Degrees of Control

by Eve Dangerfield

  Fuck.

  He’d opened his door on Tuesday night to find Charlotte wearing a long coat. She removed it to reveal an outfit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pole dancer; black stockings, a tiny, ruffled skirt and a sheer, black corset. The sight of her sweet face contrasted by such slutty underwear blindsided him. Before he knew what was happening Charlotte was on her knees, unbuckling his belt and giving him the slowest, hottest blowjob he could remember. She’d sucked him lightly, running her tongue down his shaft and over his sac so slow he could feel the come surging up his shaft. In the final throes she’d wet a fingertip and sunk it into his ass. He’d come so hard green sparks had popped behind his eyes.

  He’d repaid her in kind, spanking her ass red before hauling her onto his kitchen counter and eating her pussy until she screamed. They got dinner afterward, takeout pizza because of her stripper clothes. Meat lovers for him, vegetarian for her, like a bad joke. They spent a couple of hours in his kitchen talking, mostly about the dogs they’d had as kids. Usually women couldn’t pry his jaws apart for anything other than their pussies, but Charlotte had a way of making sentimental bullshit fall out of his mouth. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. When she confessed she stole her stripper outfit from her roommate, an actual stripper, he’d kissed her forehead and told her she was perfect.

  James sighed, he had to dump Charlotte in the next couple of weeks. If he kept this shit up Sophia would definitely disembowel him. All he did was give Charlotte the wrong idea. His laptop pinged, alerting him to an email.

  Hey, James, my classes are over and I’m wandering aimlessly around the shopping district. What kind of underwear do you like? Keep in mind I have low-rent stripper covered. Charlie.

  James grinned. Speak of the fairy and she appeared. He sent a picture of a hentai girl in a maid costume. The reply was instantaneous.

  Ha-ha, Hunter, don’t you have an internet safe search at that job of yours?

  Not when you’re the boss, sweetheart, James typed back.

  He forwarded her a picture of a dark-haired woman in sapphire-blue panties and garters. He’d club a few baby seals to see Charlotte in that, preferably bent over his couch with his tongue between her legs. His laptop pinged.

  Wow. If I was a billionaire I’d buy that for sure. But what do you like in the price range of, say, a yoga teacher who lives in a shanty town?

  James frowned. He hated being reminded of where she lived. When he’d pulled up at her curb late on Tuesday night he’d wanted to lock the car doors and take her home with him. Tuck her into his spare bedroom with a hot-water bottle. It was straight-up crack-head territory, Charlotte was practically walking around with a bullseye on her back.

  Not that it’s any of your business, asshole.

  He sighed. As much as he’d kill to see Charlotte in garters he didn’t want to bankrupt her with non-elasticized panties. He was on the verge of telling her not to bother when an idea struck. He made a couple of quick phone calls and emailed her back.

  Try Scantily Clad down on the corner of Bridge and Hammond.

  Feeling energized, he returned to his charts with a grin. An hour flew past and his phone rang. He smirked down at her name, wondering if he could get her to send him a picture and use it as her contact photo.

  “Hey, Blue-Eyes.”

  Charlotte made a growling noise. “Hi, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I know you’re pissed but saying that still turns me on.”

  “Are you even at work? Never mind, do you have any idea why Scantily Clad is trying to sell me a truckload of French underwear for thirty dollars?”

  “Maybe there’s a sale?”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re full of shit.”

  James grinned and rotated one-hundred-eighty degrees in his leather chair. “Find anything pretty?”

  “This is so bourgeois of you, Hunter. I’m not some skanky peasant you can play X-rated dress-ups with.”

  “That’s funny, Blue-Eyes, I thought I knew all your fantasies but if you want to play Prince Charming and farmer’s daughter…?”

  “Can you stop being a pervert for like five seconds?”

  “Not really.”

  James might have known her pride wouldn’t let her accept gifts from him, which was bullshit. She wasn’t his mistress or his secretary. She was his…well, it didn’t matter what she was, point was buying her lingerie didn’t mean jack.

