DomNextDoor (4 page)

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 shift 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.

A Code 34 was serious and that time it
was
the end of
the world. The bank robbers had come from Los Angeles and they had been well
armed, far better equipped than the local police. A teller had tripped the
silent alarm. When the robbers left the cops were waiting for them.

Three lay dead before it was over, including Tristy’s
father.

From that day forward no officer in Greenville travelled
without an automatic rifle in the trunk of the unit but that was too late for
him and the others.

What Tristy remembered from the blur of events that followed
was the funeral—so many blue suits and not just from their department. They
came from L.A. and San Francisco. There was even a representative from the
governor’s office and a motorcycle detachment all the way from Washington
State.

Under the gleaming sun they lined up with their white gloves
and so many shook her little hand that it began to hurt, became sore, like her
eyes. Funny, she didn’t actually remember crying but she must have because
everyone had told her not to, that her dad had died a hero, a lifesaver.
Someone, a hostage from the bank, had given her a huge hug.

That had just freaked Tristy out. Guns had been fired at the
service and that had been scary too. A priest had said everything was all
right. Just the way it was supposed to be.

But that was bullshit and everyone knew it.

Especially when a few weeks later a woman showed up at the
house drunk very late on a Friday night. Turned out the hero had feet of clay.
The woman had wanted to see Tristy. She claimed Jack used to talk about her all
the time and had always said if anything happened to him she should go and see
his little girl.

It had been fucked-up to be sure.

Tristy’s mom called had the cops who were all Dad’s friends
and the woman disappeared, a one-way bus ticket across the state line into
someone else’s jurisdiction she later learned, but the damage had been done.

Tristy’s mother was never the same again. She died several
years later of a brain embolism. Tristy suspected it was her mother’s one
consolation in life, that some scrap of dignity, some little bit of her
husband’s honor had been protected by his fellow officers…for Tristy’s sake.

There was so much she would have told her dad.

Now watching Grant drive away, she wished she could say
those things to him, all those things she would have said to her dad about
honor and courage and love if there had been time, if she had been old enough.

But now history was repeating itself and again it was too
late.
I’ve ruined everything
, she thought.
I’ve destroyed my
friendship with Grant, the best guy on the planet.

Now who would she talk to when it got tough? She had
girlfriends but that wasn’t the same. Tristy had never cared much for the
company of other females. They seemed catty to her, spending way too much time
talking about guys and stabbing each other in the back.

Not that she had much more luck with guys.

Except Grant.

Tristy hugged herself tightly. She was wearing her old track
suit, the one she wore when she was feeling down and wanted to hide from the
world. Grant had been the only person in the world to see it. He had told her
he felt honored.

What a goof ball. She smiled through her tears.

Grant would know what to do to make her feel better. He
would hold her way tighter than she could hold herself and he would kiss the
troubles away. And he’d play games with her, wicked BDSM games.

Tristy felt instant tension at the thought of Grant’s games.
What would he do with her right now if he had her all to himself? Would he
strip her nude, would he tie her? Or maybe even spank her?

Her heart leaped in her chest.

She couldn’t resist the urge to touch herself, to rub her
palm over her belly. Instantly her abdominal muscles tightened as though it
were Grant’s hand. Gasping softly she let her fingers travel northward along
the zipper of the jacket. She grasped the catch and tugged it slightly. Her
nipples peaked in response. Tristy arched her back. Down came the zipper until
it reached the bottom.

The jacket was open and she had no bra underneath, no
T-shirt either. Moaning, she felt the material rub against her nipples. Her
eyes slid shut as she pulled the jacket over her shoulders. Just like that she
was nude from the waist up.

Greedily, her fingers found the waistband of her sweatpants.
She was dying to touch her pussy but something told her to wait. In her mind,
she heard Grant’s dominating voice.

You’ll touch when I say so.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes…” As if unbidden the tips of her
fingers found her left nipple. She squeezed hard. Just enough to make herself
whimper—the threshold of her pain.

Then she did something most unexpected. It made her bite her
lower lip. She slapped her hand against her behind.

And then a second time, harder. Ouch. That smarted!

Grant laughed in her ear, ever the invisible presence.
What did you expect, girl?

“I know,” she said aloud. “Spanking hurts.”

But there were rewards too as she soon discovered. Like
getting to rub her hot bottom as her other hand slid surreptitiously down
inside the front panel of her panties until her fingers reached her clitoris.

The button of pleasure was already swollen and eager to be
touched. Juices dripped from her pussy down her inner thighs. She could feel
the raw heat of her sex lips, the aching canal that needed more than anything
to be filled. And there was only one thing to fit the bill.

