by Kira Blakely
“Again! Again!” she cried out, laughing hysterically.
Quentin twirled her the opposite direction, causing his own head to begin a wayward spin. He saw black and red dots flurry his vision, and he couldn’t help but give her a crazed smile, allowing the stress of the day to fall from his shoulders.
The doorbell always rang at the wrong time. He set his daughter back on the carpet, still giggling outrageously, and then walked casually toward the front door, mentally preparing himself for his ex-wife. He pressed his lips together evenly and then cracked the door, looking sternly toward the tall, blonde, bone-thin woman before him, whose cheekbones seemed like knives.
“Hey there, Q,” Kate said softly, tilting her slight form. Her gaze danced behind Quentin’s back, assessing the apartment. “I smell Chinese.”
Quentin opened the door a bit wider, his heart lurching with anger. “I made sure she didn’t have anything bad or fattening. She just ordered fried air.”
Kate entered, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor. She was sculpted from clay, maybe, with refined leg muscles, peeping beneath a leather skirt. Quentin couldn’t blame himself for being so head-over-heels for her, as a younger man. But now, to him, she reeked of something off-color. Something evil.
“Ha,” she laughed, waiting. “Honey? It’s Mom.”
Morgan stomped into the room, then, with her coat unzipped and on, and her backpack bouncing. She frowned, her eyebrows coming together in the center. “Mom, did you get the piano tuned yet?” she asked, sounding outrageous and tired.
Kate turned her head swiftly toward Quentin, her eyebrows rising. “She always gets this way when you feed her bad food.”
“Ugh. That means no,” Morgan sighed, rushing toward her. She gave her a lackluster hug and then collapsed in a dining room chair, her legs bouncing up and down.
“Honey, I told you I would get it done soon, and I meant that,” Kate said, sighing. “I have a lot going on right now. And it’s only slightly out of tune.”
“You don’t have an ear for music,” Morgan said, sounding snotty.
Secretly, Quentin’s heart soared with pleasure. He promised himself to take Morgan out for ice cream again, next time he saw her. But he pressed his lips together, creating a show. “Hey, now. You know you can practice on that piano. This isn’t the end of your life. And your mother’s doing the best she can.”
“I’ll never survive being the non-musician between us,” Kate said begrudgingly. Turning her head swiftly toward Quentin, she asked, “Hey. Do you mind if we talk privately for a few minutes?”
“Oh. Of course,” Quentin said, swiping his arm toward the bedroom, guiding her. As an aside, he told Morgan, “Watch TV till we’re back, squirt.”
“No! It makes it difficult for her to sleep,” Kate sighed, already giving up. She watched as Morgan raced into the television room, her tennis shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. “Damn, Q. You really do win the cool dad award.”
“Ha,” Quentin said. He sat on the bed, drawing comfort and looked up at his ex-wife, trying to find some kind of recognition in her eyes. Did she remember that they’d fucked all night, when they’d first met? Did she remember that they’d actually created that human out there together, that this hadn’t always been the plan?
But how could it be any other way? Kate was cold, almost calculated in her parenting scheme, and although she usually took Quentin into account when deciding things for Morgan, she often did it with a grimace, as if she couldn’t understand why on earth he was still around. Shouldn’t he have died of a heroin overdose by now? Shouldn’t he have married some dimwit model and gone to live on a tropical island? Why on earth was he responsible? These were all things he imagined she thought about him, daily, as he continued to complicate her world.
“So. What did you want to talk about?” Quentin asked her.
Kate stood, pin-straight, and clasped her hands together.
“Is it about Morgan?” Quentin asked then, suddenly alarmed. “She went to the doctor last week. Did anything—“
“No, no,” Kate answered firmly. “Morgan is healthy as ever. She could use a cold to put her in her place.” She grimaced. “Sorry. Of course, I don’t mean that.”
“You can joke time and again, if you want,” Quentin said, flashing a smile. “It suits you.”
“Ah, well. Joking’s never been my strength. You know that.” She smiled, showing how beautiful she was. Her eyes twinkled. “The truth is, I met someone. Someone who might become very, very serious. Someone I’m considering introducing to Morgan, and even having move in after a while. And I wanted you to know.”
