Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 (9 page)

The door was cracked slightly and no one was standing in line. I pushed open the door the rest of the way, coming face to face with purple lace panties and fishnet stockings—a solid band around her thighs ending just short of her ass cheeks. I secured the wooden door behind me, my cock begging to be set free.

Brown eyes looking over a tan shoulder, wiggling her ass, begging for me to come closer. Portia was completely naked with the exception of her thong, which was obscuring my view. She widened her feet apart, getting her balance set for what she knew I was about to give her. Hot pink fingernails, too long to be real, with black lines making them look like tiger skins highlighting the ends. She reached around, pulling her ass cheeks apart and the thong string with them.

Her pussy was glistening; wet by either her spit from playing with her clit or perhaps the thought of what was about to go down. She licked two of her fingers, then slapped the lips of her pussy, a part of her body I had no interest in. With a moan, she slipped one then two fingers into her ass, swirling them while sucking air through her teeth.

I pulled my dick from my jeans, and drop the condom wrapper I had ready to the dirty floor. With the latex in place, my hand gripped her hip as my cock tapped her opening. She didn’t wait for me to ease into her; she pushed her ass in my direction, impaling herself on my cock. I was balls deep in her ass, while she took charge pushing herself over and over against me. I let her do her thing, less work for me. Glancing up in the mirror above the sink, I caught my blue eyes and strong jaw Georgia commented about. I’d used both to get me in the position I was currently enjoying.

“Touch my clit, baby,” Portia commanded, clearly forgetting her place.

“Touch your own fucking clit,” I gave back to her, feeling her nails on my balls as she did so. Portia was no stranger to this type of fucking. My guess was she preferred it as much as I did. Her walls no longer showed signs of being stretched; considering my girth, that was saying something.

“Fuck me harder,” she called back, slapping her ass cheeks repeatedly, the skin now showing a red handprint.

I was about to comply when Carson’s warning to leave Claire alone crossed my mind. His words did little to keep my mind from thinking if she would enjoy my cock in her ass. Or would she prefer to have me kissing her neck, telling her how good she felt as I made love to her. Watching her face as she said my name, telling me where to touch her.

“Goddamn it!” I roared, my thoughts bringing on an orgasm with a force I’d never experienced before. I leaned over Portia’s back, trying hard to get my bearings and catch my breath, feeling like a newborn deer instead of a grown assed man. I’d never fantasized about another girl while fucking. I’d never needed to. Either another girl on the bed getting her pussy ate by the one I was fucking or just watching myself fuck the one I was with was usually enough. Never had I gotten off that hard by thinking about kissing a girl, or being buried deep in her pussy.

I flushed the condom, watching the water swirl as it took the evidence with it. Portia was bitching about something, nothing that really mattered to me, so I paid no attention. I was sure she was pissed there would be no addition of Shayla. I tucked my now limp dick into my jeans and, not waiting to see if she had covered herself or not, opened the door, the cold air of the hall hitting my overheated face. It was enough to bring me to my senses and give me a moment of clarity.

I was taken in, by the person leaving the ladies bathroom, directly across the short hall. Standing there, in all her dark-haired glory, was the girl in question, Claire.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her hand flew to her shirt-covered chest, eyes as big as saucers. Her hair was bouncing with her body as she stepped back in the bathroom.

“Pardon me,” I returned then ran, getting the fuck out of that bar as fast as I could.

Being strong doesn’t always mean you have to fight the battle. True strength is being adult enough to walk away from the nonsense with your head held high.

~Anonymous

W
hite Egyptian cotton sheets; with incredibly high thread counts and an equally high price tag. Some women splurged on shoes, purses, plastic surgery or shelves full of books. For me, it was quality sheets. I worked three overtime shifts to afford the set I was currently wrapped in.

When I moved into this apartment, I sat in the center of my living room and just listened. There was no arguing over the last slice of bread or who got the pullout couch for the night. There was no worrying about getting everything done before daylight disappeared and candles were needed to see. No bugs crawling across the floor or snakes hidden behind boxes. The water flowed freely from the kitchen faucet, toilets flushed with a press of a handle, instead of tossing it into tall grass. Hot water rained down from my showerhead; there were no worries of using too much or where it came from.

Granted, for the past four years, I had these luxuries while in college, but this was different. It was legal and warm, and mine—summer vacation would be a time to celebrate, and not have to move to another dorm room. The only rules were the ones I created for myself, like good quality, soft sheets.

Today was Friday, the first night of my three-in-a-row graveyard shifts, but I didn’t mind. See, one day a month, Ms. Georgia opened her front veranda door and hosted a community tea. All the residents of the complex were invited. It was nothing too fancy; no posh hats or gloves, simply a few of her tasty treats and hot or cold tea. It was a time to sit, relax, and catch up with everything going on. Ms. Georgia had a big heart and an even bigger set of ears. Nothing happened in this neighborhood she wasn’t in the know about.

With tea time promptly at three, I had the entire morning to do whatever I wanted. Staring at the antique tiles of my ceiling, I recalled the events from last night. Sean knew my reason behind needing to attend the funeral. As I left the hospital the previous night, he’d invited all the staff working to come by his family’s bar. At first I didn’t want to go, but Kitty begged me. She wanted to expand her horizons. “You can’t meet the man of your dreams sitting on your couch.” Kitty was correct; at least for her, she was still full of hope and wonder.

