by Kira Blakely
Who the fuck was calling on her after ten at night? The doorman, maybe? Her aunt, back from Florida? Rachel, unable to get home as she’d drunk nearly an entire bottle of wine herself?
Wrapping her hand around the gold-rimmed door handle, she swallowed sharply, realizing she still smelled like her own sex. With a timid sigh, she opened the door just a crack, hoping this would be someone she could shoo away. Hoping she could retreat back to her bedroom and pretend she’d never felt anything sexual in her life.
But no. On the other side of the door stood her boss, Quentin McDonnell. With his muscled arms crossed over his chest, his eyes dark and brooding, Charlotte sensed that he’d been waiting for her. He’d wanted her.
And with her mouth ajar, her head spinning, and her pussy clenched tightly, pulsing, she felt no urge to dismiss him.
Destiny had pushed her over the limit. And she couldn’t refuse.
Chapter 7
Quentin didn’t speak for a long time, instead choosing to hold Charlotte’s gaze, his body domineering and towering over hers. His lips pressed firmly together, as if he were judging her. The pressure between them grew, with Charlotte standing stupidly in the doorframe, still able to smell the scent of her pussy emanating from her fingers. Could he smell them, too? Could he smell how much she yearned for him? Her breasts lifted slightly as she stood, humming over all the possible ways she could entice him and convince him to stay.
God, he frightened her. Her heart raced with panic. This was a top-level celebrity, a fucking hunk of a rock star, and an ex-sex addict, who’d apparently cleaned up his act.
The man in front of her didn’t seem like a person who’d ever cleaned up his act. If she didn’t know any better, she’d expect him to yank out a bag of cocaine and do a line of it on her tits, bending her over backward and sweeping his nose from her neck to her nipple. She shuddered at the thought.
After what seemed like a small eternity, Quentin suddenly thrust himself toward her. He caught his arms around her head and kissed her, passionately, on the mouth. He sucked at her lower lip, parting her lips and allowing his tongue to cascade against hers. It was a sensual, provocative move, causing her head to spin with the warmth of his mouth and the mixture of their juices. She closed her eyes easily, feeling in a dream. Bringing her hands behind his head, she cupped his hair and wound her fingers through his dark, rough locks, yanking at them slightly—telling him, without words, that she needed him, too.
Finally, their kiss broke. He shoved her away before grasping onto her shoulders, kneading at the bones with his firm fingers and looking at her with frustrated, angry eyes. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising sharply with each inhale.
“Jesus Christ, little intern,” he whispered, swiping his hand across her forehead and drawing her hair behind her ear. “How on fucking earth am I supposed to resist you?”
“You don’t have to,” Charlotte whispered, sounding childlike and inexperienced. “What happens in our apartment building, stays in our apartment building.”
Quentin’s eyes glittered, almost evilly. He lifted her, carrying her back to his apartment—reminding her, perhaps, that he couldn’t leave his daughter alone. Just in case. Once inside, he pressed his hands against the top of her chest and moved her into the foyer forcefully, taking the lead. He pressed her against the wall, kicking the door closed behind them in a flourish. Charlotte couldn’t breathe. She pressed her tongue against the top of her mouth, trying to focus, finding that small tears were building up in the corners of her eyes. Shock. Horror. Fantasy. Sexuality. It was all converging, in the here and now. And her pussy throbbed with desire for all of it.
Suddenly, Quentin brought his hands to the little dress she’d worn at the office that day, flicking his fingers over the buttons. He unbuttoned the top one, allowing the gleam of her ivory skin to protrude through. He knelt down and kissed that soft spot hungrily. His lips were warm, soft as they pressed down. Charlotte’s head bumped back, leaning heavily against the wall.
“Jesus. You taste amazing,” Quentin said gruffly. He unbuttoned the second, then the third button, revealing that she was no longer wearing a bra beneath her clothes—not after her little charade in the bathroom. His eyes glanced up as her breasts bounced from the dress. “You were wearing a bra today at work. I would have noticed if you weren’t.”
