toward

the bathroom.

His
private
bathroom. Which Bran hadn’t used since the morning

after he’d arrived.

“Come on,” Jonathan said. “You look like you could use a good

long soak.”

Jonathan’s hand at his elbow, Bran managed to stagger into the

bathroom, then plopped down on the toilet lid while Jonathan ran

him a bath. Half zoned-out, he stared off into nothing for God knew

how long, until Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder jerked him back to

the present.

Bran reluctantly gave up the blanket and stepped into the tub,

wincing as he sat down. Jesus, the water was barely lukewarm, and it

still made every mark on his skin scream afresh.

“Sorry about that,” Jonathan said, “but you’d hurt worse if I’d

made it any hotter. And cold water would make your muscles cramp.

Give it a few minutes and the smarting should subside.”

Smarting? Is that what you call it?

Bran squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back against the smooth

enamel, trying to relax. He’d just about managed it when Jonathan

tapped him on the arm and said, “Scoot up a bit.”

He’s gonna climb in with
me?

Robeless and naked, Jonathan did just that, sliding in behind

Bran and then pul ing him close, Bran’s back to his chest, just like

downstairs a few minutes ago. Then he reached for a washcloth,

wetted it down, and started running it over Bran’s chest.

It stung at first, just like when he’d sat down, but then the warm

water started to feel damn good. He’d been a soggy, sweaty mess

for so long, he’d forgotten what it felt like to be clean. He would’ve

preferred to wash himself, but he was too fucking exhausted to put

up a fight.

So he didn’t even give a token protest when Jonathan nudged

him forward, making him sit up straight so Jonathan could wash his

hair. He sighed and relaxed into it, not caring anymore that Jonathan

was treating him like a damn baby. Not when Jonathan’s fingers felt

so fucking amazing massaging his scalp.

Jonathan grabbed the showerhead to rinse him off, and then Bran

eased himself back, resting against Jonathan’s chest, the slow, steady

thump of his heart seeping into Bran’s skin.

He’d come close to nodding off again when Jonathan’s lips

brushed his temple. “Water’s getting cold. High time we were both

in bed, don’t you think?”

God, you mean I’m supposed to get up and
walk
after this?

For a second, Bran considered asking Jonathan if he could just

sleep in the tub, but Jonathan stood and stepped out, ignoring the

fact that he was dripping all over the bathmat while he held his hand

out to Bran.

Bran made it as far as the toilet lid before his muscles, now relaxed

but still aching, gave out on him. He sat there watching as Jonathan

dried himself off, then grabbed a fresh towel and began doing the

same for Bran.

Soft as the cotton—and Jonathan’s touch—was, the nap of

the terrycloth grated over Bran’s welted skin. Jonathan murmured

soothing nonsense as he dried him—
There now
and
It’s okay
and

Almost done
—and helped him lean against the vanity while he wiped

his back, between his ass cheeks, down his legs, even the soles of his

feet. When Jonathan was finished, he opened the medicine cabinet,

grabbed a bottle of lotion, and began massaging it into Bran’s skin.

God, it smelled great. Vanilla and something flowery he couldn’t

identify. Any other time, he would’ve balked, but not tonight. Not

with Jonathan’s hands moving all over him, soothing where he’d

brought the hurt before.

Why was he
doing
that?

Too many contradictions, and Bran’s brain was still too scrambled

to ponder them al . He didn’t want to think anymore. He wanted his

yoga mat and his blanket, and he wanted them
now
.

But Jonathan took him by the arm and steered him over to the

bed. The bed Bran hadn’t slept in since that night Jonathan had

handcuffed him to it.

Bran took one look at the rumpled blue sheets and froze.
Oh,

God.
Jonathan wasn’t planning to fuck him now, not after everything

else he’d put him through. Was he?

“I don’t want anything from you tonight, Brandon. Except to see

to your comfort.” Jonathan smiled and patted the edge of the bed.

“Come on, climb in so we can both get warm.”

The room was a bit chilly, but after the freezing dungeon, Bran

barely registered it. Still, the sheets felt like heaven, sleek cotton

sateen floating over his skin. Jonathan slid in beside him, then tugged

the comforter up to their chins.

He instinctively tensed as Jonathan scooted closer. If he didn’t

want sex tonight, what
did
he want? What price would Bran have to

pay for spending the night here instead of huddled on his yoga mat?

