Blue (The Carson Trilogy Book 1)

by K NILSSON

  My eyes fixed on our reflection while he rode me. Who were those people? Then I watched him, fixated where our bodies joined.

  “On my word.”

  I barely heard the quiet command, but his eyes lit a fireball between my legs.

  “Okay,” I said in a breathy voice.

  “Come.”

  Everything tightened, ferociously, wickedly, then I released in an explosive burst of bliss. The orgasm poured through me like a tidal wave. I cried out, lost in the visceral connection between us. Yanking my hips toward the thick rigid column of flesh, he battered my core with deep thrusts. I flinched as the friction added more delicious bites of discomfort to my already tender opening. My eyes watered with the force of my climax. The feeling will be with me for days to come. I needed to be fucked senseless like this, by him, my demon. He rolled his pelvis into me in waves. The desk moved with each roll. He stopped abruptly, pulling out just long enough to roll me onto my back.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  Yes, sir and thank you.

  I wish I knew his name. I would chant it with every shove, every push, and every plunge he wanted to inflict.

  I watched with awe as his powerful frame convulsed with the last echoes of ecstasy, yelling something. “Blue!”

  His gold-flecked gaze locked on my blazing blues in a sex-drunken haze. With the last pulse of his cock emptying into my core, I didn’t think I could come again, but the beginnings of another orgasm tore through me and I came. The adrenaline coursed through my body and when it reached its peak, I felt myself drop. My eyelids were heavy. His dark gaze focused on my abused little nub, sitting like a queen on the landing pad slick with my juices. He devoured me with a hunger I will always remember, even as a little shiver of shame washed over me. His fingers trembled as he touched me with reverence.

  He held me as we both floated down from our orgasm. No other sex in my life had touched this level of eroticism. I hoped it was this way for him, too.

  Someone banged on the door. He cursed.

  “Oops, should we get that?” I batted my eyelashes and smirked.

  Could the risk of getting caught make it any more exciting? I was too punch drunk to care.

  I watched him remove the condom, tie it in a knot and toss it in a trash bin under the table.

  He examined my face and body for any signs of distress. His eyes shimmered, and his lip curled in a smirk. He reached for my pussy, gently stroking it with two fingers, examining, probing, watching my expression, staring deep into my eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nodded at this stunning man with whom I enjoyed a singularly erotic tryst in a public place, one I would repeat, no matter where the location. He helped me with my dress, put the shoes on my feet, and checked the straps of my heels.

  “I don’t want you to fall off another stool,” he said with a cheeky grin.

  I pulled a compact from the clutch purse and fixed the signs of dishevelment, finger-combing my hair, wiping smeared mascara under my eyes with my fingers, while he dressed. I saw him pull away. Someone schooled him in impassivity. By the time he zipped himself up, his ardor had cooled. No more heated looks, no kisses or caresses. He was indifferent, even. Without a word, a thank you, or, anything, he escorted me out the sliding door in silence. I missed his hands on me.

  The rush of cold air from the club's climate control made me hiss. I scanned the room for Candace and found her standing by herself in the corner. I turned to say goodbye to my temporary lover but he had left. I refused to search for him. Although I enjoyed myself and I'm sure he enjoyed it too, I was used and discarded. I would not let it show on my face. With my chest high, spine straight, and a schooled, unperturbed expression on my face, I nodded at Candace. We didn’t need words. My eyes stung. She huffed, grabbed my hand, and led me out, looking as forlorn as me.

  “Mine left too.”

  Chapter Eight

  Max

  Venice Beach

  My day started like every other one since I moved to Venice Beach. The pre-programmed coffee maker, a housewarming gift to myself, coaxed me to roll out of bed and follow the aroma to the first cup of joe for the day.

  The kitchen window opened to the crisp ocean air. It was a beautiful morning, and the ocean beckoned me to run along the bike path toward the pier, passing the Muscle Beach Gym along the way.

  Grabbing the keys to the door, I slipped them into my track pants and headed out for a jog.

  The gym was ahead on the left. The regulars were already at the entrance: Junior, Tiny, Hans, and Brooke. All nodded at me when I passed them by, colorful characters, every single one.

  Tiny, a bodybuilder who had growth disorder as a kid and dwarfed everyone there, called out from the door, “Are you working legs today?”

  “No. Today’s for cardio. Tomorrow I’ll double up on my leg sets,” I yelled back over my shoulder.

  Speaking of... legs, it sparked a flashback of a pair of legs recently draped over my shoulders. My mind wandered to her, my mystery sheath. She helped to end my self-imposed celibacy with the most unexpected, mind-blowing sex I’ve ever experienced, gifting memories I'll be reliving for days to come.

  I didn't want to like her, but I did. I slid my tongue into her mouth; it was gentle yet demanding. Her moans vibrated in my mouth. I'd do anything to hear those sounds again. Her lips were soft as velvet and her kisses stole my breath and gave it back. I could get addicted to it. She'd spoiled me. I regret not having used her mouth for my cock. I wanted more, more of everything she brought to the table. Her goose bump covered skin flushed when she came on my tongue. I liked her reactions, especially when I took her. When she shivered and shook to my thrusts, I lost my self-control and rammed into her rougher than I intended. But, she took what I gave her, and she wanted more. The memory was too vivid to focus on running. If I didn’t keep my eyes open, I'd be tripping over my dick. I'm glad I didn't get her name and number. I don't want to think about her anymore.

