Trouble

by Kira Blakely

  As they took their time, Quentin’s eyes drew across the table, making penetrative, intense eye contact with Charlotte. As she’d walked to the conference room, she’d unbuttoned a single top button, revealing the darkness between her breasts. She looked at him bleary-eyed, as if she peered out from beneath his bed sheets.

  The men from the street wear store spoke the language of stoners, making a meeting that should have lasted just twenty minutes into over an hour. Randy, Pamela, and the other girl—Emily?—took notes evenly on a notebook, while Charlotte watched on, her chin centered upon her fist and her elbow on the table.

  Finally, after a long pause, just before wrapping up the deal, Charlotte banged her fist upon the table. The other interns turned toward her, panic-stricken. But her lips parted, proving her brain had been whirling all along.

  “I just don’t think the copy’s good enough,” she said then, her voice still timid, but holding truth.

  Quentin peered at the street wear design, with its slogan: Street whore.

  “It’s a play on words,” one of the owners told Charlotte, his thick eyebrow rising high. “Don’t you get it, or you need me to explain it to you?”

  Charlotte’s cheeks grew hot. After a moment of panic, she righted herself, glaring at him. “I have a better one. Want to hear it?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “We’ll wear you out,” she said. “It’s sexy. And it’s not name-calling, like yours is. I think it would look better with the photo you chose, as well.”

  There was a long pause, with the two owners of the street wear company pulsing their heads together and whispering. One of them was hear saying, gruffly, “Man, she’s right. We could get flack for that name-calling.”

  “Let’s just take it. I want this to be over with.”

  They parted and looked at her as if she were a marketing angel, a guru. One shrugged, beginning to roll up his advertisement mock-up. “I think we can agree on that.”

  “Sure. Fuck it,” the other one said. “And we’ll pay what you asked, since you threw in some creative.”

  They turned toward the door, both of them shaking Quentin’s hand before they sped out. As they shifted at the elevator, the team watched as they slid sunglasses over their eyes with a dramatic, swishing motion, bowing their heads at the ding of the arriving elevator.

  “Jesus, those guys were a piece of work,” Quentin said, rising from his chair and leaning heavily against the table, his fingers spread out. His eyes ticked from Randy, to Charlotte, to Pamela, to Emily, and then to Maggie, before drawing back to Charlotte. He assessed her, recognizing that she was even more than he’d bargained for.

  “Charlotte, honey, what you did back there,” Maggie began. “It was out of line. It wasn’t approved by any kind of committee on our end. And what if it didn’t align with our brand?”

  “But it did,” Quentin stated. “She saw how shitty their design was, and she offered a solution. That’s what you have to do in this business. Quick thinking. I appreciate a mind like that.” His nostrils flared. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to see you in my office.”

  “All of us?” Pamela piped up, lifting her notebook from the table. Her knees creaked.

  “Perhaps later, Pamela. But just now, only Charlotte. Thanks,” Quentin said, taking swift steps toward the door. He listened as Charlotte lifted her thin frame from the chair, allowing her heels to clatter onto the floor. She followed him slowly, almost as if she were walking to her death.

  In some ways, Quentin thought then, any new beginning was a small death of all that came before. They couldn’t have planned for this intense attraction. But perhaps they could make the best of it.

  Chapter 10

  Quentin clipped the door to his office closed, behind Charlotte, giving them the first moment of privacy since he’d left her alone the night before. Casually, he closed the blinds of his office with a swift flick of his wrist, eliminating all prying eyes.

  “Why did you do that?” Charlotte asked, her voice now a whisper.

  Quentin crossed his firm forearms over his chest and stood, feet wide apart. He still towered over her. “Why do you think I did it?”

  “I don’t want anyone to talk about us,” Charlotte murmured. “And you’re the one who said it would never happen again.”

