Craving BAD: An Anthology of Bad Boys and Wicked Girls Read online

  CRAVING

  BAD

  an anthology of bad boys

  and wicked girls

  CRAVING BAD: an anthology of bad boys and wicked girls

  Copyright © 2017. All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: May 2017

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-094-7

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-094-7

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Table of contents

  Access Denied by Amelia James

  Asking for Trouble by Kiersten Modglin

  Blacklisted by Cora Kenborn

  Brass Hearts by Savannah Blevins

  Damaged by Genevieve Lynne

  Ironside Sinners by Kelsey McKnight

  Off Limits by Bella J

  Paper Faces by Jennifer Loring

  Saint or Sinner by A.J. Norris

  The Thief’s Partner by Sarah Fischer

  Wicked Proposals by Jamie Zakian

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  Access Denied

  By Amelia James

  A Warning Labels Story

  Lightning flickered in the window behind Chantal, casting a glare over the naked couple on her computer monitor. The jerky amateur video wouldn’t have turned on a light switch, and a giggle snort escaped her as the fat white guy’s wrinkled ass bounced between the nubile thighs of a woman much too young to be his wife.

  “Good thing his bank balance is bigger than his dick.” Chantal glanced at an adjacent monitor and pulled up his most recent statement. “They’re both about to get a lot smaller.”

  She addressed an email to her latest mark and typed her dreaded subject line:

  Your secret is NOT safe.

  Five simple words that struck fear into the hearts of wealthy fools all over the city. “Internet security is the biggest myth since the Loch Ness Monster.”

  She kept her demand simple: half a million dollars deposited into a secure Swiss bank account by midnight eastern time tomorrow or the hairy mole on his pale, craggy butt would go viral. She signed it Nova, although she really didn’t need to anymore. Her distinctive blackmail style preceded her. A string of spoofed IP addresses would send the police department on a wild goose chase should the mark be stupid enough to turn her in. A few of them had, turning her questionable enterprise into a local sensation. Cybercrime investigators descended with a vengeance, but her security measures proved to be smarter and stronger than theirs.

  An email alert popped up over the girl’s phony O face. “Yes!” Chantal clapped and shimmied her hips, celebrating with her customary victory dance. “A new deposit.” Her head hammered as she dropped back in her supple leather chair and stretched to glare at the clock. “And just minutes before the deadline. Playing fast and loose with your forced labor will bite you in the ass, Mrs. Mayor.”

  “Ouch, damn it.” Pain squatted on top of her head like a fat concrete toad. Her shoulders slumped and she set her elbows on her desk, propping her pounding skull up as the short-lived glee drained her.

  Another lightning flash highlighted the city skyline. The bright light seared her eyes as she stood and poured a glass of red wine, hoping the heavy alcohol would numb her enough to sleep. Why would it help this time? She picked up the TV remote and plopped down on the suede couch, holding her glass steady so the expensive libation wouldn’t splash. The extravagant sofa had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the luxurious fabric had proved to be a bitch to maintain.

  She turned the volume down and kicked the recliner back as the wine buzz seeped through her limbs. The news anchor’s high-pitched chatter irritated her throbbing brain, but a sudden change in her tone and energy snapped Chantal to attention.

  “Mayor Diane Blackstone has created a special task force to pursue the hacker, Supernova…”

  Chantal groaned and slapped floppy fingers over her face. “It’s Nova, you idiots! A cataclysmic nuclear explosion on a white dwarf star. A supernova is the explosion from a supermassive dying star. I’m nowhere near dead, you fuckers.”

  She pressed rewind on the DVR to catch what she’d missed during her rant.

  “…pursue the hacker, Supernova, who authorities believe is responsible for the denial of service attack on city hall’s servers last month.”

  Chantal raised her glass. “I had nothing to do with that, but thank you.” Her ambitions were much simpler—hack the rich morons, find their secrets, get paid to keep their secrets. What had started out as a revenge plot had blossomed into a fabulous lifestyle for the girl who’d gotten lost in the chaos of a financially challenged, blended family. The nobody no one noticed would become somebody everyone feared.

  “Law enforcement officials from all over the city are sharing information and resources…”

  “Blah, blah, blah.” She pressed the mute button and slammed the footrest closed. “Let’s just find out who these cooperative agencies are, shall we?” When no one answered, she grumbled and parked her tingling butt behind her computer. “I need to get a cat that’ll talk back to me.”

  She’d hacked into the police department’s systems once before and they’d chased her out, but not before she’d installed a back door in case she ever wanted to get back in again. “Damn it.” Of course they’d found it and shut it down. She took her time, casually searching for and testing chinks in their armor. Coffee replaced the wine, clearing her head and focusing her efforts.

  “Ah ha!” A recent penetration test hadn’t been fully closed, leaving room for her to slip in and sneak a peek at their case files. She skipped the most-wanted list and stumbled into a serial killer’s file, unable to get out fast enough when photos of mutilated women filled her screen.