  The lands’ end pier ahead was my turnaround point. The vendors’ open stands were ready for the day. Packaged kewpie dolls neatly displayed on shallow shelves, kitschy key chains meticulously replenished rickety metal stands and fake California Highway signs.

  The hawkers had staked out their territory and began harassing passersby with their offerings of homemade music recordings and crafts passed off as art. The skateboarders winding through the walkers like it was a competition made the path perilous. Checking my watch, I sprinted back to the loft.

  Chapter Nine

  Max

  Venice Beach

  I powered through my day. I was a man on a mission. There were calls to return and websites to surf. Eventually, I'll run across an assignment that ticks all my boxes. It must be a challenge, involve field work because I miss it, and, finally, be lucrative.

  I should thank Saint with an update for making last night’s one-time-only date a reality. It was 7:30 pm, sunset, Saint would be winding down for the night, so I poured a glass of scotch and called him.

  Sitting on the deck was relaxing. The salt breeze that licked my face, refreshing. Looking toward Malibu, the twinkling lights bordering the water glowed like fireflies.

  "Saint," he answered, crisp, sharp, and all business.

  "Hey," I said.

  "I was just thinking about you. Well?" he asked.

  "Last night was amazing."

  I cracked a smile.

  Saint must have registered it in the sound of my voice. “Yeah? Talk.”

  “That place was a crowded meat market, so many, many, unattached women. It attracted hookups like a lemming watering hole. But, there was this woman...” I paused, thinking about how I could describe her without sounding smitten.

  “She stood out, like a queen among the peasants,” I laughed.

  “Was she your type?”

  I heard the scraping of a chair leg in the background and imagined him sitting down.

  "No," I lied. "Well, mayb
e... She ended up being a bossy little brat, kept trying to control the sex like a kitten grappling with a ball of yarn. I liked it."

  "What did she look like?" he asked.

  “She had legs for miles and a curvy body.” That was not a lie.

  Wearing a classic black dress, she was regal. I couldn't keep away from her long, raven hair. But the eyes... they gripped me. I didn't want to know her name, but if I had to give her one, it would be Blue. She became my beacon, my dark angel for the night. I would fuck her until she saw stars.

  I’ll admit, stalking her through the club was a little creepy. But I was hard for this siren. I focused on her and no one else. She'd placed a spell on me. I didn't want to think about her leaving with someone else. But she'd ignored the dressed-up executives who approached her. She turned down one after another. When she spotted me from across the room, she followed me with her eyes. She was interested, my dark angel, my sheath.

  “Satisfying?”

  I’m glad he’s not a friend who wants details.

  “If I gave her a chance, she'd ride me like I was Seabiscuit.”

  The chair legs scraped the floor again, and I imagined him leaning forward. He laughed. “Go on.”

  “I can’t, or I’ll get hard again. But I will say, I can still smell her pussy on my fingers.”

  "Did she approach you, look at your movie star face and follow you around?”

  I laughed, wondering what he would think if he knew. “Not quite.”

  “Does she have any friends?” asked Saint.

  “She had a flirty, flighty friend who didn't realize I was the one that sent over a tequila shots set-up. I wanted to see if the angel could handle alcohol. Both danced crazy moves. Her friend might be too wild for you,” I said.

  “I doubt it. But, I can’t say I’m not jealous, Max.”

  He should be. She had a little sass, and a tight, hot ass. She was perfect. I adjusted myself.

  I heard him bang his fist on the desk. “Oh man! I guess I can cancel the Viagra I ordered for you for Christmas.”

  “One day, we will have a good laugh over that, because you will be the only one of us mail-ordering Viagra. Let’s not forget you are older than me,” I said.

  Saint laughed.

  “How’s business going? I have an overflow, and I could use the help,” he said.

  I didn’t need distractions or the madness of Saint’s cases. His firm, Private Dick, was a gold mine, even though I hated the work. After a few months of chasing down cheating wives, I re-evaluated my goals. I had none. Work kept me focused on something other than my loneliness. Thus, any case I worked on became my obsession.

  Getting my business off the ground had been stressful. I started my agency with ten thousand dollars that I recovered from embezzlement, a scheme orchestrated by my then lover, Shawna.

  Now, I had to channel my obsessive behavior on matters of my own.

  “Sorry, I can't. Tomorrow, Under a Rock Investigations will be open for business.”

  "Congratulations! I’ll make a note to send a fruit basket.”

  "Ha!"

  I didn’t feel sorry about turning down his work. I knew he wasn't in a bind. Saint knew how to schedule his cases, so he didn’t burn out. He was being a friend offering me work for pay.

  If he needed something important, I’d be right there, next to him, offering all the skills I had to help him, gratis.

