Savage: A Bad Boy Fake Fiancé Romance

by Kira Blakely

  Finally, Charlotte’s tight pussy walls began to quake with sudden orgasm, throwing the vibrations into Quentin’s rigid cock. They shared the orgasm, staring into one another’s eyes in their intimate, private hotel room. Collapsing, gasping, they wrapped their arms around one another and devolved into one another’s warmth, feeling strangely outside of time. Outside, the world had no understanding of where they were or what they were doing. Their existence was a beautiful secret.

  The afternoon continued in much this manner, with Quentin calling Maggie to tell her he couldn’t find Charlotte on the street, but to email her telling her that her job was hers, if she returned for it.

  Maggie agreed, almost begrudgingly, asking, “Where on earth did you go, then?”

  “Had a family thing,” he lied.

  Charlotte and Quentin continued to make love, eventually opening the hotel minibar and picking and choosing between the several different hard liquors and mixing various drinks together.

  “It’s a Negroni,” Charlotte said, giggling, as she served him the spicy, Italian cocktail. “I learned to make it in college.”

  “Oh,” Quentin said, sipping it and making a stern face. “So, you were an alcoholic in college? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  She devolved into another fit of giggles, folding into the warmth of his kisses.

  “You aren’t going to kick me out of this bed, are you?” she asked him softly, swiping her finger across his eyebrow in a tender motion.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you again,” Quentin murmured. “You’ve been driving me wild, Charlotte. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.”

  “Where were you yesterday, anyway?” Charlotte asked, her voice sweet, fatigued. “I was so worried you were avoiding the office because of me.”

  “Nothing like that,” Quentin said. “My daughter had an allergic reaction to that Chinese food. I was at the hospital with her.”

  Charlotte knocked up into a seated position, her eyes growing panicked. “Jesus, Quentin. Why didn’t you tell me? That’s terrifying. What was it?”

  “Apparently, she’s allergic to shellfish. And the kitchen has some kind of—”

  “Residue. Shit,” Charlotte murmured, swiping her fingers across her cheeks. “If I hadn’t brought you the Chinese that night, she wouldn’t have—”

  “Hey, now,” Quentin began, slicing his palm through the air. “This is definitely not your fault. And she’s perfectly fine, now. She went home with her mother this morning. She’s a bit frustrated she can’t practice the piano as much as she’d like, but she’s fine.”

  “Fuck, Quentin. You must have been so frightened. So, you got the call—”

  “When you were sleeping beside me. Yes,” Quentin answered, his voice far away. “I’m sorry I kicked you out like that. I was frightened. I was feeling a lot of different things. Lust and emotions for you, and also, a certainty that we shouldn’t be together. Not when I need to be a good father to Morgan. Not when my second job, beyond anything, is this magazine.”

  “That non-fraternization clause…” Charlotte whispered.

  “Let’s not discuss it now,” Quentin answered, kissing her again. “It’s too damn depressing. And I don’t want to feel anything but this today.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and allowed herself to devolve into intense pleasure once more, making love to him throughout the rest of the evening and early morning, sleeping occasionally and finding solace in his body.

  He was right. At least for now, nothing else mattered.

  Chapter 22

  The next day, Charlotte appeared at work along with everyone else, dressed in a fine-cut black dress and high heels, her hair falling in bright curls down her back, and her skin almost glowing from nearly twelve hours of intercourse and cuddling with Quentin.

  Randy was already seated at his desk, his neck arched as his eyes ate up the social media on his phone. Charlotte sat primly beside him, her eyes dancing with light. She cleared her throat.

  Turning swiftly, Randy gazed at her, shocked. “Shit, girl. What are you doing here?” he whispered, his voice harsh. He stabbed his phone into his back pocket, looking anxious. “You’re fired.”

  “I’m not,” Charlotte said, thrusting her right shoulder forward. “I got the email from Maggie last night. They had a change of heart.”

  “Wow,” Randy breathed. “I’ve never seen a turnaround like that. I mean, once you’re fired, you’re fired.”