  She found a full gigabyte of documents on her cousin, a genius hacker who’d taught her several tricks, but she couldn’t take time to read them. “Here I am.” The Supernova task force file contained little information about her. In fact, no one knew her name, her location, or even that she was an African-American woman. “That doesn’t quite fit their profile.” They assumed Supernova was a man and named her cousin as one of the suspects. “He’d love that.”

  The list of task force personnel sat at the bottom of her screen. She clicked it open and spotted the name of the man in charge. “Detective Tripp Martin. Let’s find out who you are.” She had to break through another level of security to get into the police personnel files, but after that she found his bio with little effort.

  She clicked on his picture first. “Hot damn!” Law enforcement personnel photos all looked the same: headshot only, serious smile, perfect hair. But this guy…holy shit. A stray lock of dirty blond hair had escaped from the severe regulation style and swept across his sinful blue eyes. The corner of his professional smile had morphed
into a smirk, as if mocking the whole idea of a standard photograph.

  Chantal sighed, dropping her chin in her hand as she leaned her elbow on the desk. “Whip out your handcuffs and lock me up, Detective. I’m guilty.” She broke one of her computer geek rules and touched the screen, stroking the crescent-shaped scar on his chiseled jaw. “God, I want to lick that.”

  Tingly-hot pleasure rippled down her body and pooled between her thighs. How long had it been since she’d saddled the dick pony? She shifted in her seat and slipped a hand along the seam of her jeans, pressing down on the neglected flesh begging for attention. “Much too long.”

  She traced her fingertip over his left eyebrow, permanently arched in wicked defiance. His dancing eyes seemed to hold a naughty secret. Fuck the rules. Being a cop paid the bills, but he’d really rather play the bad guy once in a while. Or play with the bad girl.

  Thunder cracked, rattling the windows and snapping Chantal out of her fantasy. “Whoa, all that from a headshot?” She downed her coffee and shook her head. “No more daydreaming.”

  She refilled her mug then settled down to read his résumé. “Tripp Martin, born in Pensacola, Florida, graduated from Gulf Coast High School, and got his Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Northwest Florida. In Pensacola.” Chantal snickered. “You need to get out more.” She skimmed over his law enforcement career highlights, then dug deeper into the file to obtain his current address.

  Tracking down his personal computer network was disappointingly easy, unworthy of a cybercrime task force leader. Breaking into it, however, proved to be a satisfying challenge on an orgasmic level. His firewall resisted her initial keystrokes, but she infiltrated the barrier with patience and skill. He sported a long password, engorged with random alpha-numeric and special characters. “Oh, baby, that’s hot.” A wild thrill shot down her spine when she penetrated his last defense and thrust into Tripp Martin’s personal cyberspace. “I’m going to take my time and enjoy this.”

  Bank statements. Pretty much what she expected for a police detective. Email. Nothing earth-shattering in there. Internet browser history. He’d deleted it. But ghosts lingered and she followed the spectral trail, exploring his off-duty life. Amazon orders. “The man likes to read.” Cabela’s wish list. “Outdoorsy. No surprise.” A website for a something called Iniquity Club. “What’s this?”

  Chantal snickered as a black login screen popped up. “That’s cute.” She spent almost thirty minutes searching for a way in. “This site is locked up tighter than the FBI. They must be protecting some serious shit.” Several keystrokes and clicks later, she breached the site’s defenses and gained access.

  “Wow.” The word escaped with breathy awe. She’d seen hookup sites before, but Iniquity Club claimed to offer adult fantasies for the beautiful people—if they could afford the membership fee. “This is a gold mine of fools and secrets.”

  Heat flashed over her skin as she surveyed the erotic site. Lust zipped between her thighs when she spotted a photo from a Halloween party. A man wearing a Dread Pirate Roberts mask—and a G-string that barely contained him—danced with a nearly naked Cleopatra. Chantal’s gaze lingered over his sculpted body, and she licked her lips while her thighs quivered. The casual observer wouldn’t have recognized him, but the distinctive scar and the sinful spark in his eyes aroused Nova’s illicit instincts.

  “Your secret is not safe, Detective Martin.”

  A text message notification chirped from Tripp’s cell phone, and the glowing screen illuminated his bedroom. Thunder rumbled in the distance as he bolted upright and grabbed the device. The security analyst the task force had contracted to do the technical work reported a breach of the police department’s network. Tripp smiled as he pulled his jeans on. Supernova had taken the bait, hitting it hard and swallowing it whole. The elusive hacker hadn’t planted a virus or stolen anything. He’d just looked around the personnel files then vanished.

  “Must’ve found what he wanted.” Intermittent lightning flashes guided Tripp down the hall. He flipped the kitchen lights on and grunted, blinking until his eyes adjusted. “Coffee.” He’d turned the machine off before going to bed, so he brewed a fresh pot then booted up his laptop. The computer behaved as expected. No apparent virus activity. He ran a quick scan but no threats appeared. “Come on, you bastard. Don’t disappoint me.”