  “That’s right. And I meant what I said,” Quentin said. His dark, brooding eyes seemed to pound into her skull. She blinked several times, unable to handle their intensity. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  In the silence that followed, Charlotte sat primly in the chair across from his, watching him with cat-like interest as he poised himself in his normal chair. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, wanting to choose words that would ignite nerves within her. He wanted to control her, completely.

  “Did you choose that dress because you knew I would like it?” he asked her, gesturing to her breasts, almost spilling from the black fabric.

  Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She swept her hands to her tits and cupped them, seeming like a rabbit, wanting to hide. “No—no. It’s just a dress. Nothing to attract, nor detract attention.”

  “I would beg to differ. I would beg to differ on many accounts.” He lifted his notebook from his desk drawer, writing her name at the top. “Charlotte isn’t a name you hear so often, now, is it? An old-fashioned name. Something a grandmother would have.”

  “Do you think of grandmothers when you think of me?” Charlotte asked him.

  Quentin sniffed, smiling grandly to himself. “You’re a clever little one, aren’t you? I didn’t expect it. You don’t present yourself as such, initially.”

  “Maybe you’re just too attracted to my tits to notice my intelligence,” Charlotte said, although not unkindly. “Of course, that’s your reputation, isn’t it? An over-sexed rock star. I read about you in my MMM when I was a teenage girl. I daydreamed about fucking you, albeit in vague terms. I didn’t know much about fucking then. Not like I know now.” Her eyes danced with meaning.

  Quentin tilted his head sideways, his heart jolting against his chest. He could feel his manhood pressing firmly, with more insistence, at his pant crotch. He knew she was bluffing and could sense her inexperience the night before. He cleared his throat, wanting to guide them away from this dangerous topic. He knew he couldn’t resist her much longer.

  “Tell me about your career, then,” he said. “Your aspirations. Why you’re here.”

  Charlotte’s mouth hung open for a moment, shocked at the non-intimate, boss-like question. She stuttered into the words. “Well—um. I didn’t expect—“

  “You didn’t expect me to take an interest in your career?” he asked her, smiling. “I can already sense that you have a way with words. That copy you spit out for the street wear guys back there. That was good shit. Really was.”

  “Maggie was none too pleased.”

  “She’s never pleased about anything.” He sensed he was making her happy, complimenting her on her work. It was well-deserved, sure. But why did it make him so content to please her? Never, in any of his past relationships, had he bent over backward for a female. They’d always bent for him.

  “Well, I have to please her. She’s technically my boss. And I don’t think she’ll take kindly to many more one-on-one meetings between us.”

  “Charlotte, it’s my magazine. I make the rules, here.”

  “And the no-fraternization policy? You made that up, too?” Her eyes were like those of a deer, peering at him as he barreled his car toward it on a dark road at night.

  Quentin clenched his jaw tightly, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. “I did. But I did it for a very good reason.”

  Silence hung between them for a moment. Quentin cleared his throat. “Anyway. You majored in writing, correct?”

  “Creative writing. But as I told you and your daughter, music has been a part of my life for a long time. I’ve been studying MMM for years and then found it grew in leaps and bounds when you took over as editor tw
o years ago. I was amazed at your writing capabilities.”

  “Especially since you knew about my past,” Quentin finished, gruffly.

  “Especially that, yes,” Charlotte murmured.

  “How can I help you become a good writer here? How can I guide your—shall we say—professional development?” Quentin slid his fingers through his black hair. His cock became more insistent, pushing up against his boxers.

  Charlotte stood, then. Her breasts were taut against the low-cut fabric, revealing that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her eyes danced with lust. She took a single step to the side of the desk, leaning heavily against the wood, taking a similar stance as Maggie had, just a bit before. Quentin’s reaction couldn’t have been more different.

  “I don’t want to sleep with you for favors,” Charlotte answered quietly, her voice sultry. “I don’t play like that. I work for what I get. I know I can fight to be a writer at this office, without your guiding hand.”

  Suddenly, she sat on his lap, straddling his waist, with her crotch pressed tightly against the mound of him. Quentin’s eyes closed immediately as she began to rub her clothed pussy against his aching cock, her nose a mere two inches from his.

