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thoughts right out of his
    head. One stroke, two—
    And he came so hard he splattered his own chin.
    Jonathan never broke stride, pounding into Bran’s ass and carrying
    him through the orgasm, on and on and fucking on, milking him so
    hard he couldn’t breathe, milking him raw, and “Okay, enough,” he
    panted. Peeled his fingers from the bedpost, shoved at Jonathan’s
    shoulder. But his muscles had gone all limp and liquid, and yeah, it
    hurt, but no more than the fingers had, and fuck if it wasn’t kind
    of . . . well, not all bad, anyway, and the sight of Jonathan’s eyes fierce
    and boring into him as intently as his dick, lips pulled back with the
    force of his pleasure, was crazy fucking hot—
    Jonathan stilled, hands tightening painfully on Bran’s thighs—
    and what was with this guy and hurting him, anyway?—then pushed
    in deep and let go with a strangled gasp.
    His dick slid from Bran’s abused ass, and he col apsed on top of
    him, slick skin to slick skin, panting into Bran’s chest. Bran wasn’t
    much of a cuddler, but he had to admit he liked the feel of Jonathan
    atop him, the heat and solidity of him, the gentleness of his kisses a
    shocking contrast to what had come before.
    When their breathing settled, Jonathan rolled off, sat up, and
    grabbed the handcuff key.
    Shit, he’d forgotten all about that. Odd, since now that he thought
    about it, his wrist was stupidly sore and his hand was tingling, half
    numb.
    Jonathan peppered it with kisses as he freed it. “So lovely,” he
    said, drawing Bran’s wrist down to where Bran could see it, running a
    single fingertip over the redness there.
    “Uh.” Bran pulled his hand away, used it to push his hair off
    his face. “Yeah. Sure. But look, next time? Maybe we skip the cuffs,
    okay?”
    Jonathan fixed him with a steady gaze. “Look me in the eye and
    tell me that wasn’t the best orgasm of your life.”
    He opened his mouth to say exactly that, but then closed it. He
    was too fucked out to lie.

    CHAPTER 4
    hat’s what I thought,” Jonathan said into Brandon’s reluctant
    silence, but the truth was, he hadn’t been so sure a moment
    ago. Had he gone too far? Brandon had certainly seemed to enjoy
    himself, but was he starting to regret it now?
    Brandon swung his legs over the side of the bed and said, “Where
    the fuck did you throw my pants?”
    Jonathan hesitated a moment before sliding his hand onto
    Brandon’s shoulder, then up to his neck. He resisted the temptation
    to grab his hair again and simply let it rest there, fingers skimming
    over Brandon’s still-throbbing pulse. “Stay,” he murmured.
    At first Brandon stiffened, head turning, eyes averted. “I, uh . . .”
    He cleared his throat, stood, took a step away, toward where his pants
    lay crumpled on the bedroom floor. “I should go home, shower.”
    Jonathan stood, reached out, touched Brandon’s forearm with
    his fingertips. “Please. Stay.”
    Brandon looked up sharply, as if he couldn’t parse Jonathan’s
    gentleness now, or maybe just because Jonathan had said “please.”
    He’d not intended to throw Brandon quite so off guard with his
    request, but he might as well make the best of it. “Come on,” he said,
    stepping close, sliding his arm through Brandon’s, pressing shoulder to
    shoulder and hip to hip. He led Brandon back to the bed, guided him
    down onto his back. Brandon followed mutely, strangely stunned.
    Had he neverstuck around after sex before?
    How terribly sad.
    “Here.” Jonathan pulled the comforter up to Brandon’s waist.
    “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
    He padded into the bathroom to wet down a washcloth, then
    brought it back to bed. Brandon had curled onto his side, breathing
    slow and calm, watching Jonathan through heavy lids. At least he
    seemed a bit more relaxed now.
    Taking care not to jolt him, he put a gentle hand on Brandon’s
    arm and rolled him onto his back. “Nice and warm, I promise,” he

    murmured, wiping a