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CRAIG

All the times we’d fucked that was the first time I’d been so aggressive as a top. I’d always let him pound my ass, but tonight I wanted to claim him. I was surprised when he asked me to spank him, and I think that was what made me so forceful. We’d experimented with bondage, but never spanking. He’d enjoyed it, and I had to admit, it turned me on, too.

I awoke later that night, alone in bed, half-covered with a sheet. I couldn’t feel his presence near me. It was dark as I reached over to his side, confirming he wasn’t there. The sheets weren’t cold, but they weren’t all that warm either, which made me think he hadn’t been in bed for a while.

I hadn’t felt him shift from underneath me during the night, proving I was a heavy sleeper. My bladder needed attention, so I got up and padded to the bathroom. After peeing and cleaning off the dried cum crusted on my body, I looked down the hall and noticed a warm glow coming from my living room.

I found my briefs on the floor and put them on, leaving the bedroom to find him seated in one of the side chairs flanking the sofa, wearing only boxer briefs, both hands wrapped around a bottle of water in his lap. He looked deep in thought, staring at the books on the coffee table.

He hadn’t heard me come in and flinched when I spoke. “Baby…are you okay?” I asked, walking over to where he sat.

Taking a deep breath, he said, “Yeah…I’m good. I-I just couldn’t sleep.” He unscrewed his water bottle and took a sip, so I sat on the sofa closest to him.

“You have something on your mind, and you can’t shut it off?”

He nodded. “This pageant case has me stumped. I’m trying to figure out why a Nevada contestant would end up dead in San Francisco.”

“Have you gotten any further with the evidence? I know it’s only been a week,” I replied.

“The only thing we’ve found out for sure is that the fibers the ME sent to the lab were a purple satin material. We know Gretchen had a Miss Boulder City sash in the same color. It looks like that might have been what she was strangled with. Sean confirmed the sash color with Gretchen’s mother.”

“Strangulation by her sash seems rather personal,” I said.

“It does. But none of the other contestants had issues with her. We still haven’t received any results from the epithelial cells the ME collected from under Gretchen’s nails. I know it’s been made a priority, but it could be weeks before we get a complete report.”

I sighed, understanding his frame of mind. “Perhaps I’ll find something when I get up there on Wednesday.”

“I received a text from Captain Davis. He’d like to talk to you tomorrow afternoon about Brooke Chandler and what you’ll be doing up in Lake Tahoe.”

“I can do that. The only thing I have to do tomorrow is talk to Brooke and call Chet. My afternoon is free.” I stood and placed my hand on the back of his neck. “Come back to bed and try to get some rest.”

I pulled my hand back as he stood. Jonesy wrapped an arm around my waist and leaned in to kiss my temple. “Alright… but I’m kinda in the mood to do more than cuddle.”

“Anything you say, Detective Jones,” I replied submissively, taking his hand and walking him back to the bedroom.

We shucked our briefs and spent the next half hour doing more than trying to get back to sleep. It didn’t take long for him to nod off, his arm wrapped around me, my back to his chest.

Then it was my brain that wouldn’t shut off, thinking about what I was going to say to Brooke Chandler and Captain Davis.

Jonesy left before I did the next morning so he could head home to change. I told him I’d see him at the precinct later to talk with his captain. Once showered and dressed, I made coffee and checked the news apps on my phone. Apparently, the media had learned about the missing contestant and the death of Gretchen Swenson. I figured the pageant would have its hands full trying to spin things and calm nerves before the Miss California pageant began at the weekend. I didn’t think it would be easy for the SFPD in the coming week.

The day was gray and breezy, threatening rain. The type of San Francisco morning to visit a grieving widow as I pulled out of my garage. When I arrived at the Chandler estate, a large mansion at the end of a long, manicured driveway in the Sea Cliff neighborhood, I wondered if Wynn’s parents knew the Chandlers. Their estate was only a couple of blocks away.

I parked, walked up to the massive double doors, and rang the bell. After about ten seconds, the door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform. She looked at me skeptically, but held a tight-lipped smile.

“Good morning,” I began. “My name is Craig Bannon, and I’m a friend of Brooke’s,” I said, thinking it might be better to say that rather than mention she was a client. “I thought I’d stop by to offer my condolences.”

She hesitated, then opened the door without a word. Entering the large foyer, flanked by two curved staircases, she finally spoke, telling me to wait. She headed toward the back of the house, leaving me standing next to a large circular table with an enormous floral arrangement. I took in the surrounding opulence, knowing Brooke came from money. The estate reeked of it, which made sense, given my research.

After a good minute, the maid returned and asked me to follow her. I entered a large salon with floor-to-ceiling windows, almost the size of my house. Brooke stood behind the large mahogany desk at the far end of the room. She wore a tailored suit in cream and black, and I heard her stilettos click on the tiled floor as she walked around it to greet me. By her put-together appearance, I never would have thought she was grieving.

I extended a hand, which she accepted, and noticed her eyes weren’t red from emotion and wondered if she had even been crying. It had only been a couple of days since the accident, and I expected her to be more distraught. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Brooke. I felt I needed to stop by and offer my respects, and see if there’s anything I can do,” I said, hoping my sincerity felt genuine enough. “It was such a shock to hear the news on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Craig,” she replied. “It feels so surreal. Here, let’s sit.” She gestured toward the sofa in the middle of the room, and I took a seat. She sat in one of the side chairs. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“Oh, no, thank you, though. I can only stay a minute.” I lied, wanting to get to the point of my visit and gauge her reaction. Not wanting to come across as accusatory, I asked my next question in an empathetic tone. “Were you at home when you found out what happened?”

“Actually, no,” she replied, her eyes dropping to her hands. “I was in Sacramento, staying with my sister. I got a phone call and immediately came back.”