by Dani Stowe
Walking into Nick’s office, I see he’s gone. Heading over to the Bank, Charlotte’s feet come into view. They’re tied with her legs spread wide open.
As I enter the room, she sees me.
“Oh thank God! Mr. Nine,” she pants. “Can you help me?”
I find myself slowing my pace as I approach her. I’m ogling her thin white lace panty that shows her slit through.
“Mr. Nine,” she blurts. “I swear this is not what it looks like. Mr. Rohr—Nick and I got into an argument. We knew each other back in high school and, I don’t know what came over me, but we got into a bit of a scuffle and he put me in here and then left. Can you untie me?”
My approach lags purposefully and my fingers are slow to fumble at her ankles. Nick strapped her in tight and I’m enjoying seeing her squirm much more than I thought I would. Perhaps it's not too late to take the pill.
I pause.
“Mr. Nine!” Charlotte calls out, but I don’t turn to her. I’m a little tired of her calling me by the wrong name, which is just a nickname given to us by some of our closest friends. Maybe I should tell her who I really am and then take the pill and see what happens.
“Mr. Ni-ine,” Charlotte calls again with a crack in her voice. Looking up at her face, I notice a pout on her bottom lip. It’s the same pout she used to give me whenever I tried to show her any of my bugs when we were younger.
I sigh and go back to untying her other leg. “So, I take it you’re not planning on staying with NIM.”
“Absolutely not.”
When I get to her wrists, I push a button at each cuff, releasing her arms.
“Is that all I had to do was push a button?”
“Yep,” I nod.
“No keys?”
“No keys.”
Her face falls flat, but I know it's not because she feels aloof from not being able to free herself. It’s because she’s disappointed I knew how the handcuffs worked.
I force a smile. “Listen, Charlotte. Can I offer to take you home?”
She slides her legs together and leans up, dropping her legs off the edge of the bed to sit up. She sits there for a minute rubbing one wrist and then the other.
I’m surprised. I thought she’d run away by now.
She sighs running her fingers through her hair.
Fuck, I want to pull that hair. I slip my hand in my pocket.
“That’s the thing.” She turns to face me with a phony smile. Her eyes are getting teary. “I don’t have a home to go home to.”
“Where are you staying?”
“NIM put me up in a hotel, but I’m sure when I walk into Human Resources and tell them I’m quitting, I won’t be able to stay there.”
“You could stay at my place if you need to. I have an extra room or two or three, actually.”
She chuckles. “That’s very nice, Mr. Nine, but I probably should find a way to get back to my parents’ home. Can you believe I’m thirty years old and I still live with my parents? And I have to sleep on the couch. I burned our house down when I was in high school and they can only afford a one-bedroom apartment now. Oh God,” she whines, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You must think I’m such a dork.”
“Honestly, I think you’re spectacular, and I happen to like dorks. I used to be one as a kid.”
She squints at me with suspicion.
“How about this?” I take a big breath and exhale slowly, pulling my hand—empty—out of my pocket. “How about I take you back to the hotel. You freshen up and get dressed. I’d like to take you out to dinner so I can share a proposal I have for you.”
“Proposal?” She stands and crosses her arms. “Mr. Nine, I don’t know what type of girl you think I am, but I’m not going to sleep with you just because you’re some billionaire—”
“Millionaire,” I correct. “Nick’s a billionaire.”
She gulps. “Whatever. I’m not into indecent proposals or any of that type of kinky shit.”
“Charlotte,” I chortle, “I swear that’s not the kind of proposal I’m going to make. And if you decline what I’m proposing, I will send you back to your parents. I will even pay for your flight. So, what do you say?”
Charlotte’s eyes gravitate to the floor where her feet tap and she sways. She’s nervous. “Just dinner?”
“Just dinner so you can hear my proposal. That’s all I’m asking.”
She cocks a brow. “How do I know you’re not going to try anything inappropriate? How do I know you’re not like Nick?”
