Out of her mind, she begged but she had no choice but to come and come again.
Grant left her wasted, limp and sweating in her bonds.
All this without ever touching her with his cock.
“Fuck me?” she whispered.
“Not yet.”
A chill passed down her spine. What did he intend?
She could make a few educated guesses. For a moment she felt his weight shift and fear gripped her as she thought of being left alone like this.
But he was only shifting positions, sliding up her body again, this time getting his cock level with her chin. She could feel the heat and weight of his balls. Instinctively she licked her lips in preparation.
“I want you to do a good job,” he rasped. “Suck me like a good little slave and maybe I’ll fuck you.”
“Oh yes,” she said more than happy to get into the role.
She felt the tip of his cock at her lips. She kissed it reverently. He was kneeling astride her.
Obediently she opened and he fed his cock to her. She sucked it lightly, allowing her tongue to run along the ridge underneath. He sighed in obvious satisfaction and she could feel him swelling. She wanted to take more, all of him if she could but he was too big.
She would do her best.
“That’s it, girl. Give me my pleasure.”
She took as much of him as she could, greedily suctioning his swollen shaft and swallowing it as deep as she could.
He grunted, moving up and down, sliding his cock smoothly and efficiently in and out of her mouth.
She could feel his raw heat, the built-up tension, the sheer pleasure he was experiencing.
She’d never been so eager for a man’s come in her life.
But he had something else in mind. Tristy whimpered in disappointment as he deprived her of her toy. There was a soft suctioning sound, a popping noise as he pulled out.
It was sheer agony.
She could feel the emptiness, the intense need to remain connected to him in any fashion possible.
“I’m gonna come on your breasts,” he growled, his voice low and fierce. “I’m gonna explode all over your beautiful breasts.”
Tristy felt his desire, sensed his need and she latched on to it, making it her own.
“Yes, please come on me, I am your slave, please…come.”
She could hear his ragged breathing. She tried to imagine him stroking himself above her, unabashedly giving his body the pleasure he needed. Oh yes, he was getting what he needed, and she was only too happy to supply it.
Tristy felt the moments stretch into hours as if it would last forever and then abruptly he made a loud, victorious roaring noise and she felt the first of the warm gush, thick and creamy, splashing across her breasts. There was so much of it. It got on her face, her cheeks. She wanted more.
“Thank you, thank you,” she groaned. “Your slave thanks you.” She felt Grant’s muscles tensing and flexing as he finished masturbating, until finally he collapsed beside her.
Yes. It was everything she had hoped for. He had marked her.
His territory.
His property.
Wow! And this wasn’t supposed to be weird in the morning?
Chapter Three
Grant had never felt that kind of release. It was the most amazing orgasm of his life and totally unexpected. A few hours ago he had been minding his own business cleaning one of his old pistols, watching the Yankees and Red Sox…and thinking about Tristy.
He was always thinking of Tristy.
Worrying about her, wondering about her. Fantasizing. Tristy was the hottest, most beautiful woman in the building. In his or any other building.
But it wasn’t about her looks. Plenty of pretty girls happened across Grant’s path. He was a cop and single and there were always opportunities.
Even for a man with his specific predilections.
No, Tristy was special. She was a free spirit, this walking hot mess, so very together in some ways and like a child in others.
He hated the way men took advantage of her. Over and over she assumed the best of men only to have her heart stomped all over. Men were jackasses.
They wanted sex. Then they wanted to run.
Up to now he had done everything in his power not to have sex with Tristy but here she was, nude in his bed, blindfolded and helpless. He had her in the palm of his hand.
Now what? That was the question.
Grant could hear her soft breathing. She had allowed him to “work his will”. He had come all over her, covering her gorgeous breasts.
Oh god, he was getting hard again already. He wanted to fuck her. He needed to fuck her.
The blindfold made her look so hot. He stroked her damp blonde hair. She moaned softly and called his name. Her legs were wide apart just as he’d commanded. She belonged to him.
She was his slave. For the night at least. Got to think clearly, Grant.
He needed to send her home before things got much deeper. If they waited until morning it would be too late.
Tristy sighed. Her soft lips kissed his shoulder. That did not help.
“We need to get to you a shower, sweetheart.”
“Yes…” she murmured.
Definitely not helping.
“Come on,” he said. She showed no signs of movement. “You want me to carry you?”
“Uh-huh,” she replied.
His turn to sigh. He had intended the remark to bring her to her senses. He would do it, though, as long as it brought her one step closer to going home. There was no way he would let her stay. She deserved better than a walk of shame from him.
Grant rose to his feet, giving himself another minute to enjoy the sight of the blindfold just hugging her cheekbones, the absolute trust, the sheer beauty.
Her nipples remained peaked. He could smell the scent of her arousal still. No longer the friend he had loved and trusted but a lover. A woman who had been to his bed, who had entered his world.