  “I’m following your exact advice, Charlotte. You told me, ‘buy women nice gifts and it’ll be easy to get your needs accommodated’.”

  “Oh, are you referring to your panty fetish?”

  James looked around, half expecting his staff to have their ears pressed against the glass. “It’s not a fetish,” he whispered fiercely, and Charlotte giggled—she had the cutest fucking laugh. James rubbed his forehead, irritated by his own sappy thoughts. “Just let me do this for you. You have assets, I have resources. I’m helping you help me. It’s a win-win.”

  “It’s so hot when you talk like Jerry Maguire, James.”

  “Be as sarcastic as you want, Miss Charlotte, I’m buying you that lingerie, no strings attached.”

  “Actually there are several strings attached.”

  James shut his eyes. It would be so easy to bail on work, take Charlotte back to the hotel and spend the whole day peeling her out of stockings and silk. He opened his mouth to suggest just that and felt a stabbing pain in his right temple. If the underwear made her feel cheap, another midday fuck in a hotel wouldn’t help. He sighed. “Please don’t torture me. Just let me do this for you, as a…person who wants to fuck you senseless while you’re wearing a garter belt.”

  Jesus Christ, why couldn’t I say “friend?”

  Charlotte’s gentle laughter filtered through the phone. “Fine, Mr. Hunter, doll me up in your fetish gear. I’ll repay you some other way. Hey, do you want to learn how to stand on your head?”

  James chuckled. “No, I’m happy standing on my feet, thanks.”

  He looked out of his window to see everyone within earshot staring at him like he was pissing into a rubber plant. He glared at them until they turned away. “I should get back to work, Blue-Eyes.”

  “Okay, but come around to my place for dinner tonight. My roommate’s in Canada and I can finally have sex without her judging me.”

  “You don’t want your stripper housemate judging you? Wait, who says you’re gettin’ laid? I don’t put out for rice.”

  “James, there’s forty kilograms of lace panties about to go tumbling down a dirty manhole…”

  “Fine, I’ll make an exception. What time do you want me over?”

  He could practically hear her smile coming through the phone. After that the day gained some momentum. He signed a couple of new contracts and was just thinking about lunch when his office opened and Verity Talbot from legal came slinking in. Fuck.

  James had been told, in no uncertain terms, not to fuck his employees, but at last year’s Christmas party he and Verity wound up screwing. In the back room of a strip club, just to really round out the sleaziness. It was a mistake, he was technically her boss, but ever since she stopped by a couple of times a week to suggest a repeat performance. Verity leaned over his desk like a teacher disciplining a wayward student. “Hey, Hunter, wanna go get a steak?”

  “No thanks, Verity, I’m waitin’ for a call.”

  She hoisted herself up on his desk and parted her legs so anyone walking past would think he was looking up her skirt.

  She won’t be wearing black cotton briefs, that’s for sure.

  “Ditch it. Come down to the hotel bar with me instead.”

  He might have taken her up on the offer but it was obvious Verity wanted more than an incriminating office hook-up. She was what his mom called a “marriage-minded woman.” The older he got, the more of them emerged from the woodwork. He’d dated quite a few without realizing it. He sometimes wondered if they were using a manual, How to land an unsuspecting rich asshole in six weeks. E
ither way, he wasn’t falling for it. After watching his parents battle their way through the nightmare of matrimony he wasn’t at all eager to step up to the plate himself.

  Verity leant forward and shook a finger in his face, her smooth ash-blonde hair swinging around her shoulders. “One of these days you’ll say yes to me, James.”

  Sorry, darlin’, not while I’ve got my hands full with a pretty, little masochistic yoga teacher.

  Verity grinned slyly. “So Westwood tells me you’re banging a yoga instructor.”

  Charlotte, her name’s Charlotte. James forced his face to stay smooth. “Lucky you, Westwood just forwards me porn.”

  Verity laughed. “We both saw her wandering around the building like a little lost lamb. Tell me, can Miss Jugs put her legs behind her head?”

