Hunt Blackstone was just within his forties, but he refused to slow down. In the early eighties, he was born to a Diné father and a white mother in El Paso, Texas. He lived in El Paso until he was four years old, learning English, Spanish, and his Indigenous father's language. From El Paso, he moved to the eastern side of the state and spent his early years working on his father's ranch. He learned to shoot and ride like the cowboys from the movies, but he always played on the Indian side when he would re-enact scenes from the spaghetti Westerns with his friends.
When Hunt was only fourteen, he ran away from home to venture off like kids always did in those films. He hopped on the first train he could grab and rode it all the way to the big city of Chicago. From there, he spent two years working on a fishing boat and another year as a construction worker under the table.
At the turn of the century, Hunt's determination led him to join the army, his deep hazel eyes reflecting his unwavering resolve. He sought adventure, and he found it. After six years, he decided to chart his own course, tired of being told where to go.
Wishing to stretch his sea legs again, Hunt began working on a large cargo ship. However, that lasted only a short time as he overslept next to a beautiful Latina during a port call and was left behind.
He spent five years backpacking through Europe, staying long enough to familiarize himself with an area and overcharging tourists to be a local guide. That also ended sooner than he would've liked when he was caught one too many times with a married woman in his bed.
At the age of thirty, Hunt took on a job as a private eye. He had a knack for sniffing out the truth and fully embraced the profession as an old-school detective. He became very popular with his female clientele, treating them as any good noir P.I. should. It helped when, most of the time, he was uncovering affairs and being the arms she could cry into when the case was closed.
After ten years of discovering cheating husbands, finding missing friends, and tracking wanted men, Hunt grew tired of the work. Next, he chartered a plane to Africa, embracing a life as a philanthropist. He took on jobs digging wells and building schools. It didn't take long for him to miss the action and decide he was best suited for something else.
He worked as a safari guide for seven years, leading him to the next chapter of his life.
It had been nearly thirty years since Hunt had been back to Texas. He decided it was time to settle down, find a nice woman, and pump her full of his kids to start the next generation. That was the plan, at least.
His flight stopped in New York for a six-hour layover. He had plans to continue on his trip but was in desperate need of a smoke. He stepped outside the airport doors and pulled a crumpled pack of Newports from his pocket. Standing beside him was a group of smartly dressed men, all doing the same. He looked over at one of them, offering a sideways grin and waving at him with his cigarette. The man nodded and asked him how his day was going. From there, everything changed.
The two men struck up a conversation. Hunt's robust and stocky build had caught the other man's eye. The man also noticed Hunt's watchfulness and alertness and the makings of an old soldier who knew his way around. After exchanging a few more words, the man handed Hunt a business card, an offer of security work.
Interviews and tests commenced, and Hunt had his first gig and client within a week. He waited inside the penthouse suite where the job would be held. He stood on the balcony, looking over the railing at the bustling city of New York below. His regular hide jacket and jeans were traded for a smart-looking suit jacket and black slacks. His typical tattered undershirt was replaced with a neatly pressed white dress shirt. He had shaven his dark beard, leaving just a fair amount of stubble on his face. Scars now visible of a former busted lip that never rightly healed, and scratches along his face that made him look even more rugged than before. He cut and combed his messy tussle of black hair, dotted with gray, now leaving him with a nice low fade and a left part. He felt like some sort of movie star, pretending to be a secret agent more than he thought to be a security guard.
He finished his cigarette, dropping it over the side when the elevator doors opened. In stepped a young woman, looking to be in her late teens. She had raven hair, a light ebony skin tone, and beautiful, soft brown eyes. Her body was young and fit. A pair of perky tits that seemed to bounce in the tight white dress she wore, and when she turned, you could see a firm young ass. She reminded Hunt of the beautiful young ladies he met in South Africa, working as a tour guide, although her skin tone was slightly lighter.
"Mornin' Darlin'," he said, his thick southern drawl coming out. He turned away from the railing to face her, stepping closer.
"Good morning, Mr. Blackstone," she said with a soft, sweet reply. She took one hand from the purse she clutched in front of her and extended it to him. When she did, she exposed the middle part of her dress, showing a pair of long, gorgeous thighs. "I'm Ember Marion."
Hunt shook her hand, holding it gently. Her soft skin was an apparent contradiction to his calloused, worn palms.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Marion," he said with a charming smile. "I'll be taking care of you until further notice," he informed her.
"Yes, I'm aware we are awaiting for the trial," she told him, a touch of sadness in her face. "I hope we can become good friends in the meanwhile," she said, her face brightening once more.
