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 behind 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.