  James knew exactly how Verity saw Charlotte. As a cute, well-endowed threat, another contender in the game of “bag the rich boy.” He wanted to defend Charlotte, tell Verity she wasn’t like that, but what the hell would he say? “I don’t kiss and tell, Verity.”

  “Well, I hope you carded her because she looks about seventeen.”

  James’ temple throbbed. The last thing he needed was a rumor that he screwed high school girls. Charlotte didn’t look young, exactly. She just had a deceptive kind of…freshness? Innocence? He couldn’t remember his first impression, not since she’d showed up at his house in stripper pumps and rode him like a mechanical bull.

  “Charlotte’s twenty-four. I’m not a pervert.”

  Wrong answer. Verity reached forward to adjust his tie, giving him a good look down her silk blouse. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

  He huffed out a laugh knowing he should say something, but was at a complete loss for what. He was so fucking tired of all the bullshit mind games that operated like there were no mind games at all.

  “So are you seeing this sweet little yoga teacher exclusively?”

  A boulder lodged itself in James’ throat. “Nothin’ like that, just letting it run its course.”

  Verity’s black-lined eyes widened. “Well, if that’s the case maybe you, me and your new friend can go out sometime? I love yoga.”

  James smirked. “I’m sure you do.”

  What would Charlotte say if he asked her to have a threesome? Strangely, the idea had minimal appeal. Verity was cooperative but completely vanilla in the sack, and she and Charlotte had nothing in common. Verity was stunning, she knew how to flirt, select wine and rub shoulders. She was the kind of girl his brothers married, the woman his mother was when she wasn’t off her face.

  Charlotte was a whole other species, genuinely kind to the point of making others feel shitty. Just imagining her let loose on his family gave him a rash. Her pacifist, vegan “we’re all equals here” charm would go down like a lead balloon. Nope, if he got Verity and Charlotte in a bed together ten bucks said the blonde would bully Charlotte mercilessly and Charlotte would…what would Charlotte do?

  Verity slid off his desk, adjusting her skirt. “Well, if you’re not free I’m gonna hit the gym. See you around, Hunter. Let me know what your girl says about a party for three.”

  She flashed him her fifty thousand-dollar smile and strode out of his office, ass swaying. James stared after her, wishing he’d gone home the night of the Christmas party and jerked off. Was Charlotte marriage minded? He dismissed the idea instantly. She didn’t want him to buy her a thong, she left twenty dollars on his kitchen table for pizza and gas. Landing a rich boy from the south and raising his blond-haired babies was clearly the last thing on her mind. James scratched his head. With Charlotte’s dark hair, their kids probably wouldn’t be blond, their eyes would be fucking incredible though. A vision of a tiny someone floated up in his mind. A whisper of a dog of his own and a place of his own with a big lawn. James stood up so quickly his head spun. He was going to call someone, his CFO maybe and go out for lunch after all, even if it meant Verity catching him in a lie. He needed a goddamn drink.

  Chapter 13

  All afternoon Charlie couldn’t stop opening her chest of drawers and running her hands through the lingerie, laying everything out on her bedspread before growing embarrassed and stuffing everything back in.

  She’d never owned underwear like it before. Completely impractical, of course. The panties rode up, the lace itched and the tissue-paper bras gave her boobs no support, but each item was like a piece of art. The idea that she could embody James’ fantasies was what kept her returning to the drawer. That and the nerves. Hayley invited her out for sushi and she’d been forced to decline. A night of sex Hayley could have forgiven but she was pissed Charlie was making James dinner like a freaking housewife. Her ominous warning that James would prove himself a Dracula-style predator still rang in Charlie’s ears.

  She knew that they were pushing the boundaries of casual hook-ups, but she liked James. He was funny and self-aware and gorgeous as hell. Besides, since she and Dale had split up she’d hardly cooked for anyone and she missed it. Contrary to Hayley’s assumption, it wasn’t about gendered servitude either. When you made someone a meal you were saying “you’re valuable to me.” A sentiment that was as valid for friends as it was for lovers.

  Eight o’clock drew closer and Charlie forced herself to stop chopping unnecessary ingredients. Instead, she blared her dorky folk music and practiced headstands in the lounge room, trying not to count the minutes with each passing song.