“Easy,” Jonathan murmured, lips at Bran’s shoulder, fingertips

trailing down his arm. Maybe it was that soft, sexily liquid tone in his

voice, maybe it was the touch of his hand, maybe it was simply being

comfortable
for the first time since he’d arrived here . . . For whatever

reason, Bran found himself instantly hard.

Of course, Jonathan knew it practically the moment it happened.

As if the tent over your crotch wasn’t his first clue.
Down came his hand,

his fingers closing around Bran’s dick, giving it a quick tug.

“Would you like this tonight?” Jonathan asked. “No reciprocation

expected.”

God, he was too fucking tired to get off—and too fucking tired,

apparently, to maintain his erection. Too fucking tired to even be

embarrassed about it. “I. . . I’d just like to sleep, Jonathan.” He licked

his lips, hoping Jonathan wouldn’t be disappointed.

And where the hell did
that
come from?

Jonathan’s grin spread wide as he leaned in to give Bran a kiss.

“Sleep then,” he murmured against Bran’s lips. “Sleep as long as you

like.”

CHAPTER
14

ran woke, still exhausted, to the pain of a shock shooting up

his ankles. Took him a second to register that he was alone in

Jonathan’s bed, not back in the coffin. No shocks. Not even any cuffs.

Just a nightmare.

He squinted at the clock: 11:07 AM. He had to pee, but fuck it;

he was too sore to move, and Jonathan
had
said to sleep as long as he

liked. Or had he dreamed that part too? Whatever. Jonathan wasn’t

here, wasn’t bothering him, so he decided to go with it, imagined or

not, and closed his eyes again.

He next woke just after three in the afternoon to the same

jolting sensation as before, and this time his bladder would brook no

argument. He felt pretty rested now, anyway. How long had he slept?

Ten hours? Twelve?
When did I get out of that box?

Rol ing out of bed was an exercise in strict self-control, and

somehow he still ended up on his hands and knees instead of his feet,

forehead pressed to the floor, head spinning and body so far past

aching he couldn’t even catalog his individual hurts. For one terrible

second, he found his mouth forming Jonathan’s name, but he bit that

bullshit back—no fucking way
he’d call the man for help right now.

He crawled to the bathroom instead.

It’d been a damn long time since he’d had to sit to piss, but he was

pretty far past pride at this point, and hey, congrats to Jonathan for

finally managing that, the little fuck.

Bran’s fingers clenched.
So easy. You gave it up so easy. A day,

maybe? Half the night? You barely made him work for it.

God, why had he
asked
for that?

And why did it feel so easy to live with now?

His stomach rumbled. Had been for almost a week; he barely

even felt the pain anymore. But after that taste last night, that hot

blissful rush of fat and sugar, it’d gotten greedy again. He shook off,

levered to his feet with the help of the vanity and the wal , reached

down to pull his pants up and remembered he wasn’t wearing any.

Hadn’t been for a week.

He went to wash his hands, a bit steadier on his feet now, and

caught sight of that massive bathtub. Fuzzy memories of last night, of

Jonathan climbing in with him, washing him, drying him . . . so very

gentle, so kind and attentive. Almost like love.

But it’s not. He was just patching his broken toy back up, and don’t

you forget it.

. . . Yet he took you to bed like a lover.

Nothing had happened, though. Had it? He’d been so tired.

Was
still
tired. Thought of crawling back into that big soft bed, but

thoughts of food won out.

He staggered halfway down the hall to Jonathan’s office, but by

the time he got there, he’d loosened up enough to stop holding onto

the wal . Jonathan glanced up and smiled as Bran came in.

“Well, you look rested. Would you like something to eat?”

It took all Bran’s willpower not to say, “God, yes!” Instead, he

forced a smile of his own and came over, kneeling down on the

cushion beside Jonathan’s desk. Landing ass to heels with all those

aches and pains shooting up his legs and back nearly made him

groan aloud, but he bit it back. He’d let Jonathan hear enough of his

screaming this week.

“Yes, Jonathan,” he replied. “I’d like some breakfast.”

“More like lunch,” Jonathan said, reaching for the house phone.

“But I’ll have Sabrina bring something up.”

She showed up with a tray several endless minutes later, Bran’s

roiling stomach on the verge of eating itself while he waited. Fruit,

toast squares with jam, a small pot of tea. No coffee, of course. He