  They’d made the bogus task force personnel list easy to find with Tripp’s real name at the top, hoping Supernova would take the information and run, chasing him down without bothering to investigate the other names. Tripp checked his work email and read the network security report again, but nothing jumped out at him.

  His personal email showed two new messages. One a sale ad from Cabela’s and the other a long list of questions from his mom. How are you? Have you gone out with that girl again? Have you made hotel reservations for your brother’s wedding? What’s your flight schedule? Call me. “I love you too, Mom.” He yawned and stretched. He’d write back to her later when he could give her the answers she wanted.

  Daniel’s wedding. Still several months away. Tripp would go, of course. He was the best man. He shuddered at the term. Daniel worshipped his big brother ever since the day Tripp had saved him from drowning when they got caught in a riptide. He’d go and make the toast, smile for the photographer, chuckle when the mayor and her husband clapped him on the back and called him hero. He’d go and covet his little brother’s new bride. Not her specifically, but the idea of her—a wife—a woman to share his life with. But Tripp’s world spared no room for a traditional relationship. Short-lived, nameless hookups satisfied his sexual needs. Companionship had to be sacrificed for his career.

  He clicked on the internet browser, and his fingers stretched over the keyboard. Don’t do it. Don’t go there. His stomach knotted while he typed, unable to resist the need to know. The black login screen warned him about the adult content on the site, but he ignored it and entered his username and password. His email showed no new messages, both a relief and a disappointment. He really shouldn’t go back again. Tripp downed the rest of his coffee and shook his head. He hadn’t been there since the Halloween party. His fingers tightened around the empty mug as a powerful urge made his hand tremble. His dick stiffened when he recalled the blowjob Cleopatra had given him. He hadn’t asked for her real name, and he never gave anyone his. He’d told his mother he’d had a date to shut her up, but the information had just opened up a new line of questions.

  He browsed the website. “No harm in looking.” Not much nudity on the home page, but the member profiles contained plenty. Beautiful women of all shapes and ages bared their bodies, hoping to attract a playmate. Couples showed off their favorite kinks. Leather, latex, and lace abounded—something for every sexual taste. Tripp preferred anonymity. The less he knew about them and they about him, the better. He never met anyone outside the club, and whenever he attended—against his better judgement—he wore a mask. Club rules forbid cell phones and cameras, but someone always snuck one in.

  None of the new member profiles appealed to him, so he clicked over to the events page. He’d missed the New Year’s Eve party because of work. Better that way. I shouldn’t go back. His cock protested, but his stomach churned. “I should delete my membership.” But as he scrolled over to the menu, a new party announcement caught his eye—a masquerade party. “I could do that.” He could dress as a biker and tear eyeholes in his bandana. Black leather would attract the submissive women, and he could be as bad as they wanted him to be. As bad as he longed to be. He clicked on the RSVP link and filled out the registration. He’d pay cash at the door as always.

  An email alert popped up and he clicked it closed then dragged his mouse back to the event screen. The pointer hovered over the submit button. “I shouldn’t. I gotta stay away from this place.” He closed his eyes and clicked with a trembling finger. No one will ever know.

  Tripp closed the website and deleted his internet history and cookies. His brow
ser did it automatically on exit, but he always felt the need to cleanse his soul after visiting Iniquity Club’s website.

  Another email notification popped up and he opened his personal account. He deleted the top message, but the subject line of the next one sent his heart plummeting to his gut.

  Your secret is not safe.

  The words swam in front of his eyes as the room heated and swirled. Supernova used that line on every one of the victims who’d reported him. But the hacker couldn’t have found out about his club membership. Tripp had tested the site before he joined. Its security was sound. “He’s bluffing.” He opened the message.

  One word. One damning word.

  MaskedLover.

  “Shit.” He clapped a trembling hand on the desk and steadied himself as his heart raced. More words appeared through his haze. A phone number and a command.

  Text me.

  Tripp’s law enforcement training kicked in and urged him to report the suspect’s contact, but his self-preservation instincts rebelled. He picked up his phone and called the number, defying the hacker’s orders. “I’m not playing your game.”

  He held his breath while the phone rang. Twice. Three times. Four. No voice mail. What idiot would leave a message? Six. “Dammit!” Tripp clicked the call dead and tossed the phone on his desk.

  Caught. “Damn it to hell!” He should’ve known better. He should’ve shut that club down when he busted the previous owners for drugs, but instead, he went back. Time and time again, drawn by the need for sexual satisfaction, no matter how fleeting or illicit.

  Could he pay the hacker off? Would Supernova keep his secret? Could Tripp give up his one escape? He’d tried countless times. Whenever he came home after a party, sated and guilt-ridden, he’d swear never to go again. But then his brother would call and ask for his help planning his honeymoon. Or his sister would gush over her wonderful new boyfriend. And he’d go back, casting off his hero cape and drowning his responsibilities in the pleasures of anonymous flesh. He needed a release—simple as that—and nothing else filled the void.