Was she really submissive or just playing at the game? Many women did—play that is—taking on the role for variety.
But Grant needed more than that. He needed a woman who would go all the way and allow him the room he needed to be the lion, the sensual beast who could—would—take a woman for the deepest, most amazing journey of her life not just once but over and over.
Grant had no patience for “topping from the bottom”, which meant trying to control one’s own submission. He demanded more. He required more. Either a woman trusted him or she didn’t. Either she wanted to yield to him or not.
Tristy was an unknown. She was his friend first and should have stayed that way. He had felt guilty more than once about being aroused by her when she in one of her emotional states. Seeing her so hurt would make him want to take control, to step in and deal with her mess and make it right. Every time she came to the door it only got harder.
Tonight had been the hardest of all. The way she’d looked in that cute little party dress, obviously ready to cry her eyes out. That son of a bitch hadn’t deserved the time of day from her, much less a date.
Why was Tristy so blind to these assholes? She was such a smart woman. The smartest he had ever known. If she was submissive he might easily…
But he had to let that go. It was not meant to be.
Grant bent down and removed the blindfold and untied her. He scooped her up. She was nothing to carry, light as a feather. His heart clenched as she snuggled against him, naturally resting her cheek on his chest, so instinctively and unabashedly relying on him. As though she knew he would carry her to the ends of the earth. And he would too. Without faltering. If it killed him.
Few were the women who understood or cared about such commitments anymore and few were the men who wanted to give them. He had known plenty of guys on the force who were divorced once, twice— had never given it a second thought what it really meant to make that kind of promise and pledge.
Funny how BDSM was called a kink, a pervers
ion and yet what it had taught him was how to hold on to his honor, his absolute determination to do right by a woman.
Tristy’s skin was so soft, her muscles so smooth and slight in comparison to his own. He couldn’t imagine a finer specimen of femininity, a better woman.
Grant took her down the hall to the bathroom. It had to be after three by now. He hadn’t bothered checking the clock in the bedroom. It didn’t matter now. This was the night time space when two lovers belonged to each other.
Was it so wrong to want a little more time? A little more touching, a little more love?
The first time she had come to his door she had just moved in. She had been wearing a pair of torn jeans shorts and a tank top. She’d had her lustrous golden hair pulled back in a ponytail, a few strands loose and gracing her forehead.
“Hi, I’m Tristy, I’m your new neighbor,” she’d said with a beaming smile, half apology and half mischief. Looking back at it, he had fallen for her that very first instant. What man wouldn’t have?
“I’m not really sure why this isn’t working,” she had announced holding up a gooseneck lamp.
His first instinct had been to try comedy. “Have you tried plugging it in?”
“There’s a thought,” she’d said, not missing a beat. “Could I be any more blonde?”
As it turned had out, she’d tried the plug and she’d checked the bulb too. The problem had been a loose wire, which he had promptly fixed.
There had been a million more things after that, all of which he tended to as well, everything from rearranging furniture to hanging pictures. He half suspected her of making up stuff just so they could get together but who was he to complain? They had formed a fast friendship on a number of levels.
Turned out her dad was on the job, too, along with a couple of uncles. She never gave out a lot of details but that’s how it was with cop families. Grant respected that.
He had a feeling there was more to the story about her and her father but she would tell him when she was ready. For now it was all about getting her in the shower and then getting her home.
Grant had to drape her about his neck as he set about turning on the water. She was not helping by kissing him. She was not helping at all.
“Honey, I can’t do both things at once.”
“So screw the shower,” she breathed hotly in his ear.
Grant’s cock was full again, erect to the bursting point. Tristy had her fingers on it, playing across the veins crisscrossing the surface.
“Damn it, girl.”
“Fuck me?” she begged.
Next thing he knew she was tugging him down to the floor.
The shower water poured down on them through the half-open curtain. Tristy negotiated her body on the smooth tile of the bathroom floor, getting into place beneath Grant, cushioning him…playing the slave girl. Grant. Oh god, just saying his name in her mind felt so good. Was this really happening? Was she really here in his apartment with him doing this?
As he landed on top of her, she raised her legs, encircled him and pulled him in. His cock went deep inside her, filling her hard and fast, her wet sex desperate and needy for his powerfully pulsing heat. His teeth sank into her shoulder and then he found her breast.
“Have you any idea?” he murmured after suckling to his heart’s content. “What you are doing?”
“I’ve been to enough sex education classes…”
Grant extracted his cock nearly to the tip.
She whimpered from the emptiness.
“You think you can just control what happens?”
“No…”
“No, Sir.”
“No, Sir.” She wriggled underneath him, trying to impale herself again.
“Don’t move.” Grant pinched her ass hard.
Tristy squealed in mild protest. “You bastard.”
“Who started this?” he reminded her.
She was panting. Beyond herself, outside herself with pleasure and deep, utterly mind-blowing need. “Who cares who started it? Just finish it like a man.”