“What would you have done to me if I hadn’t been wearing one?” Charlotte whispered.
Quentin considered this, taking both of her breasts in his two hands, cradling them. He brought his firm thumb over the dark brown tips, rubbing at the tight button of the nipple, and then pressing down harder, more insistently.
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat.
“I would have punished you. Surely,” Quentin said then, his eyes flashing. “I would have brought you into my office and bent you over the desk. I would have forced you to pay for your crimes.” He unbuttoned the rest of the dress quickly, then, and allowed it to fall to the ground.
Charlotte shivered timidly, standing completely naked in front of her once-idol, now boss. Her mind raced with all the reasons she should be doing anything else. But the sexual tension between them was intense, passionate, sizzling with joint desire.
Quentin brought his hands to his belt, unbuckling it swiftly. The belt buckle flashed in the soft light of the moon.
“Do you want to see me?” he asked her, his voice confident, dark.
Charlotte nodded her head, still timid. She knelt on her knees, feeling like the groupie she’d always wanted to become and unzipped his pants. They fell slightly, before she eased them the rest of the way to his knees. She grabbed onto his boxers, becoming needier, and revealed the strength of his veiny, rock-hard cock as it pulsed into the air before her face. It was red and dominant and angry-looking and had probably fucked a hundred women before her, all without comprehension of their names. Loving the anonymity of becoming just another of Quentin’s women, Charlotte pressed her face forward, feeling Quentin’s firm hand on her head.
She wrapped her tongue around the tip of him, anxiety fueling her. She was inexperienced, youthful, frightened, like a rabbit. But with his groans from above, she knew she was moving correctly. She wrapped her tongue longingly once more, before slipping her lips lower on his shaft. She felt the veins of him, pulsing against the top of her mouth, and then she pushed further, pressing the tip of his staff against the back of her throat. Peering up at him, she watched as his eyes closed with zealous feeling; his shoulders slumped. He gave way to the power of her lips, with his hands still over her head, guiding her. Telling her. Showing her.
After several minutes, as she wrapped her tongue firmly around his cock and eased her slim fingers over his torso, grabbing onto his muscled back and abdomen. He suddenly eased her head back, leaning her against the wall. In a swift motion, he removed his shirt and shook out of his pants, lifting her into the air and carrying her toward a small chair in the living room. He draped her across the armrest, gazing at her figure, and running a single finger from her nose, down the trenches of her neck, past her chest, through her belly button, and then, finally, stopping at her wet heat.
With firm fingers, he opened her wet pussy lips, drawing out the pinkness of her. He knelt forward, his eyes still on her face, and then pressed his tongue against the top knob of her clit, before gliding down and pressing against the opening. Charlotte’s mind exploded in a chorus of emotion and feeling as he sucked and licked at her pussy. His tongue was soft, maneuvering gracefully, like he had done this countless times before.
Charlotte cried out, then, suddenly growing more desirous. She swept her legs wider, bringing her hands to his black hair and tugging it. He lifted his tongue from her insides, gazing up at her.
“Fuck me, baby,” she murmured. “I want your cock in me.”
In a flurry of motion, Quentin lifted himself, parting her pussy lips, and then pulsed the tip of his veiny, red cock against her wet, nourishing pink. With gruff, animalistic, ro
ck star action, he shoved himself as deep into her as he could, bringing the warmth of his chest over her firm breasts. She felt the tips of her nipples touch his chest in an explosion of feeling. She cried out, tossing her arms around his back and inserting her nails deep into his skin.
He made love to her, working at once like an animalistic, gruff rock star, and then occasionally as a loving, nurturing man who cared for her, who knew her. Their bodies became a single unit, working in a chorus beneath the heavy Upper West Side moonlight and listening to the parade of honking taxis outside.
After what seemed like a long, arduous time, Quentin knelt his head down, whispering into Charlotte’s ear, “I’m going to come. Come with me.”
