Dom Next Door
Reese Gabriel
Tristy’s neighbor Grant is every woman’s dream. He’s handsome, sexy and a hero cop. They’re pals, though she thinks he might want more. But Grant is a Dom and Tristy has no experience in the BDSM lifestyle. It scares her. She would never allow a man to control her. It’s just that he’s so damn hot and hard to resist.
Tristy shows up at Grant’s apartment and starts pushing his sexual buttons big-time. Their chemistry is explosive. He decides to take her to bed, tie her, blindfold her and show her what he can do to her body—just the barest introduction to his dominant nature. But when Tristy finds her submissive soul…all bets are off.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Dom Next Door
ISBN 9781419937453
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dom Next Door Copyright © 2012 Reese Gabriel
Edited by Shannon Combs
Photography and cover design by Syneca
Model: Brux
Electronic book publication February 2012
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Dom Next Door
Reese Gabriel
Chapter One
Tristy knocked softly on Grant’s door. A part of her hoped he was still awake because of how much she needed his comfort right now, the strong and unshakable presence of the only guy in her life she’d ever really been able to trust.
But another part cringed at the thought of having to reveal to this same great guy what a mess she had made of her love life—yet again.
It wasn’t as though he would ever say I told you so, he wasn’t that kind of man. But it would so serve her right if he did.
Damn it, why didn’t she ever listen?
Grant opened the door. He looked yummy as always in worn jeans and a T-shirt that showed off his biceps and impressive pectorals. He was barefoot and his hair was just a little bit tousled. Together with the five o’clock shadow he was sporting, the entire look spelled pure sexual fantasy.
Any girl’s, hers included.
“It’s crazy late, I know,” she blurted before he could invite her in. “And I am the most horrible friend in the world, the way I make you stay up all hours to console me. Just tell me to get lost. In fact, I will tell myself.”
Grant arched a brow, as always impervious to her storms of emotion. “So I gather the date with Ryan didn’t go so hot? Or was it Brian?”
Tristy’s lips quivered. She’d put on such a front to make it this far—from the restaurant to the cab all the way back here. And now just a few words from Grant and all of her resolve, the anger, the shock was giving way like a dam bursting.
Next thing she knew, she was in Grant’s arms, blubbering and feeling even more like a fool.
Grant managed it perfectly, wrapping her shoulders with one arm as he closed the door with the other, giving them much-needed privacy.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Brian’s a lying, evil scumbag.” She unleashed her venom. “He’s despicable and he…he’s…” She couldn’t even get the rest of the words out.
The man had turned out to be married, that was the main point.
Big shock, right?
As if it took a rocket scientist to figure it out, the way he was always working late, only able to see her certain days of the week, always having to excuse himself to take calls, never inviting her to his place.
“Brian is a jackass who doesn’t deserve you.” Grant finished her sentence for her, saying it just the right way to make her feel understood, sympathized with but not pitied or judged.
“I’m such…an idiot.” She laid her head on his chest, centering herself with the sound of his heartbeat.
He said nothing now as he stroked the back of her hair, the tangled mess that had once been a beautiful perm.
Oh god, this guy was perfect—handsome, honorable, and a cop to boot. Talk about total relationship material.
Except for one little issue.
A subtle but totally crucial incompatibility between the two of them.
They’d talked it out a long time ago, when she’d first moved in down the hall from him and they’d started hanging out.
It was for the best, really, because now they were best friends and where would she be without him?
Good old Grant, her buddy. Yeah, right, tell my body that.
Her breasts pressed against him—needing, wanting. Her nipples were sending their own little messages, burning hot points of desire, totally at odds with the coolness of her thoughts. Not to mention the steady thrumming of her pussy inside her pretty little silk panties, the ones that were supposed to have been for Brian.
This was going to be the night she let him take her to bed.
Grant cleared his throat, letting her go.
She caught an expression in his deep-blue eyes, something she hadn’t seen before. Had she just overlooked it in the past or was something new happening?
“I’ll make cocoa,” he said, about-facing to the kitchen to prepare their favorite beverage. “It should be more than enough to get us through the night.”
“You know I’m abusing you, right?” She sniffed. “Turning you into one of my girlfriends and all.”
He chuckled. “I think I can keep my masculinity intact, thank you very much.”
Could he ever.
Tristy watched his tight butt as he moved like a jungle cat, every inch of him in charge of this place, his whole environment, which for the moment included her.