“Wow,” Quentin breathed, unsure how to feel. His mind raced with a million different responses, none of them completely sincere. “Well, congratulations, I suppose.”
“Right. Thank you,” Kate answered, her voice prim. “I think I’ll introduce him to Morgan in the next few days, if it’s all the same to you. He’s a Wall Street guy, but a big lover of kids. A bit older than me. Forty-five.”
“Even more mature than myself, then,” Quentin said lightly, laughing.
“Ha. Says the man who missed his own daughter’s birth,” Kate said, choosing the first thing she could think of and trying to make a joke of it.
Quentin hesitated. Anger didn’t fuel him, now. Just sadness. Just an ache of loneliness, perhaps.
“I’m sorry. You’ve more than made up for it since then,” Kate said softly, rubbing her cheeks. “I think I’m just nervous, telling you this. I don’t know why. Our love died just about the time it started. But I want this to be different. This time. I might even want more kids. I’m not sure. And that will affect you, and it will affect Morgan, and I just want to be really proper about how I do this. That’s all.”
Quentin stood evenly on his socked feet, remembering what Morgan had said about Charlotte. Pretty, like Mom used to be. But Kate was still quite gorgeous. And she was still trying, out there in the world. She was fighting for love and emotion and experiences.
Why wasn’t he?
“Thank you for telling me,” Quentin answered finally, bowing his head. “It means the world. And you already know that Morgan will take to him, whoever he is. She loves everyone. She’s open to everything.”
“You’re right,” Kate answered. “I know you are. I don’t know why I’m so anxious. But really—” She paused, giving him a meaningful look. “Really, I was wondering about you. You’re on your feet, now. Mature. An editor-in-chief, for god’s sake. The best father Morgan could ask for. And I wanted to know when you were thinking about moving on.”
“On? As if I’m still pent up about you?” Quentin asked her, his voice teasing.
“No, of course not,” Kate said, hesitantly. “I just mean, have a meaningful relationship for once. Actually take it beyond the one-night stand, if you even do that anymore. I sense a loneliness about you.”
Quentin stood abruptly, his heart revving with sudden anger. How dare his ex-wife come into his apartment and tell him he “seemed lonely”? He pointed toward the door, trying to force words. “I think we should get back to Morgan. Enough about me. And enough about what’s-his-name, the prince from Wall Street. Need I remind you, my business isn’t yours unless it affects Morgan.”
Kate’s face grew gray. She recognized she’d crossed a line. Her heels clicked across the large bedroom and back into the hallway. Quentin’s anger receded; he forced himself to take long, easy breaths. He placed his hand across his daughter’s head, alerting her it was time to go. She snapped the television off and joined them at the door, feeling the tension in the air.
“Good night, Daddy,” she murmured, yanking him down to her and kissing him on the cheek with tight lips. “I love you.”
Quentin snapped the door closed behind them, frustration brimming within him. He hadn’t been alone in at least four days, always with Morgan pattering around the apartment or tinkling the keys. Now, the place felt cathedral-like, far too large for one man
. He bounded toward the piano, a place at which he sought solace, and began to ram out his frustration, feeling a new song begin to coil from his fingers.
And as he played, as he tinkered, as his creativity grew, he saw a single face in his mind’s eye.
Charlotte.
God, kissing her in his kitchen earlier had tugged at his cock, pressing the ridge hard against his jeans and giving him flashbacks to being inside her tight, almost virginal pussy. Its pink walls had crushed into his pulsing, veiny, rock-hard member before accepting it in a flurry of wetness.
God, he wanted her. He could feel her physical form, moving just a few doors down. How her eyes had pleaded with him to keep her, to hold her, just before she’d gone home. He’d only known her a day and a half, but already it seemed he was under her spell. He’d never fallen this fast or this seriously. He’d never felt such impenetrable lust.