  “I think Maggie just made a flash decision,” Charlotte said, shrugging. “Might be difficult with her in the future. Doesn’t seem to like me very much. Said I had an attitude.”

  “Ha,” Randy said, his face still bright with shock. “Jesus. I was wondering how I was going to get through the next few months without you. And to think, your idea was actually better than our editor-in-chief’s.” He shook his head, looking aghast. “It doesn’t seem like something you should get fired over, ultimately. It seems disgusting.”

  Pamela entered the intern offices and stood, stock-still, staring at Charlotte. Her tongue slipped from between her lips, looking snake-like. Again, her hair was in wayward curls, clearly trying to attract some sort of attention—perhaps from Quentin. “What the…” she murmured.

  “She’s not fired!” Randy cried out, sounding flamboyant. “It’s a miracle.”

  “Miracle is one word for it,” Pamela said, her voice tart. “I mean, you clearly spoke out of turn. I, for one, thought you had good reason to be fired.”

  “Great opinion, Pam,” Randy said sarcastically. “I hope you’ll grace us with more of those opinions in the future. That would be really helpful.”

  Pamela rolled her eyes, clacking her heels toward her desk. She grumbled inaudibly to herself, sounding like a crazed valley girl, on the brink of insanity. “Who the fuck does this girl thinks she is?”

  The other interns had mixed reactions, using curt nods to welcome her back or else skirting their eyes away, sensing she was now spoiled meat and best avoided. Confident after her night of lovemaking, Charlotte remained jolly, typing up a press release for an event the magazine was hosting in a few weeks and even exploring new bands, which she’d write about in the coming afternoon. She bobbed her head, finding pleasure in each unique sound, and took tight notes on her notepad, reminding herself, over and over again, that she was being paid to write about music.

  Her heart bled with the joy of it.

  That night, Morgan spent the night with Quentin again. Charlotte offered to cook them dinner—sans shellfish—and she busied herself in their apartment, listening as Morgan and Quentin played a duet on the piano, tinkling the high and low keys and creating a stunning melody. Quentin even used that gruff singing voice of his, made famous on five records and two EPs over the years. Charlotte felt warmed and caught up with the private performance, almost allowing the lasagna noodles to boil too long.

  As she splayed the lasagna noodles and the ricotta cheese in a mighty patchwork pattern, she felt Quentin approach her from behind, pressing his lips into the back of her neck and wrapping his firm arms around her thin waist. He inhaled the scent of her, causing her to giggle.

  “You guys are sounding pretty good in there,” she whispered, moving her lips into his on the side. Her pussy ignited with sudden pleasure, yearning for his touch. Slowly, he moved his hand down the flat of her stomach, dipping beneath her jeans and finding the warmth between her legs.

  “I can’t handle playing piano in there when I know your body’s in here,” he whispered into her ear. “It’s too much.”

  Charlotte giggled. “How’s Morgan feeling?”

  “Better than ever,” Quentin answered. “Aren’t you feeling good, Morg?” he called.

  “Just fine, Dad. Stop asking me that!” Morgan answered from the piano room.

  The vibrant blonde girl pounded into the kitchen, causing Quentin to release Charlotte with a sad motion. They stood like islands. Charlotte slipped the lasagna into the oven,
grinning sheepishly.

  “Well, I’m so glad you’re all right,” Charlotte said stupidly.

  “My class sent me a bunch of chocolate. Do you want some?” Morgan asked her brightly.

  “Um…” Charlotte began.

  But Morgan raced past her, into her bedroom, and drew out a box of French chocolates, which someone’s rich mother had probably picked out to impress Quentin. She pressed a single mint chocolate piece into Charlotte’s outstretched palm, watching her intently as she ate it.

  The mint and chocolate melted in a chorus of flavor on Charlotte’s tongue, bringing a slight smile.

  “See. It’s damn good, isn’t it?” Morgan demanded.

  “Language, little thing,” Quentin said, tossing her blond hair around with his firm hands. “And what did I say about the chocolate? No more before dinner. Charlotte here is slaving away to make you some really good lasagna.”