For one unguarded second she imagined him naked. Don’t go there girl, she warned herself. Thinking of Grant Collins in sexual terms was one thing in the privacy of her own bedroom but doing it here, two feet away from him, was another story.
Does he know how often he has starred in my fantasies?
Lots of times she pictured him gentle and vanilla, the way she had known all her other lovers to be. But there were times when she tried to picture him as he really was—a sexual Dominant.
It was this proclivity toward BDSM that had kept her from trying to date him. In great detail, Grant had told her—after a bottle of wine they had polished off one night—how he liked his women. Submissive. Bound. Obedient. Open to his control. He was the master of her senses, her flesh, his hands exploring, caressing, pinching…and whatever else he wanted.
&n
bsp; He had alluded to spanking his partners and now it was almost impossible to see those big hands of his and not imagine them on a girl’s hot bottom. The couple of times he had introduced her to his lovers she had blushed furiously, thinking what must go on between them.
It didn’t happen often, Grant being with women, and that was another thing she wondered about. Surely there were plenty of partners to choose from, even from the narrower pool of women who were into BDSM?
Tristy had had lots of misconceptions and he had tried to set her straight. BDSM wasn’t exploitation and it was not abuse. It was meant to be safe, sane and consensual, as he put it. But within those bounds he sure did paint a pretty damn interesting picture of how a woman could get turned on out of her mind by freely giving over erotic control of her body.
Grant had even hinted that such passionate intensity between Dominant and submissive could spread into all aspects of the relationship, creating something almost mystical.
She took his word on it, noting that, by his own admission, arrangements like that were rare. Even he had not experienced such a thing, which was maybe why he hadn’t gotten serious with anyone in the time they’d known each other.
Overcome with the impulse to do something, Tristy made a beeline for the kitchen. “Let me do this.”
“Got it covered,” he said. “You go sit in the living room. Talk to me.”
“Just let me get the cocoa.” Even in her boots she had to go on tiptoe to reach it on the upper shelf. The motion managed to raise her short skirt just a little shorter. “You are such a guy. Do you have to put everything so high?”
“Discourages mice. All except for one, that is.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” She tried to pry the top off. It was too hard so she got a knife to use as a wedge. A moment later she was squealing in pain with a cut finger.
Grant cursed mildly, though his eyes showed only concern. “This is why I told you to sit down, you are much too agitated.”
He led her by the wrist to the sink so he could run the wound under cold water.
“See, it’s nothing,” she proclaimed.
“Hmm.” He reached for the first aid kit in a nearby drawer. His hand remained on her wrist.
Tristy bit her lip softly. He was barely squeezing her flesh but of course she was putting up no fight. An impulse, more impish than anything, told her to make it hard on him.
“I don’t need a bandage.”
“It’s not an option. Now give me your finger.”
“No,” said Tristy.
He made a face, not taking her seriously. Could she take herself seriously?
Grant applied the small adhesive bandage without further resistance. “Keep your arm elevated.”
Okay, this was going a bit far. “What am I, the Statue of Liberty?”
Grant raised her arm. “Whatever you want to call yourself, we’re taking care of this cut. It’s deeper than it looks.”
She pushed playfully at his chest. “Brute.”
“I’ll tie you down if I need to,” he quipped.
The remark caught them both a little off guard.
“Is that a promise,” she whispered. “Or a threat?”
“Don’t, Tristy.”
He’d barely gotten out the words before her lips were there, meeting his, no forethought at all, just reaching out for the one thing that could possibly make sense in her world right now.
“Too late,” she rasped.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured.
It was her turn to arch a brow. “Why? Are you going to punish me?”
There she’d said it. Why she’d said it, however, she had no idea.
His gaze narrowed. “We’ve been over this.”
“I don’t care.” She stroked his cheek, the strong, masculine line of his jaw, the tease of his day-old beard, the tingle and promise of so much more. “Forget the BDSM, forget tomorrow, can’t you? Just make love to me. I’ve had it up to my eyes in fucked-up liars and momma’s boys. Won’t you please just give me a reason not to swear off men completely?”
He laughed softly. “You always do have a way of putting things.”
She reached for the thick, hard outline of his cock, covered by his jeans. “Actions speak louder than words, so do hard-ons.”
Grant tensed though he did not remove her hand. “There are things you shouldn’t play with Tristy. You think I don’t want this too? You think I don’t fantasize about you, touching you, having you in my arms, driving you wild?”