  All I wanted now was fast cars, loose women, and a cocktail. What I had was a hard cock, a laptop, and a gun. Best of all, I had no romantic relationship or commitment to a significant other to distract me. My life was uncomplicated. That’s the way I liked it.

  I graduated from a college ripe with candidates for the Agency to recruit. They accepted me as a candidate for employment. I had enough crises of conscience after five years to quit. I went on a six-month sabbatical before joining Saint as a private investigator, spying on cheating partners.

  My firm, Under a Rock Investigations, is high-risk. I sift the darknet for job prospects. I use Tor to hide my browsing activity and physical location from anyone who may be watching.

  I expect to go undercover, a role I’m familiar with, having worked as an Agency contractor in the past. I jumped into the darknet with both feet, but I needed a wingman who knew how to navigate in the dark.

  I hired James King as both an assistant and private investigator in training. James came under my radar through Saint, who used him as a hacker and had hired him online via the darknet. We wired his fee to an offshore bank account when he completed the job. Saint and I did a background check on James, the bank account disappeared, and we were at a dead end. We knew nothing about James he didn’t want us to know. The breadth of his experience was that of someone who knew the internet in its infancy, except, he was only twenty-two. I didn’t believe everything on his resume until I saw part of his skill set. He covered tracks of old identities while creating new, believable identities.

  When I asked him to come for an interview, we met at a coffee shop in Venice, the ocean just a short block away. James was tall and gangly, all arms and legs, his fingers long, hands strong, from the extended use of the computer. I didn’t expect the guy to wear a suit, but his clothing said something: skinny jeans with stovepipe legs, and a T-shirt that said Gamers Don’t Die, They Re-spawn. He shoved his feet into a pair of frayed black Chucks, sneakers that weren’t high tops. His dirty blond hair looked like the dentist cut it. It was uncombed, askew, and choppy. Duct tape held together his glasses. The icing on the cake was the braces on his teeth, the top and bottom secured by colored rubber bands. The only reason I caught sight of them was that he had to open his mouth to talk. I loved this guy already.

  As he walked up, I noticed he was pale and tried to shield his eyes from the sun. For a moment there, I was about to suggest we move inside, but he plopped himself on the chair.

  “You're Max,” he said.

  “I am... and you're Jim.”

  "No. My name is James." He emphasized his name.

  "Okay, James. Sorry."

  He didn’t like the diminutive version of his given name. He nodded.

  Somehow, I knew James would not ask me much. He would tell me what he knew. If he was as smart as I thought he was, he knew as much as I wanted anyone to know about me on the net, name, education, last known employers.

  “James, are you interested in working for me?”

  He nodded. I don’t think he ever worked for someone outside his safe environment, locked away in a dark room.

  “Why?”

  It was a fair question.

  “I want to learn how to be a private investigator. I want to work with people. You seem to accept me as I am.”

  James King didn’t have to prove himself.

  “You’ll have to work at my loft where I have a whole floor dedicated to an office.”

  He nodded.

  "It's sunny. There will be light. You might need sunscreen," I joked.

  “I must check your security system,” he said; the joke went over his head.

  I raised my eyebrow.

  “It’s an OCD thing.”

  I nodded.

  James knew what the job entailed and was eager to start. Navigating the darknet is tricky, and I believed James would be invaluable.

  “Are you ready to start?” I asked.

  "Can we eat first?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  I waved the server down while James studied the menu.

  A perky young man with a white uniform shirt, black stove-pipe pants, and spit-polished saddle shoes came over with a notebook to take his order.

  "What can I get you?" he asked, pen poised.

  James didn't even look up when he said, "a Belgian waffle, pancakes, two eggs over easy, white toast with butter, grits, hash browns and a chocolate shake."

  "Is that all?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  He ate everything. I took the time to check my emails, called to get my car serviced, updat
ed my calendar, and added more songs to my playlist. I heard him burp.

  "Finished?" I asked.

  He smiled. I hoped he brought a toothbrush.

  “Let’s surf for a contract,” I said, walking us over to my building.

  He paused in front of the three-story loft, sauntered around it, then came inside. We took the narrow staircase up to the third floor, and I pointed to the fireman's pole I used for a quick descent to the main floor. The room was a quiet zone. It was an open space when I'd bought it, and now I had it soundproofed. The ceilings and walls were insulated with sound dampening material.

  I set up his workstation on a folding banquet table outfitted with an iMac. He rubbed his hands together, flexed his fingers and tapped away. For hours he surfed, saved links, and sent them. Meanwhile, I was reviewing the prospects myself at the desk across the room. The links he sent contained contract prospects and interesting ones at that.

  Vague details, such as categories and keywords, were the best descriptors of the job, specifically, the words “hijack" and "digital forensics."

  Everyone who bids on covert jobs had a bio on the secret cloud server. The darknet administrators would appraise the credentials before they allowed it on the site. Clients would study it before they chose that person for the job. The selected contractor received information through the cloud that self-destructed as soon as they read it. I took photos of the screen while scrolling through the data.