  “Oh! I love lasagna,” Morgan said. “Mom never lets me eat it. Carbs,” she whispered, almost conspiratorially.

  “As if she really knows what carbs are,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “Hop back to the piano, Morg. We eat in forty-five minutes.”

  She did, leaving Quentin and Charlotte to make out heavily in the kitchen to the sound of Mozart and Bach, drummed with the fingers of a seven-year-old.

  They ate companionably at the table, getting to know one another more intimately and laughing outrageously at Morgan’s silly school stories, along with her apparent distaste for the hospital nurses.

  “Oh, she was nice to you!” Quentin declared, pointing his fork. “She fluffed your pillows!”

  “She always messed them up,” Morgan insisted. “Mom did it perfectly, then this nurse comes along and… bang.”

  “Wow. She should definitely lose her license,” Charlotte joked.

  “Ha,” Quentin said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t handle you women. I have a constant headache.”

  But his eyes gleamed with sure pleasure, obviously surrounded with people who ignited joy into his once dark and drug-addled mind.

  This was a new chapter for him, Charlotte felt sure. And perhaps she could be semi-responsible for making it whole.

  Chapter 23

  The next week, on Thursday, Quentin called Charlotte into his office. The secret pair had successfully avoided each other’s presence at work the previous few days, only catching one another’s eyes across rooms and stewing with tension and desire for the other. Faced with “what to do” regarding the non-fraternization clause, they’d apparently decided to avoid it for now. They’d known each other less than two weeks and already they brewed with a sense of purpose, with growing love.

  “I’m falling for you,” Charlotte had told him in the hotel room the week before. And she’d meant it.

  Charlotte entered, choosing to keep the door ajar slightly, so as not to attract attention.

  “Hello, sir,” she said, her eyes bright. She was playing the role of intern, now, despite her frequent appearances at his apartment and her growing friendship with his tiny daughter. “You wanted to see me?”

  Quentin’s voice boomed. “Sure did. I was thinking about your pitch last week, regarding the article about Thick Soled.”

  “Ah, yes. The pitch that nearly got me fired,” she joked, crossing her arms over her breasts. “How could I forget?”

  “If only our interns didn’t speak out of turn,” Quentin said firmly, his eyes still playful. “Then we would get a lot more done around here. But alas…” He shrugged. “It’s a changing world. I can’t pretend to keep up with it.”

  “You’re an old man,” Charlotte breathed, her tongue slipping from between her lips. She imagined drawing it around the tip of his cock, forcing it to grow rock-hard, veiny. She’d begun to know his body with intimate detail; what made him stir, what caused him to moan. She’d never had this with a man before.

  “Anyway,” Quentin continued, his eyes flashing. Could he tell she was thinking about his rock-hard staff? Was that it, bulging up at his crotch? “I want to change the article completely. I want you to take the lead on the second interview, and I want you to write it. Yourself.”

  Charlotte’s lips parted. Her heart hammering, she hunted for words. Taking this on… Wouldn’t it alert the other interns that she had “special favor”? She reached back and pressed the door closed, giving them privacy, allowing them to talk as equals.

  “Won’t they guess something’s up if I take the article?” she asked tightly. She struggled to inhale completely.

  Quentin shook his head. “They know you have ideas. They all heard your pitch. I think they’d assume it was the next relevant step.”

  Charlotte wasn’t so sure. She shifted her weight, imagining what Pamela would say, faced with this information. “It’s just that they already don’t trust me very much. I was fired once, and then brought back on.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Charlotte,” Quentin said, speaking with more dominance, more like her boss than her lover. “What do you want out of this internship?”

  “I want to be a real music writer. You know that,” Charlotte said, her eyebrows lowering. “You know that.”

  “I do. But I also know you need to take this opportunity, and fuck the others. You’re a damn good writer, and you have insight, and you have angles. That’s stuff that many writers take years to hone. Use your skills, and blast ahead of your peers. I’m just giving you the tools to do it.”

  Charlotte nodded. She hadn’t interviewed an actual musician before, and panic throttled through her, sending bumps across her forearm. “When is the interview?”