  When two sharp raps came from the hallway Charlie quickly up-righted herself. She rushed to the door and swung it open. A familiar wave of intimidation surged over her. As usual James wore black jeans and a gray T-shirt better than most men wore tuxedos. His dirty blond hair was rumpled and his expression was wary. Seeing him in such a familiar place made her heart kick like a snare drum. He’s here, in my terrible home. He came. He likes me too.

  Charlie stood on her tippy toes and kissed him on the cheek.

  He recoiled slightly. “Uh, hey?”

  “Sorry, my mother’s Greek, that’s just what we do.”

  James almost smiled and presented her with a bottle of sparkling apple cider. “I don’t know what non-drinkers drink, so I got this.”

  Charlie beamed. “I bought you beer. The guy at the store asked me for two kinds of ID.”

  A small smile thawed his full mouth. She plunked the cider in the fridge and led him on a brief tour of her “home.” James kept his demeanor polite, but she didn’t blame him for his visible objections. There was no denying that her apartment was a dump. She didn’t know what was worse, the concrete floors, the mismatched wallpaper or the overpowering stench of weed. A hundred sticks of incense couldn’t erase it even if she wanted the flat to smell like a hundred sticks of incense.

  “Yeah, this is more or less what I expected.” James inspected her broken bathroom sink. “You want me to fix this?”

  “Only if you do it with your shirt off.”

  He laughed but it was strained. Charlie could see he was agitated. His gaze kept flicking from the door to the windows like a spooked horse looking to bolt. She gave him some space to relax, handing him a beer and busying herself by oiling the wok for dinner. James drank and seemed to relax somewhat. When their gazes met, he quirked an eyebrow at the dozen bowls she’d assembled next to her.

  “This dinner particularly complicated, Miss Charlotte?”

  “Not really, you’ve got to do Pad Thai in stages. Trust me, it’ll be brilliant.”

  James smiled. “Sometimes you do sound British.”

  “Sometimes you sound like Foghorn Leghorn. Shut up and let me cook.”

  As she fried off the shallots, she could feel him watching her. Just being near him sent energy flowing through her like a low-grade electric current, but having him here in her dank, marijuana-scented apartment felt like intimacy.

  When the wok was redolent with the smell of sweet and sour Charlie threw in the rice noodles and started stirring rapidly.

  “Help you with anything?” James
called from behind her. “Dish towel, maybe?”

  “The. Mess. Is. Part. Of. The. Process.”

  When it was done Charlie poured the mess of noodles into a bowl and placed it in front of him. “Bang. Dinner is served.” She turned her back on him so he wouldn’t feel pressured to make an approving face.

  “This is pretty fucking good, Blue-Eyes.”

  Charlie beamed. “I know.”

  She slid her bowl of Pad Thai onto the counter and sat beside him. They ate in silence for a few seconds until she couldn’t hold back any longer. “I have a proposal. Since I cooked, you have to talk to me.”

  James’ face went blank. “About what?”

  “About anything. I know nothing about you. I’m concerned you’re secretly killing people.”

  “I’m just not big on chatter.”

  “Yeah, but you’re always grilling me and it’s a one-way grill. It’s like being interrogated by the FBI.”

  James gave her a lecherous smile. “Would you like to be interrogated by the FBI?”

  Charlie glared at him. “I know what you’re doing and it won’t work.”

  “Oh c’mon, Charlotte, you know about the lingerie thing.”

  “Because you yelled it out during sex.”

  “I didn’t yell it.”

  Charlie sighed. “Look, pervert, I’m happy to parade around in fancy underwear for you, can’t you just talk to me about yourself? At least sometimes?”

  James snorted and took another swig of beer. “You’re insane, Blue-Eyes. If you weren’t so cute, more people would know about it.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s my problem, are you going to talk to me about yourself or not?”

  “Fine, but first tell me why it reeks of pot in here?”

  Damn, she’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t notice. “My roommate’s a waster. She’s always inviting bearded men to camp out in our living room and get high.”