I smile. “Would you trust our good friend, Mr. Elliot Crowe?”
“Ye-Yeah,” she stutters.
“Then, you can trust me.”
Chapter 9
Charlotte
Elliot Crowe.
I lean out of the bubble filled tub and reach for my phone. It’s been a few years since I did a search on Elliot. I used to search his name all the time between boyfriends. There are tons of pictures of him with the original NIM squad after they took possession of Nick’s father’s company.
I type Elliot’s name into the search bar, but no new images reveal themselves. It’s just the same old photos from a decade ago. The four them—the geeks, they looked so happy like they were about to take on the world. And they did.
In high school, my mother used to tell me I should let Elliot take me on a date, although he never asked me and looking back, I probably would’ve declined if he did ask. That would’ve been social suicide back then. But Mom kept trying. She’d call him over now and then to help her fix a thing or two. Elliot wasn’t just smart with bugs, he knew how to screw in a pipe or two and mom loved that. She said she loved a man who could take care of things. “Contrary to what the Bible teaches,” Mom used to say, “geeks, not the meek, are going to inherit this earth.”
I believe mom liked Elliot because she saw potential in him the same way Nick saw potential. Elliot was someone my parents could trust—but not me. He tried to kiss me a few times when we were really little and I couldn’t get past the fact of how sneaky I knew him to be. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that a kiss was the one thing he requested as a reward for rescuing me from the fire.
I reach to put the phone back on the top of the toilet commode and duck my whole head under the water when a pounding vibrates into my ear canals. Someone is knocking on the door.
Coming up to take a breath, I call out, “Who is it?”
No one responds, just another knocking.
Ugh. Why do people always have the worst timing?
Water floods the hotel bathroom tiled floor as I step out to grab a towel.
More knocking resumes.
“Hold on,” I shout to dry myself off then wrap a towel around me.
The hotel room is chilly. I forgot to turn off the air conditioning and I swear if this is housekeeping, I’m going to file a serious complaint. Through the peephole, however, I see its Mr. Nine.
Holy shit! He’s still in his suit, but his tie is loose around his neck. Why is he here so early? I look at the clock—we still have an hour and a half.
He knocks again.
“Mr. Nine?” I call out.
“Hi Charlotte, I brought you something.”
I gulp and look down. I only have a towel on, but I figure I can just open the door a little bit. I flip the handle and open the door a crack, letting one eyeball peep through. “I’m not ready yet.”
“I figured,” he says and holds up a couple of packages. “I wanted to bring these by. I wasn’t sure if you had anything to wear.”
I squint. “You brought me clothes?”
“Mhm, yeah. Is that bad?”
“How did you know what size to get me?”
He shuffles a bit. “I’m embarrassed to say.”
I open the door a bit more to poke my whole head out. “Well, tell me.”
He bites his lip and laughs at himself. “I study things.”
“You study things?”
“Yeah,�
� he blushes and holds the bags out.
“So, you’ve studied women’s wear and you figured out my size?”
He laughs again. “No, I’ve been studying you, but if you don’t want to take a look...” he retracts the bags, “I guess I can return the items.”
I open the door all the way and reach for the bags. “At least let me see what you bought!”
I hustle to place the bags on the bed to rummage through them and lo and behold, I pull out a dark teal guipure lace cocktail dress. “This is my favorite color.”
“Is it now?”
I examine the dress’ low-scooped neck thoroughly as I look into the other bag and find a matching pair of strappy heels. I hear the door shut behind me and turn around to see Mr. Nine is standing with his back to the door. I sigh. “Look—”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he butts in.
I sit on the bed and rub my forehead. “Why are you being so nice? Don’t you have a wife and kids?”
He shakes his head but slips his hands into his pockets.
He’s lying about something. “I bet your lying.”
“Am I now?”
“Yes! I bet you do have a wife and kids and you’re hoping to add me to your harem of mistresses.”
