Savage: A Bad Boy Fake Fiancé Romance

by Kira Blakely

  “Welcome to the club,” Rachel said, filling a second glass. The girls lifted their reds and clinked them, sipping languidly, their eyes closing. “Seriously,” Rachel continued, swiping the back of her hand across her lips. “I know I talk a lot of shit. I know I act all arrogant about New York. But really, my life is going to get one hundred percent better with you here.” She grabbed Charlotte’s slim hand with her free one. “And it will get two hundred percent better for you if you just have the balls to sleep with your boss.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. She burst past Rachel and sped out to the balcony, her ears ringing with the words. Rachel joined her at the bannister, and the girls held their wine glasses over the balcony, their eyes turned toward the green of the park.

  “I can’t sleep with him,” Charlotte murmured, her pussy clenching beneath her with need. Her heartbeat quickened, just considering it. “There’s a no-fraternization policy at work. And like my new friend, Randy, at work says, I can’t fuck that up, just by sleeping with a boss who will surely forget about me the minute he gets my panties down.”

  “Girl, I’ve never seen anyone look at you that way. Definitely not your ex-boyfriend, that idiot Tyler. And not anyone else,” Rachel said.

  “Well, me and Tyler were pretty fucked up from the beginning,” Charlotte said, sniffing, a smile drawing between her cheeks. “I was never that into it. But everyone else had a boyfriend. Remember?”

  “Sure,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “I had that idiot from Calculus. What was his name?”

  “Marcus. How could you forget?” Charlotte said, laughing. “You were literally fucking him constantly our sophomore year.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Rachel murmured fondly. “I was really horny that year. I was losing all that weight and really feeling myself.” She glanced toward Charlotte, allowing her eyes to gloss up and down her figure. “Never did look as hot as you, though. Damn, Charlotte. I mean, no wonder that hot ex-rock star wants you.”

  “I told you, Rachel. I mean, beyond the no-fraternization policy, I need to focus on my writing. This is my career. I can’t fuck it up.”

  Rachel didn’t argue. She sipped her wine, pressing her lips together, her eyes dancing in the soft light of the coming evening. “All right,” she said finally. “I won’t pester you about this anymore. But you have to admit. Destiny is really throwing you guys at each other.”

  “Fuck destiny,” Charlotte said, rolling her eyes lazily and tossing her head back, feeling oddly manic, excited, sexual. “I didn’t ask for this. And I’m not going to follow through on it. Because I actually have piece of mind, unlike some people I know.” She nudged Rachel squarely in the ribs with her pointed elbow, giggling.

  “That coffee barista had it coming,” Rachel said, sniffing and easing back into the apartment. She twirled, her moves graceful, her feet rubbing against the Middle Eastern rug. “I might call him again. Who knows? It’s New York. Anything can happen.”

  “Anything can happen,” Charlotte echoed back, joining her friend and flicking on some music, allowing the wall speakers to boom with her favorite new music. The girls poured more wine and gabbed easily, keeping each other company until Rachel meandered home at around ten that night, leaving Charlotte alone for the first time since she’d arrived in New York, just six days before.

  She had to admit, the loneliness was eerie. Padding around her aunt’s apartment, half-drunk, she ripped her striped dress from her lithe form, dropping it at the entrance to the bathroom. She stood, analyzing her body in the mirror and drawing her fingertips across the bones of her chest, rubbing at her brown, pointed nipples, and then running playfully across her stomach.

  Doors away, she knew her boss, Quentin, was awake. Probably sitting alone, drinking whiskey. Maybe reading. Surely not daydreaming about her. Surely not knowing she was standing perfectly, crisply naked, her breasts poised and the lips of her pussy separating, showing their perfect, pink insides, and allowing her fingers to press inward, rubbing at the top and finding the small knob, causing her eyes to close sharply. She unleashed a sigh, allowing her head to fall back grandly, her back to stretch.

  As she stood, she lifted her foot up on the bathroom counter, revealing her pulsing lips to herself and separating them, stretching herself with pleasure. As she moved a finger deep within herself, pressing it against her tender G-spot, she imagined Quentin arriving to work the next day and demanding that she meet him in his office, immediately. She’d go, following him like a timid dog. And then, once within the office, he’d strip her bare, unleashing her skin. He’d walk in circles around her, his expensive shoes making tapping noises against the bright wooden floors. He’d press her against the desk, inhaling the scent of her, before ripping his belt from his waist and revealing his pulsing, veiny cock, which extended ravenously from his crotch. He’d press her body backward against the desk, allowing her pink lips to part, and he’d pulse himself into her. He’d press heavily against her G-spot and suck on her tits, wrapping his tongue languidly around her brown nipples and against the ridge of them, causing intense pleasure.

  And then, he’d become gruff with her, pushing her harder against the desk, causing her to cry out. Her hair would stick to her back, which would be dripping with sweat. And she’d wrap her thin legs around his muscled abdomen, lifting herself into him, always craving more.

  In that moment, the doorbell to her aunt’s apartment rang. Charlotte’s eyes popped open and she stared at her naked form in the mirror. She removed her fingers from her warmth, not bothering to clean them before rushing to throw on her dress. Still a bit tipsy, she struggled into the dress, tumbling against the doorframe as she maneuvered toward the front door.

  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 behi
nd 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, rock 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.