“Fuck,” he cried out, slamming his fingers against the keys. His ex-wife felt sorry for him, using words like “loneliness.” And maybe he was lonely. He wanted someone by his side who he legally couldn’t have. And he knew what it would look like, taking Charlotte as his girl. It would look predatory. It would negate her entire professional career.
But it was exactly what he wanted. It was the only thing he could focus on.
Chapter 15
After nearly an hour, positioned against the door, her nose buried between her knees and her heart pushing somewhere beneath her stomach with stress and sadness, Charlotte finally convinced herself she needed to go to bed. She was being foolish, feeling her thoughts churn in a meaningless circle, always coming back to the same thing.
Charlotte and Quentin couldn’t be together. It was against the clause in the contract. And it was against her morals, along with everything she’d ever worked for. If she moved up in the ranks at MMM and became an actual music writer, she wanted to do it on her own merit. She didn’t want to feel the disgust glittering back to her in her co-writers’ eyes.
But how could she avoid him?
In that moment, she heard a knock on her door. Still leaning against it, she felt the vibrations of the almost angry, volatile knock up and down her spine. She lifted herself, feeling anxious, her heart fluttering like a rabbit’s. Pressing her top teeth into her lower lip, she wrapped her hand around the golden knob, waiting. Hoping. Once she opened the door, she knew she’d never be able to come back.
She felt his sigh on the other side of the door. Immediately, her pussy loosened. Blood pulsed around her shoulders and thighs and stomach, causing her head to roll back slightly with desire. Her lips parted. She unlocked the door and cracked it open slowly, watching as the shadowed form of Quentin appeared before her, as if planted there, awaiting her decision for years.
His face looked brooding, dark, almost angry. There wasn’t time for talking. He burst forward and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her into the air. She felt herself lifted, unable to protest. He kissed her passionately, there on her stoop, and then fled back to his apartment, still with his lips locked over hers. She closed her eyes, feeling her chest press up against his. She felt the abrupt push of the door behind him as he slammed it, locking her in his apartment with him. The once-family atmosphere had changed completely, putting in its place a stern, insistent, over-sexual feel.
Their desire for one another couldn’t wait.
Quentin shoved her up on the kitchen counter. He dove into her neck, kissing and then sucking at her skin, causing her to toss her head back. Her hair wound in curls down her back, almost all the way to her ass. Grasping her buttocks, he lifted her, then slipped her black leggings down to her knees, revealing her tender, kissable legs.
Bending down, he exhaled warmly between her thighs, gazing down at her perfect, peach lips. He stripped the leggings from her feet, one by one, and then allowed his tongue to release, drawing a line from the inside of her knee, all the way to her wet pussy. Sensing his impending tongue, Charlotte lifted her legs high, pressing her feet on either side of her, on the countertop. But he toyed with her, poising, silent, in front of her silky, wet pussy, its lips parting, opening into soft, gorgeous darkness.
“Do you want this, Charlotte?” he asked her gruffly.
Charlotte hesitated. Countless questions flashed through her mind. But she nodded, almost imperceptibly, feeling warm, anxious, needy. “Fuck me, Quentin,” she whispered. “Please.”
Quentin dove into her, his tongue parting the lips of her pinkness, drawing out the warmth and the silky wetness, causing her eyes to close. A soft moan escaped her mouth. She reached upward, removing her black V-neck evenly, along with her bra, which she tossed across the kitchen. Her nipples pierced the air, looking like brown daggers. She grabbed them tightly, crying out as Quentin’s tongue dipped further within her. She began to quiver, unable to control her desire. His face grew coated in her lustful wetness.
Moments before she was about to come, as her pussy began to pulse with impending release, Quentin halted his tongue. He stood upright, gazing into her eyes, and then pushed his face into hers, sucking at her lip. He maneuvered his thick hands around her waist, and then he flipped her over, bringing her ass outward on the countertop. She cried out in surprise, and then poised herself, expectantly, listening as Quentin ripped his belt from his jeans and unzipped himself. She could feel the heat of his rock-hard, pulsing member across her thighs and on the curvature of her ass.