"I believe we shall," Hunt said confidently.
Hunt led her to her room and carried her bags. They didn't speak much, and Hunt gave her time to become situated while he waited on the balcony. It was an hour before he saw her again, coming down the steps in a pair of white leggings and a black sports bra.
"Mr. Blackstone?" she asked the man, his back turned to her again as he looked over the balcony railing.
"Yes, Ma'am?" he said, looking over his shoulder at the light-skinned beauty.
"I was wondering, is there a place where I may safely practice my yoga?" she asked.
Hunt gestured to the balcony in a broad sweep of one hand. "I don't see why you can't here," he told her.
"Is it safe?" she asked timidly.
"Miss Marion, you're a witness in a trial of an accountant, not CIA hitmen. No sniper is gonna pick you off. Especially not if my fat head is in the way," he told her as he turned around to face her. He leaned on the railing, elbows propped up on it.
This provoked a laugh from the young lady. "I meant the structure," she told him. Still, she had yet to set foot onto the balcony.
The realization dawned on him. "Oh, you ain't afraid of heights, are ya, Miss?" he asked.
Ember blushed from embarrassment, waving at him. "It's a common fear, Mr. Blackstone," she protested.
Hunt laughed. "Yes, Ma'am, it is. If ya don' mind me askin' how old are you?"
"Nineteen," she responded almost curtly.
"Well, I can tell ya. I'm somewhere in my forties now. I have fallen from a lotta stuff in that time, but this balcony won't be one of em'; you're as safe as can be."
She let out a huff, crossing her arms. Ember was obviously displeased with the teasing. She was also curious about what her age had to do with any of this, but she didn't ask.
She rolled out a mat onto the balcony floor and laid down. Hunt couldn't help but stare as she began posing. He didn't know what she was doing, but he liked it. Her firm, young ass raised in the air, and he felt slacks begin to tighten around his groin as his bulge grew. His left pant leg showed a prominent bulge snaking down his thigh. Thankfully, she had her back turned to him.
Her ass wriggled in the air. He could see the faint outline of her pussy being hugged by the fabric. He could even tell that she wore nothing underneath.
He watched a bit longer but turned back to the balcony when she changed poses. He continued to sneak glances for the next thirty minutes as she went on.
After yoga, she offered to prep lunch for them. It was a nice change from his usual diet of whatever he could catch or whatever was being served at a community kitchen. He wasn't sure what she prepared or why it had to look so fancy if it would be chewed up anyway, but he enjoyed it.
They spent lunch talking. She asked questions about his job and his previous life. He answered whatever he could, no matter how personal. Some of the questions steered into very personal territory, like whether he was married or had someone else. She even went as far as to suggest that if he had a wife, she probably wouldn't be fond of the arrangement. Still, he answered and cracked jokes. They laughed and finished their meal.
The next few days went about the same routine, with some minor alterations. She regularly cooked lunch and dinner, but he would make breakfast. She never seemed to complain about the bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns he served every breakfast but would also add some fancy variant of toast like adding avocado to it. She had him try a bite, and he just complained that the guacamole wasn't as good as what he was used to.
They would spend the day chatting. She would always ask for stories of Hunt's adventures. He told her of his time at sea or climbing mountains and running from rooftops to pursue suspects in his cases. She was always on the edge of her seat. She would gasp at the drama and often persuade him to share more intimate details. She would frequently leave, blushing, and disappear for a bit after he shared one of his romantic adventures. He was not usually one to kiss and tell, but the girl kept demanding it.
After dinner one night, she suggested they stand on the balcony. Hunt agreed, a little taken aback by her newfound confidence in heights. Normally, she would only do her yoga as close to the door as possible and then cut it short to leave if even a light breeze picked up.
Tonight, she seemed different.
Hunt waited for her, leaning against the railing as he always did. His thick forearms rested on the railing, dangling his hands over the edge. He heard her footsteps and waited for her to call his name. This time, though, she appeared beside him. He turned to her in surprise. She was clad in a tight white dress once again. This one much shorter than the last. It was beautiful, hugging her slim figure.
"I figured you'd never get this close," he told her.
"I trust you, Mr. Blackstone," she whispered. She placed a palm over his forearm, grabbing onto him for safety. "You wouldn't let me down," she said sweetly, gazing up at him.
Hunt turned to look at her. When he did, she leaned up to her tiptoes. He didn't see the kiss coming. Their lips connected. His hands went to the girl's hips instantly.