  “I think I know what you mean,” Quentin whispered gruffly. “You want to do this on your own.” He lifted his lips toward hers, kissing her insistently. He sucked on her bottom lip, inhaling the scent of her. “Jesus, you’re going to drive me wild.”

  Her eyes shone down at him, holding such meaning. She brought her hands down to his belt buckle, unstrapping it, and then sliding the leather snake out from the belt loops with a flourish. She kissed him again, faster this time. He pressed his tongue against her lips and parted them roughly, tracing her tongue with his. Charlotte pressed more firmly on his manhood with her crotch and then brought her hands to his pants buttons, undoing them swiftly, and yanking the pants to his knees. Immediately, his pulsing, rock-hard staff sprung from between his legs, standing nearly nine inches long and thick as her fist. She sighed evenly, leaning heavily against the desk behind her, gazing at it with loving, lust-filled eyes.

  Charlotte placed her legs atop his shoulder blades and watched as he eased her tights from her legs, then yanked her panties to her ankles. Their smells mixed around them. She parted her legs wildly, allowing her pussy lips to part. He placed a firm finger at the top ridge of her, rubbing at the knot, and watching as her eyes closed in intense pleasure.

  “Fuck,” she whispered, biting her bottom lip. “Rub it. Harder. Faster.”

  But Quentin rose up on his feet, then, and pushed her back further on the desk. He forced her legs wider, feeling his animalistic instincts take over. After feeling the wetness of her intimate lips, he parted them swiftly with two fingers, and then pressed the edge of his cock against the center. Charlotte’s eyes closed tightly, awaiting the pain and pleasure of his member.

  Slowly, achingly, Quentin pushed his pulsing, rock-hard member deep within her, feeling the wetness of her, allowing his mind to bend backward in time. After three or four firm, even, easy pulses within her, he grew more insistent, fucking her hard against the desk.

  The antique desk was situated on a rug beneath them, meaning that it didn’t squeak against the wooden floor. For this, Quentin was grateful.

  Charlotte lifted both legs over Quentin’s shoulders, giving him a gorgeous view of her bouncing tits and her taut belly. He turned his head slightly, kissing her ankle, her foot. His eyes clenched tightly, feeling waves of passion throttle through him.

  Surprisingly, he’d never fucked at his desk before. But god, the power trip felt amazing. Why hadn’t he done this a million times before? Why didn’t he bang out every single intern, strip Maggie against the desk, make his way through the office?

  Because that wasn’t him anymore.

  Because Charlotte was different.

  Quentin knelt down, then, and kissed her in a fit of intense desire. He felt sweat falling down his forehead, pooling with the sweat on her chest. He whispered into her ear, “I think I’m going to come. Come with me.”

  Why did he always want her to come with him? That had never been a thing for him before. He’d always been selfish, desiring only his own pleasure.

  Charlotte nodded quickly, her eyes dancing. “I’m ready.”

  Finally, Quentin allowed himself to be free. With her insides pulsing hard against him, his rock-hard member burst with intense release, causing him to cry out in surprise. He felt himself press hard against the pillow of her G-spot. She cried out similarly, gasping, her eyes filling with sudden tears.

  “Jesus Christ,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around Quentin’s neck and suddenly pulling him close. “Fuck. That was amazing.”

  Quentin didn’t have words for it. He couldn’t possibly comprehend such a beautiful, sexual experience. Outside, Manhattan continued to struggle past, with cars beeping and humans bolting across streets and deadlines coming and going. But his chest, thrust up upon the breasts of his new intern, spoke a different truth.

  Was he falling for her?

  Suddenly, he stood and lifted his pants to his waist, buttoning them swiftly. He sniffed, swiping his hands through his black hair and adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. Silence hung between them as they regrouped, as they found their bearings.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but I’m going to have to cut our meeting a bit short,” he said gruffly. “I have a meeting with The Morning Stars about yesterday’s interview, at a bar up the road.”