From behind, Quentin pressed his fingers against her labia, finding space for his thick staff. He pressed two fingers deep within, easing them against the pillow softness of her G-spot. Having been so close to sexual release moments before, Charlotte’s pussy pulsed against his fingers, becoming another organism, a separate entity. She cupped her breasts with her fingers, wanting to cry out to him again. His patience was destroying her.
Finally, he lifted his rock-hard staff, pressing the tip into the pink, silky slit, which swallowed it, and then grew full with him. His large, perfect balls hung beneath, and, in a moment of intense pleasure, Charlotte rose up on her knees and reached back, arching her spine, and cupped them, toying with them. Quentin let out a great moan, before drawing his lips toward hers and kissing her. He held his cock within her, up to the hilt, not moving for several seconds. The juice and life of their kiss seemed to ignite new emotion within her heart.
Each time they fucked, it felt like the first time.
Quentin began to fuck her, hard, then, shoving his member deep within her and then drawing out slightly, causing her to gasp with surprise. He lifted his hand around her thigh, pressing his finger against the top knob of her pussy.
After several minutes, the orgasm throttled itself through Charlotte’s body, causing her stomach to clench and release. Her pussy wrapped tightly around Quentin’s cock, fueling through intense waves of pleasure, before leaving her gasping, her hands splayed across the countertop.
With the intensity of her pussy’s pulsing, Quentin’s solid cock found release, as well, caught up in the emotion of Charlotte. The ridge of him pushed as far into her wet softness as possible, until he, too, came in a flurry of pleasure. His eyes closed; he rested his cheek against Charlotte’s back. And he wrapped his arms firmly around her body, cupping her breasts.
They gasped together, finding their breath. He eased his member from her pink lips, turning her toward him on the countertop. He kissed her gruffly, with exhaustion, and then whispered into her ear, “Sleep here tonight.”
All the rules were off.
She nodded slightly, unable to think her decision all the way through. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she felt herself carried there, lightly, as if splayed on a cloud. He wrapped her in sheets and a comforter, and then undressed himself, lying beside her and sliding his fingers through hers. They didn’t have words for what they’d done or for the decision they’d made. They simply allowed their eyes to close, without embarrassment. And they fell asleep, diving into a kind of dream world, not conscious of what they would face in the m
orning.
Chapter 16
The phone call came at around four in the morning. Quentin’s phone buzzed from the kitchen counter. The familiar noise jostled him awake, atop his cloud-like bed, with his arms around Charlotte, who smelled angelic, like lavender. He inhaled a final scent of her before lifting his legs gently from beneath the sheets and walking, naked, toward the kitchen. The air was eerie and ghost-like, as it was just before dawn. He shivered, wishing he’d put on clothes. Fall was coming on fast.
When he saw who was calling him, panic immediately flooded his veins. He grasped the phone.
“Kate. What’s going on?” His words were harsh, raspy. He found it difficult to breathe.
“It’s Morgan,” Kate cried. “We’re at the hospital. I don’t know. She woke me up. She was having trouble breathing.”
“What the fuck?” Quentin breathed, leaning heavily against the counter. He felt his knees might give way beneath him, sending him to the ground.
“The doctors are saying it’s an allergic reaction to something,” Kate continued, sounding hysterical. “They’re doing more tests right now. You didn’t give her anything—anything she’s—”
“She’s not allergic to anything!” Quentin cried, pounding his fist on the counter. “We’ve had all those fucking tests. And they said—”
“Kids change, Q,” Kate whispered. “Just get here as soon as you can, all right? They’re going to put her back to sleep, soon, and run more tests. It’s been… well… it’s been a hideous hour.”
“I’m on my way,” Quentin said curtly. He smashed the phone down and sped toward his bedroom, where he slipped an old grunge band T-shirt over his torso, donned boxers, and a pair of jeans. Then he turned to face Charlotte, a glittering, slumbering angel between his sheets.
Fuck. This was all happening at the worst possible time. His emotions for this gorgeous girl seemed to recede, like the tide, replaced with his panic. What was he doing? He had to get to the hospital. He had to focus on being a father, an editor. He couldn’t involve himself with this girl.