Charlotte knew she could. She’d been hovering on the brink of orgasm for nearly a half hour, her head spiraling with emotion and pleasure. She nodded slowly, her eyes catching his. In a moment, she felt him pulsing within her. His head lifted, showing the soft side of his neck. He grunted, then cried out, and Charlotte joined him in falling through the many pitfalls of orgasm, her pink pussy lips at once wrapped tightly around his cock, and then loosening, then wrapping tightly once more. She felt a small tear slide down her cheek, falling into her hair.
Quentin kept his cock within her for a few seconds, gazing down at her, their bodies still joined. But slowly, he stood up, planting his large feet flat on the floor. He grew tall beside her, his shoulders muscled and broad. But she remained tiny, petite, tucked in the small chair, and wondering—panicked—if she’d just made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.
Chapter 8
In the moments that hung afterward, Charlotte felt as if time no longer existed, as if they would remain like this—Quentin gazing at her gleaming naked form for the rest of eternity. But the clock on the wall gave them away, ticking mindlessly toward two in the morning. Quentin exhaled gruffly, roughing his fingers through his dark, sex-crazed hair.
“I heard something today,” Charlotte said quietly, lifting herself from the small chair and gliding onto the couch, patting the side tentatively.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Quentin asked, his voice still broad and dominating, but finding more companionship with her after making love. He took two easy, long strides and then planted himself beside her on the couch, wrapping his muscled bicep around her small, bird neck. He cradled her.
“I heard there’s a no-fraternization policy at my new job,” Charlotte said playfully, blinking her eyes several times. “I heard that you’re not meant to sleep with your boss, that is.”
“Oh? And do you think that will be a struggle for you?” Quentin asked her, wrapping his hand around her large breast. He leaned to the side and kissed her neck, inhaling the scent of her.
“I think it might be,” Charlotte whispered playfully, her voice raspy. “You see, I think I’m really quite attracted to my boss.”
Her eyelids felt heavy with continued lust. She turned toward him, kissing him again, and sucking at his bottom lip. “But I don’t even think he knows I exist.”
After a moment of silence, of tension, Quentin knocked his head back in laughter. Charlotte joined him in raucous giggles, bringing her hand to the side couch pillow and hitting him playfully with it. This felt candid; this felt natural. Never, in all her years of listening to massive grunge band Orpheus Arise, had she imagined she’d be naked on a couch with Quentin McDonnell.
“I hardly know you,” Quentin said then, gazing into her dark eyes.
“That hasn’t stopped you before, has it?” Charlotte asked.
“I suppose not,” Quentin said, his eyes flashing. “But I assumed I’d grown out of that stage of my life. I thought I’d grown up. Grown old. Becoming a dad will do that to you. But then, I saw you at the office. And I knew—“ He stopped, hunting for words.
The air grew tight around them. Charlotte pulsed forward, drawing her thin arms around his neck. She felt closer to this man, in a million different ways, than she ever had with her ex-boyfriend from college—her only other romance. She was inexperienced, having been with only one guy. And she knew Quentin knew that, too.
“What did you know?” she finally whispered, hunting for it. She wanted him to say he knew he could fall in love with her. She wanted him to say he wanted to fuck her from the beginning, even. She just wanted the dirty talk to continue, playfully, darkly, into the night.
“I know one thing,” Quentin finally said, his voice growing gruffer. “I know that you need to get back to your apartment.”
Charlotte’s eyes quivered with sadness. She swallowed sharply, her shoulders slumping. “Really?”
He nodded firmly, drawing a line between them in the sand. He moved her legs from over his and found his own stance on the floor. With quick, muscled movements, he guided her back to the foyer, where they both dressed. He looked like a ragged version of his office persona, which caused Charlotte to want to thrust herself at him with more force. But she bit her lip, forcing herself to be quiet, to be demure.
“And this, of course, can’t happen again, Charlotte,” Quentin said, his eyes still glittering.
“I don’t believe you,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes casting toward the rug.
“You should,” Quentin insisted. “I don’t often lie about what my plans are. As my new employee, you’d do well to adhere to them.”
Charlotte rose onto her toes, graceful, like a ballerina. Her breasts bounced easily in the soft light. She forced herself to look up at him, even as he towered over her. He could break her like a stick, any second.
