Rachel Haimowitz & Cat Grant - [Power Play 1] (5 page)

don’t you.”

An insult on the surface, but the man was smiling, smiling,

endless rows of straight white teeth on display. Jonathan jerked his

chin at Brandon’s crotch and said, “Your cock seems to think pretty

highly of me too. Perhaps it’d like a kiss?”

“Well, fuck,” Brandon said.

Exactly.

As if on cue, the limo rolled to a halt. A few seconds later, Jonathan’s

driver opened the door. No shock at the sight that greeted him; he’d

been with Jonathan long enough to expect far more salacious things

than a simple kiss.

Brandon gave a nervous chuckle and whispered, “Planning on

letting go of my hair, or are we just gonna fuck in the back of the limo

like a couple of teenagers?”

Jonathan smiled and gave one last hard yank on Brandon’s hair.

Brandon winced, made a face at him and rubbed at his head when

Jonathan let go.

“The limo’s nice, but my bed’s much nicer.”

“Must be a damn nice bed. Lead on, then.”

He couldn’t help but notice how Brandon’s eyes widened when

he got a look at the building—clearly dazzled, almost slack-jawed.

But Brandon didn’t try to linger; they hurried through the lobby

hand in hand, Jonathan nodding at the doorman and security guard

as they greeted him, pul ing Brandon along behind him to his private

elevator. As it started the long slow climb to the penthouse, he turned

to Brandon, backed him into a wall and bracketed that narrow waist

in both arms. “So,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle at his throat. “Thirty-

four floors. Whatever shall we do in the meantime?”

Brandon smirked. “You could suck
my
dick this time,” he said,

putting his hands on Jonathan’s shoulders. But when he tried to push

him down, Jonathan refused to budge.

Brandon sighed. “So I can’t touch you, you won’t blow me . . .

remind me again what I’m doing here?”

“I just thought this time you’d like to come with your pants
off
.”

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

The elevator dinged before Jonathan could summon up a suitably

pithy reply, the doors gliding open on his foyer. He slipped an arm

around Brandon’s waist and led him inside.

Brandon took two steps and froze, eyes tracking from the marble

tiles to the crown molding to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking

the bay. “
Jesus
,” he whispered, pacing slowly toward the nearest wal ,

running reverent fingers over a seascape mural, a framed Tomasz Rut

original. “Jesus,” he said again, and then, turning to run those fingers

over Jonathan’s smooth cheek, “Bedroom. Where is it?”

Jonathan took his hand and tugged him down the hal way.

Lights flicked on ahead of them and blinked out behind them as they

stumbled toward the bedroom. Brandon looked back at the living

room, now lit only by the built-in reef tank that divided the living

room from the office, and said, “Fancy,” but seemed to give it no more

thought.

They crossed into the bedroom and Brandon started to pull off

his jacket. Up came Jonathan’s hands to stop him.

“What
is
it with you?” Brandon demanded. “I can’t touch you,

can’t undress myself. You won’t blow me. What d’you want me to do,

just stand here and let you yank my hair out of my scalp?”

The smile slid off Jonathan’s lips to be replaced with something

softer, more sensual. “Relax,” he murmured, stepping forward to

smooth his palms up Brandon’s chest. “Let me take care of you.”

Brandon bristled beneath his touch. “I don’t
need
—”

“I know you don’t.” Jonathan dropped one hand to Brandon’s

crotch, cupping him gently. “But isn’t it fun sometimes?”

Brandon half-whimpered, half-moaned, and dropped onto the

edge of the bed, legs splayed. Jonathan leaned in to straddle his lap,

dusting a kiss across his lips before reaching down to unbutton all

those layers.
God, why did I buy him a
three
-piece suit again?
“See?

Isn’t this better than some back alley?”

Brandon’s lips twitched. “Better than kneeling in a puddle.”

Jonathan pushed Brandon’s shirt, vest, and jacket as one down

to his elbows, exposing miles of farmer-tanned skin sprinkled with

freckles almost the same shade as his hair. Hard to resist the urge to

play connect the dots with his teeth; he settled instead for running

lips and tongue over flat planes of muscle—the top of a pec, a bared

shoulder, a beautiful triceps. Michelangelo’s David.

Perfect.

He slid the top layers off completely, then nudged Brandon in

the chest until he got a clue and lay down. Jonathan followed with his

lips, tasting the ridges of Brandon’s stomach, the sparse ginger happy

trail, the impressive bulge straining at the suit pants. Brandon’s hands

settled in his hair—not pul ing, not threading, just resting
there—

but Jonathan shook his head and said, softly, “No.”

Brandon returned his arms to his sides. Jonathan had known he

would.

Back to Brandon’s pants. Jonathan pulled the tongue of the belt

from the buckle with his teeth, fingers busy tickling tracks up and

down Brandon’s flanks. Brandon gasped, squirmed beneath him.

“Fuck,
Jonathan,” he moaned, hips thrusting up as Jonathan rubbed

his cheek against Brandon’s trapped cock. “Come
on . . .
”

“Patience.” A smile as he pulled Brandon’s belt through the loops.

It slithered into his hand, and for a moment he couldn’t help but

imagine the sound that soft Italian leather would make against the

pale expanse of Brandon’s back, that perfect ass, Brandon gasping

and writhing and begging beneath him.

God, what lovely marks it would make.

But not now. Not yet.

It would probably help to get him out of his pants first. Button

undone, zipper down, he hooked his thumbs in Brandon’s belt loops

and tugged them down, silk boxer briefs and al .

Brandon flashed him a crooked smirk. “I just got this suit, and

now you can’t wait to get me out of it?”