So I caved and met everyone at the bar. Shayla showed up with her friend Portia, I could swear that girl had a set of golden arches above her bed: over one million served. I was about to leave when Ms. Georgia waved me over. There sat Dylan Morgan and his family. Where his brothers were polite and shook my hand, he looked at me with disdain, as if he would catch something by shaking my hand.

Once upon a time, I questioned if the stories Shayla told of fucking Dylan in strange places was a way of getting attention. After watching him leave the men’s room, with Portia’s naked ass on display trying to clean herself up, my questions were answered. One of the other nurses had asked if Portia was her given name or her stripper name. She denied being a stripper. Joey proved her a liar when he brought in his iPad to show us a video clip of her. She was performing oral sex on one guy while another had his penis in her backside. Evidently, she was doing low budget porn while trying to get a legitimate contract. He had many others of her, all of them with her ass in the air and either a penis or a toy filling her holes. Having spent more than enough time on thoughts of Portia and Dylan, it was time for tea.

Carson and Georgia lived in one of Charleston’s older homes. Nothing famous ever happened there, so it didn’t qualify as a historic landmark. Which was just fine because Georgia didn’t want strangers lurking around her house.

Two hundred years ago, homes in Charleston were taxed based on how wide they were. Folks got around this by building them sideways. Builders created a “fake” front door to make it appear to open from the street. During teatime, these fake doors were left open, allowing visitors to walk onto the front veranda of the home. This was where I found Ms. Georgia and Carson, iced tea and china gracing the table they sat behind.

“Well, look at my luck, two beautiful women to spend my afternoon with.” Carson rose from his chair, his famous gamecock polo shirt on and khaki pants rounding him out. He pulled me into his massive arms, with a kiss to each cheek.

“Thank you, although I think Georgia and I are the lucky ones. Having one of Charleston’s finest protecting us from any evil trespassers.”

One of the downsides to living in an old home near other old homes, which were on the historic registry, was the occasional straggler who wandered over and made him or herself at home.

“Sit, sit.” Carson pulled out a chair for me as Georgia made me a glass of tea. “What else can I get you, darlin’?”

I shook my head. “This is great, thank you.”

Georgia wasted no time in catching me up with the goings on in the neighborhood. Her eyes twinkled as she spoke of the Bensons across the street, who had been trying to sell their house, telling everyone they were downsizing because the kids were getting older and would soon be out of the house. “The truth is, as I told you both, they are getting a divorce. She caught him, in the act, with Ms. Richfield.”

Bridget Richfield, a proud member of the city’s historic planning committee, and avid collector of well-to-do husbands, had finally landed the most sought after man in town.

“Although, I think it was much more than what they are telling. I can’t put my finger on it, but something else is going on there.” Georgia took a drink of her tea, a glint of something in her eye.

“I’m glad you were able to make it today, Claire.” Carson touched my arm. “I wanted to talk with you about something.” His eyes looked serious and my heart jumped a little. “I know you noticed the way Dylan Morgan was eyeing you up last night.” A soft breeze fluttering across the yard caused our eyes to drift to the fountain in the center of the garden. Water splashed against the stones, discoloring them. “Now, don’t get upset with me, but I told him to stay away from you.” His eyes left the now calm fountain and came back to my face.

“Dylan Morgan is a hardworking Detective, a great brother and son. He is also…”

“A big ball of bad decisions?” I interrupted.

Carson’s eyes went wide as Georgia began to cough on the drink of tea she had just taken.

“Are you okay?” I got up from my chair, rubbing her back as she dabbed her napkin against her face.

“Yes, yes. Just went down the wrong pipe.” She continued to cough.

Returning to my chair, I resumed the unnecessary conversation. “Listen Mr. Carson, I know all about Dylan Morgan.” His eyes went wide and his mouth opened to say something, but I interjected. “No, no, no, not in the biblical sense,” I clarified. “Girls just seem to flock to Dylan. He is, without question, a handsome man.” My hands were waving in the air to emphasize my point. “From what I hear,” I continued with my index finger poised in the air, “he is well aware of the effect he has on most women. What I can confirm to be true is, he has no moral standards for the women he chooses to spend time with.” I looked in Georgia’s direction. “Judging by the lack of greeting he extended to me, and the fact he took a porn star into the bathroom for a quick…romp.” I censored, needing to be careful with my language. Ms. Georgia was a lady after all. “I highly doubt I registered on his radar.”

Carson leaned back in his chair, his eyes confirming the confusion his lack of words were telling me. “Besides,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I have a date tomorrow night with Sean O’Leary.” I tried desperately to hide the excitement in my voice. After my run in with Dylan, I was more than ready to get the hell out of there. Sean caught me, as I was about to leave and asked me to go to the Jazz festival on Monday.

“Dr. O’Leary?” Georgia gasped, putting her hand on my arm.

“One and the same.” I smiled as I took a sip of my tea.

“See, George, I told you she was a smart girl.” Georgia was the only person who called Mr. Carson by his first name. For the first few weeks I was around them, I thought it was Carson.

“Of course she’s a smart girl.” He leaned over to kiss my forehead. “It’s my job as her adoptive father to keep an eye on her.”