  “It’s whenever you schedule it,” Quentin said.

  “But they’re friends with you,” Charlotte said pointedly.

  “I’ll come with you, if you want,” Quentin said. “But I won’t say anything except hello, goodbye, refill our drinks. I’m there with the money. Nothing else.”

  Charlotte’s chest tightened. Silence stretched between them, but it was not unkind or weighted with any kind of disdain.

  “I think I’m just nervous.”

  “That’s natural.” He swept his chair out from beneath his desk and patted his lap, drawing her closer to him. She slipped off her shoes and straddled him, drawing her crotch close to his bulging one. She kissed the tip of his nose tenderly, her heart bursting with lust in seeming fireworks against her ribcage.

  “I’ll see you tonight?” she breathed.

  “Only if you set up this damn interview,” Quentin said, squeezing her ass playfully.

  “Fine,” Charlotte said, sounding half-whiny, but knowing, inwardly, it was time for her to step up her professional game.

  Returning to her desk, she typed up a careful email to Keith, the lead singer of Thick Soled, conscious that asking him to do a second interview for a magazine was a big thing—one that robbed him of time he thought he’d already given.

  Keith,

  Hey, there. My name’s Charlotte Barracks, and I’m taking the lead on our Thick Soled feature, ultimately angling it toward our more nostalgic audience, given that you clearly take great stock in old indie and grunge. For this purpose, I’d love the chance to interview you next week, at a time that’s convenient for you. Quentin says he’s got the drinks, as long as you show.

  All the best,

  C”

  Confident, Charlotte shot the email across the Internet and then leaped from her seat, confidence sizzling through her. Randy gave her a confused roll of his eyes, becoming more accustomed to Charlotte’s quirks.

  “Girl, you’re nuts,” he murmured, tossing his head. “If you weren’t so damn good at this, and so hilarious, I’d move over by Pamela.”

  Pamela shot her eyes toward them both like daggers, anger causing her lips to part. She’d been a fanatic since Charlotte had been fired and rehired, slicing into the coffee line in front of Charlotte and even mocking her proposals at the writers’ meeting. For the record, Randy and the others had shot back at Pamela, telli
ng her that Charlotte’s ideas were grand and forward-thinking, unlike Pamela’s tired, oft-done features. It seemed the writers were taking sides, standing aligned with Charlotte, confident that she was their champion intern.

  Charlotte didn’t know what she would do if they ever found out about her and Quentin.

  “Shhh,” Charlotte breathed, hushing Randy. “Don’t tempt her.”

  Keith emailed back just before Charlotte left for the day, setting up an interview for the following Wednesday afternoon. This meant that the article wouldn’t be ready till the release of the magazine a few weeks from then, which would require some reconfiguring of the writing schedule. Quentin affirmed that this was “no big deal” and often happened, emailing Maggie with the change of schedule. “Charlotte’s taking the lead on the Thick Soled piece, meaning we’ll need to give her adequate time to prepare. I think we’ll move up the piece about the Atlanta music scene. Brent’s writing is always smooth.”

  Of course, the moment Maggie understood that Charlotte was taking on a feature, alone, she appeared at her desk, without so much as an email notice, and demanded Charlotte come to her office immediately. Charlotte rose, again feeling the aching eyes of the interns on her back, recognizing that, somehow, she was in trouble. She felt the warning signs, saw the bright lights. “Turn back,” her muscles screamed.

  Maggie opened the door to her small, closet-sized office, which she hardly used and certainly never invited anyone into—except, apparently, when she was firing them. She pressed her lips tightly together, looking like a strange, turtle-like creature, her anger pulsing out from every orifice.

  “Quentin’s informed me that you’re taking your first lead,” she said, her voice curt.

  “I am,” Charlotte said, not sitting.

  “Please. Have a seat,” Maggie said, gesturing.

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Right. Well. I wanted to… give you your due congratulations, for the feature. It is a marvelous idea, and it seems you’ll take it where it needs to go. But I wanted to give you advice.”