Her mouth went instantly dry. Her knees were weak. She had never wanted a man so badly. “Take me,” she whispered.
His eyes lit up. “There won’t be any going back,” he warned.
“I don’t want to go back…ever.”
Grant released a barely audible, low growl.
He took her by the upper arms, lifting her to his height.
His lips sealed over hers, hot and hard.
Yes. Let him capture her now. Let her be swept away on an unstoppable tide.
He stopped abruptly, cursing himself. “This is wrong.”
She said a single word, a game changer.
“Please…”Tristy meant it to sound submissive and it must have been close enough.
Grant kissed her again and this time he showed no signs of releasing her.
Oh god, he tastes good. She opened her mouth for him. His tongue was instantly there, conquering, exploring. Her pussy ached, clenched with the need to be similarly filled. Brazenly she rubbed her breasts against his chest. She wanted to undo his jeans but he took her hands pinning her wrists to her sides.
“No. It doesn’t work that way for me. You have to give me control or it’s a no-go. We don’t have to get too much into the BDSM but you will need to let me lead.”
As if he had to ask twice.
“I’m yours, Grant, I trust you totally.”
He looked at her as if considering. “Tris, I am going to give you a special word. We’ll use pumpkin.”
“Sure.” She giggled, partially out of nervousness. “What for?”
Grant stroked her cheek. “I want you to be able to relax and get into the spirit of the moment if it goes that way. This is your release cord. You say the word and it stops immediately.”
Her heart slammed with forbidden desire. “What if I don’t use the word?”
“I keep going.”
She bit her lower lip as she considered the possibilities of a strong man pretending to take what he wanted regardless. “Even if I say no?”
“That’s right. Consider it your chance to let your hair down.” Grant did just that, undoing her top knot, allowing her blonde to fall about her shoulders and face.
“I’m game,” she said huskily. “If you are.”
“Just so we promise each other. I don’t want any weirdness in the morning. Friends are way harder to find than lovers.”
“Scout’s honor.” She raised her right hand in a mock salute.
“You’re not a scout,” he reminded as he busied himself with her blouse, unbuttoning it as fast as he could manage.
“I don’t think I gave permission for this,” she teased.
Grant pushed the material down over her shoulders. “Do you have any idea how crazy you drive me, watching you with all those idiots when I want you so bad I could burst?”
Honestly, she had missed the boat on that one. “How about if you show me?”
He bent to kiss her neck. Devour would have been a better word.
“Oh god,” she moaned arching her neck. “Yes, that’s it.” If he thought she’d say no to any of this he must be on drugs.
Grant yanked the blouse down hard. He didn’t wait to undo her bra. With brute strength, he snapped the catches.
She felt like a character in one of those TV commercials.
Cost of dream Sex with hunk down the hall: one ruined bra, ten ninety-five.
Value of impending orgasms: priceless.
In a matter of seconds Grant
had bared her torso. Leaning back against the counter, she sought stability with her hands as he went to work suckling her breasts. One by one he raised the peaks of her nipples to throbbing agony.
“Fuck me, Grant. Oh god, just fuck me.”
“I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready,” he informed her. His hand clasped her hair. He bent back her neck. The pressure was just shy of pain and just at the edge of ecstasy. “Is that clear?”
“Yes.” Tristy was panting. So this was Dominant Grant. If this was BDSM, he could keep it coming.
“Kiss me,” he commanded.
She was looking up at him, needing more than anything to press her lips to his and feel his powerful lips, his teeth and his tongue.
Like a moth to flame, she lost herself, giving over her mouth and the whole of her body with it.
He took hold of one of her nipples, lightly pinching.
“Harder.” She said then ground her lips against his. The combination of the two kinds of pressure sent her into orbit. Tristy whimpered. Was it appropriate to beg? Surely he would appreciate such a gesture.
His hands moved to her thighs. She spread them as best she could. He had worked his way beneath the hem of her skirt.
“Are you wet for me?” He whispered the words directly into her ear.
“You know I am.”
Now he pulled her close, lifting her buttocks so she was tight against him. They still had clothes on but it was better than nothing.
At least she could feel his cock and grind against it even.
“You’re a little minx,” he said. “You keep it up and you’re gonna get taken right here on the floor.”
“As you wish.”
That added boosters to his sex drive.
Carrying her like a rag doll, he took her to the table. Scattering the contents, he sat her down.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, Tris.”
“You better,” she hissed back.
“You won’t walk straight for a fucking week, babe.”
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