Grant.

She couldn’t even think of another man if she tried.
But,
since he isn’t here I’ll have to make do with the dildo.
Assuming Grant
gave his “permission”.

“Please,” she begged aloud.

On your knees, slave girl.

Tristy dropped to the floor. Oh, how she wished he was above
her, in front of her, over her.

“Please…” she repeated, listening in the light, sweet
silence for his reply.

Why should I let you pleasure yourself?
the phantom
Grant wanted to know.

“I need to,” she rasped. “I can’t stand it any longer.”

Should have thought of that when you ran out on me.

“I didn’t run out,” she protested.

But she had. It had been too overwhelming. If only she could
have explained it all.

What you deserve is to suck my cock.

“Yes, Grant, yes, I would love to do that.”

You know what to do. Crawl into bed and show me.

Tristy did not bother to rise from her knees. She crawled,
playing the part of the slave girl, commanded as if against her will.

Correction—commanded as if she had no will but his.

It was a sweet and delicious difference and she loved it.
Tristy crawled into bed and reached for the dildo she kept in her nightstand.
She called it Old Faithful because it was always there, it never disappointed
and it was not married to anyone else to her knowledge. In some ways OF was
perfect if not for its singular lack of conversation.

But she had Grant for that or at least she used to, up until
last night. Now there was only the memory and the fantasy.

Lying flat on her back, she yanked down the sweat pants and
panties. Naked, she spread her legs wide.

At last.

It would be better tied up though. She would have to
imagine.

You will not come without permission.

Tristy gritted her teeth. She was so close already. This was
going to be maddening. Groaning, she pushed the dildo against the ridge of her
sex lips. Her whole body throbbed in anticipation. Little zaps of electricity
ran up and down her spine.

Tristy lifted onto her heels. She thrust the dildo deep.

Oh yes, oh, fucking yes.
She was so hot and filled
and desperate for more.

“Grant…” She said his name, calling out into the empty room.
Dimly she wondered where he might be at that moment. He belonged with her.
Naked and on top of her conducting things, not just his voice conjured in her
ear.

The shudders began to overtake her.

“Can’t stop.” Her teeth chattered. It was like a hurricane
and she was just a tiny boat trying to stop it, trying to stay afloat in the
midst of it.

How did one stop that kind of force?

The orgasm was so strong it poured over her defenses and
before she could catch her breath a second one came, even bigger than the
first. She lost track of time, of reality itself as the third one followed.
Tristy felt the warm, familiar glow.

Grant was here. He’d been part of this, he’d made it happen.

And now he would punish her.

You were told not to come, slave girl.

“I know, Sir, please, I beg your forgiveness.”

He laughed.
Oh, you’ll have plenty of chances to beg,
trust me on that.

Shuddering, she smiled. If nothing else, she would not be
bored the rest of the day.

* * * * *

Grant sized up the two-seater as it roared past, fifteen
miles over the speed limit according to the radar. From the look of the
occupants—two girls with long flowing hair and over-privileged smiles—they were
from the college in town. Nineteen, maybe twenty years old. Kids like these
were used to getting away with murder, especially the pretty ones.

He’d give anything for a car like that, a classic British
roadster in mint condition. He’d have to settle for pulling it over.

The girls looked nervous but not panicked. Drugs and alcohol
were always a possibility.

“Officer, is there a problem?” the driver wanted to know.
She punctuated her question with a flip of her over-treated, platinum-blonde
hair.

The passenger slumped in her seat, not so boisterous. She
reminded him of a younger version of Tristy.

Grant would have given anything to have known Tristy when
she was in her teens. All that spunk and energy but he knew there had been pain
too. She’d alluded to it here and there. He knew her dad had been killed on the
job when she was just a kid. It had been a bloodbath, one that had changed
police procedure all over the state if not the nation.

Gone were the days of complacence. Now any situation had to
be viewed as potentially violent. The cops were outnumbered and out gunned as
well. And that didn’t begin to cover the terrorists.

There was more to Tristy’s father’s death, though, something
bigger than the job. Something had been revealed in the aftermath which had
shaken her faith in him and in men in general. Had he been a cheater?

Was that what had led her unwittingly to find one cheater
after another? Was she somehow punishing herself for her father’s behavior,
forcing herself to be as unhappy as she’d implied her mother had been?

Cheating was a complex thing.

Grant had been cheated on before. He’d had his heart broken
more than once as a matter of fact. But that was in the past.

Grant was armored these days, just as his chest was armored,
the vest neatly tucked up under his uniform shirt. He was bulletproof.
Yeah,
right
, he thought as he robotically asked the blonde for her license and
registration.