Grant chuckled. “I’m not like the other men you know, remember?”
Something about his question put her off. It was a reminder, maybe to bring her down to reality or maybe it was about coming up for air. Suddenly she saw herself through his eyes, or at least what she feared she might look like.
She tried to push him away. “You make me sound like a slut.”
He held her fast. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I mean that the other guys you’ve known were too scared to start or finish. You’ve needed love, Tristy, warmth, caring. Have you gotten any of that?”
“None of your business.”
As if he didn’t know her love life as well as she did. Maybe even better.
“I want to go home,” she said.
He laughed. “So use the safe word.”
“I’m not playing games, Grant.”
Grant’s eyes held something new, something she had never seen before. Was she hurting his feelings? The rough, tough cop? The sure and steady neighbor? Suddenly she saw it going down like a house of cards, the whole basis of their friendship.
“I mean it, Grant, get the fuck off me.”
He swore under his breath. Something about knowing it was a fucking mistake all along.
It was all she needed to hear.
“I’m not your goddamn mistake! You hear me?” The tears poured out. He held her until they stopped, which could have been minutes or an hour later for all the difference it made.
Somehow he had the wisdom not to say anything. As if he knew a single word would destroy it all. Damn it, what a good guy he is. Why did she have to go and fuck it up with him too? “I want to be alone,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure?”
“I just need a shower, a little privacy?” She forced a smile.
He frowned. No need for pretense between them.
“I’ll be just outside the door.”
And that’s where she found him a half hour later, just standing there, leaning against the wall, waiting for her.
It almost broke her heart to walk away. They didn’t say another word. It was close to five a.m. when she got back to her apartment. The first thing she saw was the gooseneck lamp on her nightstand.
Everything else was a blur.
She held on to the lamp, bawling like a child.
What have I done? What have I done?
Then the realization came crashing in.
She loved him.
Yes, she was in love with Grant, she knew that now, but had she ruined things? Hard to imagine that happening when they’d never had a chance to begin with.
They’d been buddies. That was it.
Now they were…neighbors. Politely greeting each other in the hallway every couple of weeks, maybe a hello for Christmas.
Nothing more.
Oh well. Such was life. No biggie.
So why did she feel like a huge corkscrew had just twisted up her insides? Why was it like losing her daddy all over again?
Except Grant wasn’t a father figure. He was anything but. He was the man she cared about.
The love of her life.
The thought terrified her. It had to be wrong. Because if it were true it would mean she was one of those women destined never to be happy. She would die alone. They would find her wandering the streets one day in her bathrobe, carrying a gooseneck lamp. That thought made her laugh. Which was a damn sight better than crying.
Plenty of time for that tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Grant spent the rest of the night and half the next morning trying to figure out what had happened. He was halfway tempted to go straight to her door and ask.
Had it all been some bizarre dream? Had she come to his door at all? Maybe he’d imagined it the way he had so many times before—Tristy in his arms, Tristy in his bonds, Tristy…his.
Ordinarily he would have been pissed to be called in for an extra shi
ft but when the phone rang at ten-thirty that morning for a noon-to-eight, he was only too happy to oblige.
Suiting up and strapping on his firearm was just the distraction he needed. He would have a welcome respite from Grant the individual, Grant the neighbor of Tristy.
He paused momentarily by her door. Hearing nothing, he resisted the impulse to check on her and continued down the hallway. As he reached the elevator he heard a chain sliding across a lock. He looked back. She was there poking her head out and then she was gone.
So we are down to that? Juvenile tricks of hide and seek. Wonderful. He clenched his fists. How could he have been so stupid? He should never have let it happen. He ought to have shut her down cold, sent her packing the minute she got too flirtatious.
Right. As if he could ever refuse Tristy anything.
That was the problem. He couldn’t dominate her. He lusted after her, he wanted and needed her but he couldn’t control her.
It was a recipe for disaster.
But a sweet one nonetheless.
Grant left the building still thinking. Still aching. With any luck he’d be asked to pull a double and be too tired to think straight by the time he got home. Then he’d be sure not to go and check on her.
Climbing into his squad car he felt the familiar rush. He was on the job and everything else was history.
For now.
* * * * *
Tristy watched the Grant’s police car pull away from the curb, a lump in her throat the size of Cleveland. She had wanted to poke her head out the door and tell him to be safe. That was all, just for him to watch out. Cops got shot at, they got killed, people tried to run them over and that didn’t begin to cover all the accidents that could happen.
She remembered, as a little girl, the ritual of watching her daddy get ready for work, handing him his cap and his badge and walking him out to his car.
Once, while she and her mother had been listening on the police scanner, they had heard his number, Greenville Unit 14 responding to a Code 34 which was a bank robbery. Hadn’t seemed like the end of the world but Tristy could always tell from the expressions on her mother’s face, the way her cheeks tensed and her eyes focused, whether she worried or not.
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