“How much are you willing to bet?” he asks, stepping closer.
I scoot back on the bed a little and pull my towel tighter. “I don’t usually bet.”
“Good,” he says bending forward to look me in the face, his breath blowing hot into my mouth, “because I don’t have a wife or kids or a harem—"
“But a girlfriend!” I butt in. “I’m sure you have a girlfriend.”
“Mmm,” he growls and reaches for the dress in my hands to take it. We struggle with the dress a bit—each pulling on it until I let him win. He takes it and crumples the pretty delicate thing, which I’m sure costs at least several hundred dollars, and puts the dress back in the bag to pick it up by the handle. “You shouldn’t judge people, Charlotte,” he says sternly. “It hurts to be misunderstood and insulted repeatedly. Some might call that bullying.” He turns to leave.
“Wait!” I grab his hand with both of mine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He scratches his bearded jaw that exaggerates his forlorn face. “You didn’t just insult me. You insulted yourself. I’d never think you were the kind of girl to be easily seduced into being someone’s mistress, much less into a harem. But I’m sorry as well. I can see how bringing the dress might’ve given you that impression.”
I bow my head before looking up. “So, are we still on for tonight?” I stand up and my towel falls to the floor.
Holy shit!
I bend down to pick up the towel, but Mr. Nine still has my hands and grips them—not letting go. I look up, bent over towards the floor—naked.
He studies me as I come to standing—his eyes glossed over like he’s drunk. For some reason, I don’t mind that he’s studying me. I like that he’s looking at me, watching me, and he licks his lip. It’s peculiar the way he does this—the way he swipes his tongue between his lower lip and his upper teeth. It’s almost familiar.
He leans in and it feels like he’s pulling me. My damp nipples harden from the chilly airconditioned air and I wish he would stroke them or warm them with a suckle, as he did in the elevator.
I was more desperate for him to touch me then. I don’t know where those feelings came from. I was itching—burning, for him to devour me by fucking me into oblivion. But now, I wish he would just lean in and sweep me off my feet and carry me into the bed to caress me.
I’m staring at his lips. They’re close, so close, and getting closer. His warm breath is cycling in and out of my hot mouth. And his scent fills the air with something also surprisingly familiar. Underneath the expensive woodsy cologne is a scent that reminds me of my childhood, of home.
“Charlotte,” he breathes into my mouth.
“Yes?”
“You’re more beautiful than I could’ve ever imagined.”
My cheeks warm and a smile spreads across my face. I can’t help but bat my eyes at him, at his green eyes. “If you keep talking to me like that, Mr. Nine, we’re never going to make it to dinner.”
“Dinner,” he mumbles and leans in. I close my eyes.
I’m waiting for a kiss and I ready my lips, puckering them a little, but instead, I get a lick on my neck.
My skin surges with a release of ecstasy as gooseflesh spreads over my body. Mr. Nine’s hands cradle my shoulders and push me to step backward until I feel the bed at the back of my thighs.
Mr. Nine trails his soft lips down my chest until they clasp lightly at my nipple.
A moan escapes me as I raise my hands up to hold him, but he pushes me back onto the bed.
Falling back, he lifts my legs, grabbing under my knees and commands me to, “hold them.”
I pull my knees back to the side of my head and Mr. Nine growls, getting a good look at me with my pussy spread wide open. The look alone is enough to make me come and I twitch at the thought.
He notices and dips down.
My clit is immediately sucked into his mouth and he grunts.
I pull my knees tighter. The man feels like he’s munching on my clit like he’s trying to genuinely eat it as if he’s never eaten a pussy before. He groans and moans and nibbles and sucks before chewing and biting my clit with an unnatural ferocious hunger.
My body is writhing. My tiny mound is getting tender. I just can’t take this gnawing at my most sensitive little nub. I want him to lick it and let it roll under the friction of his tongue, so I put my head up. “Mr. Nine?”