“I know where the door is,” she murmured.
The tension between them mounted, then. Quentin’s soft, kissable lips parted, searching for a final thing to say. Finally, she spun back toward the door, pulling it open and darting into the hallway, leaving him alone.
When she entered her apartment once more, a wide, manic smile formed across Charlotte’s face. She quivered with excitement, rushing to the bathroom mirror and gazing at her naked form, trying to see herself the way Quentin had seen her. Slight bruises had begun to form on her hips and abdomen, from his wild thrusting. These were her battle scars. She wished she could keep them forever.
Sometime after three at night, Charlotte fell asleep beneath the soft down comforter, stretched thin and naked and still quivering with lust. The last image in her brain was that of Quentin, telling her it could never happen again.
Her heart told a different story.
Chapter 9
Quentin couldn’t sleep when Charlotte left his apartment that night. His skin emanated her gorgeous scent, making his cock rise up beneath his sheets. The smoothness of her skin, her gorgeous, bouncing breasts, her thin, taut waist had all been there, in the palm of his hand, literally bowing to his every whim.
And he couldn’t have her again. He’d drawn the line in the sand. It had to be over between them. He couldn’t fuck up the delicate balance of the office, just to bend her over his office desk and part the achingly gorgeous lips of her pussy and dive, headfirst, into her.
That had been the old Quentin. The Quentin who’d ruined relationship after relationship. The Quentin who didn’t have a little girl to care for three or four days during the week, depending on her mother’s schedule. The Quentin who hadn’t brought MMM from the trenches and into the limelight, making it one of the top-tier music magazines of the current landscape. He was an editor. He was serious. He wasn’t cocaine-addled and sex-addicted. Not anymore.
And Charlotte had been a momentary weakness, a slight stain on his otherwise incredibly clean career.
His alarm clock blared out just after six, forcing his legs to the side of the bed. He leaned heavily against the palms of his hands, his nails dipping into his skin. Jesus, he was tired. When he’d been twenty-five, he’d once spent an entire week awake, hunting drugs and chicks, fucking when he felt too fatigued and taking shots to boost his energy. And he hadn’t collapsed at the end of it either, like some kind of medical invalid. He’d slept a hard si
x hours and then he’d gone at it again, like a dog. Constantly chewing the life out of his surroundings.
But now, with less than an hour or two of sleep, his thirty-six-year-old body felt fatigued and strung-out.
He rose, finally, and scrubbed at his naked form in the shower, fighting back his bad boy urges and trying to cleanse himself, mold himself back into the man he’d become. Not the man he yearned to be again.
Dressing in a black suit jacket and dark jeans, he bolted toward the kitchen, rustling together a small breakfast for Morgan. He knocked on her door with two sharp kicks of his knuckles and then heard her cry out.
“All right, Daddy! I’m coming!”
She didn’t sound exasperated, or angry, or weighted. She sounded ready to face the day.
“I set out your clothes for you. Do you see them?” he called.
“I don’t like this dress!” she cried back, through the door. “It’s too pink.”
“Look in your closet, then,” he answered, cracking the door open. He caught a view of his pajama-clad daughter’s shadow, rubbing at her eyes. “Just pick a different shirt.”
“Oh, I want to wear the Iggy Pop shirt,” Morgan said, leaping toward her wardrobe. She burst open the top drawer, digging through the perfectly aligned shirts, most of which were band-related.
“You can’t dress her like this,” her mom, Kate, had said once. “She’s going to grow up and do a ton of drugs.”
“Just because she knows who Iggy Pop and Nirvana are?” Quentin had asked, incredulous. “That’s culture, Kate. Or maybe you somehow forgot your roots, as well. I seem to remember you in the front row of many, many of my shows…”
This had, of course, pissed her off. The Iggy Pop shirt had stayed in the collection, along with the other band ones. And Morgan had become the “cool” kid at school—the one who talked lovingly about Kurt Cobain and Woodstock and music-related memories that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. And it would only get more interesting as she grew older.