“What do you think I bought it for?”

Eyes back on task. As if the rest of him weren’t impressive enough,

Brandon’s cock alone—a healthy handful, thick but not impractically

long—would’ve made Jonathan drool. For once, he was actually

tempted to bottom. But tonight he had other plans.

He slid his palms up Brandon’s bare thighs, brushed teasing

fingers through his pubic hair. Brandon moaned again, angled his

hips, but Jonathan was careful not to touch him where he so clearly

craved it. “Up,” he said, pul ing one hand away to tap at Brandon’s leg.

“You’re half off the bed here.”

Brandon rose up on his elbows and scooted fully onto the bed

without a second’s hesitation, back coming to rest against a pile of

pillows, head against the headboard. He spread his legs, watched

as Jonathan crawled up between them. So gorgeous, so hungry for

something Jonathan had an inkling he’d never experienced before.

Hard to believe no one had taken the time to enjoy every delight this

beautiful man had to offer.

All that lovely skin, just begging to be kissed. Jonathan started

in the middle of his chest and worked in circles, painting wet little

curlicues with the tip of his tongue. Brandon let out a startled moan

and brought up a hand to tangle in Jonathan’s hair. Jonathan’s first

instinct was to shake it off again, but it was such a gentle touch he

allowed it this time. Nothing wrong with a little give and take—

within reason.

“Jesus, you trying to tease me to death?” Brandon choked out.

That strangled sound went straight to Jonathan’s cock. He could

imagine Brandon making that noise again with his hands around his

throat. It might frighten Brandon at first, but he’d love
it, the loss of

air, the rush of blood, the dizzying delight at the first stolen breath

when at last it came. The
ecstasy
of it al , a pleasure unveiled the likes

of which he’d never known—

Honestly, Jonathan, not exactly first-date material. Try not to make

him think you’re a serial killer.

He nuzzled into the hollow beneath Brandon’s col arbone, then

glanced behind him with a smile. Eyed the handcuffs he always kept

there, dangling discreetly from the bedposts.

But maybe just a little taste . . .

Lacing their fingers together, he slid Brandon’s right hand

up the pillow, pressing a kiss to his parted lips, darting his tongue

inside. Brandon arched up beneath him, fingers tightening around

Jonathan’s own.

Distraction achieved, Jonathan grabbed the loose end of the

handcuff and snapped it over Brandon’s wrist.

CHAPTER
3

ran jerked from his lust-induced stupor at the first touch of

cold steel on his wrist. “What the
fuck
?” he shouted, shoving at

Jonathan with his free hand and giving the cuff a hard tug. It didn’t

budge. “Get this shit off me right now. I’m not kidding, pal.”

“Easy, easy.” Hands out and open, Jonathan sat back on his heels.

“Look, do you trust me?”

“I don’t even
know
you! I never saw you before last night. First

you shove your dick down my throat, now you’re chaining me to your

bed?” He rattled the cuff again, jerked it so hard he hurt himself. Shit,

still not budging.

Jonathan swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached

into the nightstand, pul ing out a little silver key. He laid it on the

edge of the table, within easy reach of Bran’s free hand. “Go ahead

and unlock yourself if you really want to. I won’t stop you. But . . .”

Jonathan pointed at Bran’s crotch, and to Bran’s utter chagrin—
What

the
fuck
?—
he realized he was still hard. Throbbing, in fact, a bead of

pre-cum dribbling down the aching crown of his dick.

Jonathan leaned in to lick it off. Bran gasped, bucked his hips,

and Jonathan parted those pretty red lips and swallowed him to the

root.He threw his head back so hard he banged it against the

headboard.

Headboard . . . something about a key . . .

Fuck it. Who could think anyway with Jonathan swallowing

around his dick like that? Jesus, didn’t the guy have a gag reflex?

Jonathan sucked him until black spots danced in front of his eyes.

Another second and it would’ve been all over, but Jonathan pulled

off just in time. Bran cursed, reached out for that thick dark hair—

And the handcuff rattled against the bedpost.

Fuck.

Jonathan sat back on Bran’s thighs and licked his swollen lips,

his grin as smug and filthy as a porn star thrusting out a twelve-inch

dick. He scraped one hand up Bran’s chest, fingernails first, to tweak a

nipple, and said, “Not yet, Brandon. I’m not finished with you yet.”

Why the hell did he keep cal ing him that? “Bran,
not
Brandon.

I told you before.”

“I refuse to call you something that gives me the runs.” A pause,

“Even if you
are
kind of—”

“Okay, okay! Don’t say it or I’m walking.”

Jonathan leaned over him to reach for the nightstand again, and

for one hot-cold moment, Bran thought he was cal ing his bluff,

grabbing the handcuff key and sending him on his way. But instead

he opened the drawer, pulled out a condom and a squeeze-bottle of

lube.“
Fuck
yeah,” Bran said, eyes darting from the lube to the curve of

Jonathan’s thighs. “Ride me.”

The look Jonathan threw him at that could best be described as

Disapproving Schoolteacher.
Didn’t even bother to correct him. Just:

“Spread those lovely legs of yours, if you’d be so kind.”

Suddenly that hot-cold feeling went completely cold. “Uh, wait a

minute. I haven’t bottomed in, like,
years
.”

Jonathan flipped open the lube and squeezed some onto his

fingers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

“Yeah, right.” Bran rattled the handcuff. “This looks real gentle

to me.”

Jonathan nodded toward the nightstand. “There’s the key.”

Yup, there it was. But no way was he going home tonight without