Flat goes his tongue while his head starts to roll, and oh fuck! The pressure becomes wildly perfect.
I put my head back and relax. I’m enjoying each flat grind of his tongue mixed with the soft subtle scrape of his beard between my folds until the pressure suddenly builds. Up and down, side to side, flicking and rolling and then finally—grinding. His tongue forces my insides to contract and oh God! Out of nowhere, I’m coming.
Raking my nails over his scalp to entangle my fingers in his hair, Mr. Nine grunts against the pull. I want him inside me. I want to feel his thickness pulsing within, but he keeps his face between my legs until I finally come down.
I lean up to reach for him. I want to kiss him. I want him to enter me. I want to taste myself on his mouth while he fills me with his long hard length, but he steps back.
He coughs as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve like he’s done. Just done. What the hell did I do? It’s unclear as to why he doesn’t want anymore of me and a rush of emotions fills my being. I’m saddened he’s pulled away. Humiliated.
“I’m sorry, did I just do something wrong?”
“No, no,” he shies. “I’m just ready to see you in that dress doing your thing later if you decide to accept my proposal.”
He reaches for the doorknob and I bend down to pick up the towel.
My humiliation has turned into frustration. I’m aching to get more out of him but he’s more concerned about some stupid proposal that’s likely going to be a business proposal. It turns me off, though I’m still curious. “See me do my what thing later?”
“I’ll be back for you in an hour,” he replies, avoiding the question.
Putting his hand in his pocket to shake up whatever he has hidden in there to make that tic-tac noise I recall from earlier, he shuts the door.
Chapter 10
Elliot
Damn my nerves. They’re driving me insane!
I look over at Charlotte’s legs—interminably long, extending far beyond the edges of the latte-colored leather bucket seat in my black, stick shift Jag Prestige XE.
I switch gears.
I’m speeding. I make quick turns and pedal my foot down hard as I weave between vehicles. I don’t know why I’m driving so fast. Maybe I want to show off. Maybe I want to get a rise out of her. Maybe I want to be the guy—the fast and handsome alpha-type
of guy she liked to date back in high school.
“Mr. Nine,” she mutters, clinging to her door handle and crossing her legs. “Can you slow down?”
Be cool Elliot. You’re not a kid anymore. This isn’t high school. She might accept your proposal. She might not. Either way, you’re a grown man, so get your shit together.
I slow down, but we’ve already arrived at the restaurant and I pull around towards the back where a valet is waiting.
Charlotte peeps her head around. She’s taking note of the alley we’ve pulled into. It’s not exactly charming.
“Where are we?” she asks. “I thought we were going to dinner.”
The valet comes around to open my door. I couldn’t take Charlotte around the front. Everyone knows my name and the last thing I want to do is ruin the proposal.
“We’re in the back. A secret entrance.”
The valet goes around to open Charlotte’s door and she slowly gets out. I don’t know if I’m excited to see her so cautious or if I should feel sorry for her. It reminds me of the time I wanted her to handle the collection of Armadillidiidae I gathered. I believe we were only in kindergarten at the time and I might’ve made the mistake of putting the roly-poly bugs in a non-transparent container. The second she opened the lid, she screamed. I couldn’t understand it. I still don’t. What kid didn’t like roly-poly bugs? Every kid loves roly-poly bugs.
But not Charlotte. Charlotte had to be different. She couldn’t just be a kid or a normal girl. She had to be that girl. The one who was too pretty, too prissy, and, eventually, too popular to have anything to do with the likes of me.
I walk to the back of my Jag, pop open the trunk, and pull out a stuffed black duffel bag. When I slam the trunk hood shut, Charlotte is staring at me. She still has one leg in the car like she doesn’t trust me and doesn’t want to get completely out.
I put my palm out and signal with my fingers, encouraging her to join me. “Come now.”
“What do you have in the bag?” she asks and the valet—a young, blond, skinny guy, probably a college student, appears just as leery as Charlotte.