  “Are you re-working the article?” Charlotte asked, suddenly interested. She bounced from her stance on his desk and clothed herself once more, blinking brightly, like a child at school.

  “Not quite sure yet,” Quentin said, his eyes growing dark. Was she trying to weasel into his article, now? But didn’t she have incredible insight on this stuff?

  Would giving her a chance to be at the fresh interview be giving her a boost in the right direction, career-wise? But would it be warranted, as they’d slept together twice?

  These were the very questions he hadn’t want to face when he’d issued the no-fraternization policy. Fucking too much had fucked him up as a rock star. Guidelines. Basic rules. These were the things that made him thrive in a professional environment.

  “Alright. Well, I’ll get out of your hair,” Charlotte murmured, suddenly understanding she’d overstayed her welcome. She stabbed her feet into her shoes, giving him an injured animal look, and then fled the office, bringing his sexual scent with her. She clipped the door closed, leaving Quentin to slump down into his chair, feeling vaguely defeated.

  “Fuck,” Quentin breathed. He eased his cheeks into his hands, smelling the scent of her pussy on his fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  A knock on his door sprung him out of his reverie.

  “Come in!” he called.

  Maggie opened the door, peering in. Her eyes were dark, like a wild animal’s. “Can I talk to you, boss?”

  “I have to get going, Mags,” Quentin said softly. “The Morning Star assholes are waiting for me up the road.”

  “I have loads of spreads I need you to look at,” Maggie said, her voice softening with the nickname. He’d been calling her “Mags” off and on since they’d met each other ten years before. “You took quite a long time with that new intern. The brunette one.”

  “Sure,” Quentin said, trying to sound blasé. “I think she has pretty good ideas.”

  “It was just a fucking advertisement, Q. I think she needs to learn when to talk in turn.”

  “When has anyone ever gotten anywhere talking in turn?” Quentin asked her, rising from his chair and leaning against his desk, still feeling the warmth from Charlotte’s body. “In fact, I might remember you talking out of turn earlier this morning.”

  Maggie’s face grew red, startled. She bowed her chin slowly, clearly simmering with embarrassment. “I wanted to apologize about that. It was unnecessary and out of line. I’m—”

  “No need,” Quentin sa
id, raising his hand. “Just don’t question my actions regarding these interns again. I want to be more involved with them. Give them a streamlined route to a professional life. Something I really didn’t have as a twenty-something, if you remember.”

  Quentin left his office, then, and sped down the road, toward the Upper West Side, his shoes flashing black against the sidewalk. He was amazed at how easily he’d lied to Maggie about his decisions to “guide” the interns. Back in his twenties, he’d been an impeccable liar, scarcely able to remember what the truth was after telling a lie once or twice. He’d resolved to give this up as a parent—as a proper “adult.”

  But the lie of his affair with Charlotte was beginning to grow very, very sweet on his tongue. He could lie about “not sleeping with her” for years, as long as he was allowed that sweet, pulsing pussy. He lifted his chin high in the air, feeling the darkness of his youth descend upon him, wholly.

  He was fucking Quentin McDonnell. He wasn’t just some dad, ready to end his life in an easy chair. He was akin to the Morning Star rockers, with a very basic, very stark difference. He wasn’t a sad, aging rocker. He was a yearned-for, wanted editor of a major music magazine.

  In many ways, this was the coveted next step of his sexual life. He couldn’t very well walk like a zombie through the rest of his life, a la the Rolling Stones. He was moving up. He was educated. He had sexual prowess.

  And fuck, if he could get away with it, he would move on Charlotte as many times as she allowed it: that gorgeous, virginal woman, who talked a big game. Quentin could smell how much she wanted him.

  Chapter 11

  The rest of the day at the office, Charlotte sat in waves of panic at her desk, feeling her shoulders slump. She’d broken the no-fraternization clause once more, and, worst of all, she recognized that she was growing linked to Quentin in ways that he probably couldn’t understand, as a man over ten years her senior and far more experienced.