Chapter 20

Quentin smacked his notes onto his desk and slammed his door, feeling an intense, passionate rage fuel through his bloodstream. His cock pressed tightly against the crotch of his dark jeans, angered that he hadn’t fucked Charlotte immediately. The moment he’d made eye contact with her—something he’d been trying whole-heartedly not to do—he’d sensed it wasn’t over between them, no matter how much he tried to convince himself of such.

And now, she’d blasted his idea, telling him a much better one. When he’d been a beginner writer at MMM, he’d had the balls and the gumption to pitch ideas like that, blasting past all staff above him and making several enemies, but even more friends.

He tossed himself into his chair, then, and slowly unzipped his crotch, pulling out his rock-hard, pulsing member, and rubbing his thumb against the large veins. It seemed to have a mind of its own, drawing a tight circle of pre-cum at the opening, which Quentin swiped off immediately, hopeful it wouldn’t stain his pants.

He couldn’t have her. He had to end it.

Wrapping his fingers around the wide girth of his staff, he eased up to the tip, then pulled the skin all the way back to the hilt, allowing the pleasure to course through him. He wouldn’t allow this girl to make a mockery of him. He’d proceed with his original plan for Thick Soled. It was a fine idea, and it aligned with the questions he’d asked them, in their initial interview.

Although, as this was a feature in the magazine in two weeks’ time, he did have the option to fix it…

No.

He continued to rub at himself, bringing his thin, red skin far above the tip, and then fueling it down, moving faster, with more insistence. As he gave himself this pleasure, Charlotte’s trim form appeared in his mind, with her bouncing breasts cupped in his hands, her stunning, pink lips opening to reveal a provocative moan.

His idea didn’t really amount to much, did it? He halted his masturbation, suddenly stuck on his job. Fuck. Keeping his hand around his cock, he waited for the feeling to pass—for his lust for release to return. But again, Charlotte’s idea sprung to his mind, growing more insistent.

He couldn’t fuck her. But with that brain, he couldn’t fire her, either.

With sudden anger, he released his hand and then yanked his pants together, zipping them with a flourish. “Jesus Christ.” He rose to his feet and stared out the window, wishing he’d just stayed with his daughter that day. Things were simpler, out there. Cartoon-watching. Eating macaroni and cheese. Outside, the traffic had ramped up, becoming bumper to bumper. Taxis blared and squawked. Everything felt sinister.

Maybe he needed to face the disaster head-on. Yes, he and Charlotte had an immediately, physical and emotional attraction. But also, they could be partners; they could be friends. If only he gave her the opportunity. He was the fucking editor-in-chief of MMM. He could do whatever he wanted.

“Stop being so fucking weak,” he whispered gruffly to himself, having a sudden, urgent desire for a lick of hard alcohol or even hard drugs. He hardly had those cravings any longer, having been to rehab as a younger man. But occasionally, the urgency struck at inopportune times, proving that he would always, eternally, be an addict.

Perhaps now he was more or less addicted to Charlotte.

A knock on the door disturbed his reverie. “Come in!” he yelled and tried to return to some kind of normalcy, at least outwardly.

Maggie shot into the office, then, with a mighty, tooth-filled grin on her face. She shut the door behind her and then meandered toward his desk, tossing her hips flirtatiously. God, when was this going to end?

“Hey, there, Q. Sorry about that rogue intern,” she said, her voice casual.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Quentin said, trying to toss it away. “Really. The girl has spunk. I like that.”

“Well, she’s going to have to take her spunk somewhere else,” Maggie said, giggling madly.

“What? What do you mean?” Quentin asked, eyeing her darkly.

“We can’t have an intern interrupting you in your own meetings, Q,” Maggie said, speaking like an impatient mother. “I mean, she’s rude as can be. Sure, her ideas are—”

“Really great,” Quentin interrupted. “They’re really great ideas. You haven’t had an idea like that since you started.” He stamped his hands on either side of his waist, simmering.

Maggie halted. “Fuck. That’s a thing to say,” she murmured finally, stretching the sad tension in the room.

“You know I didn’t mean it,” Quentin began, bowing his head. He no longer made eye contact with her, angered at himself for hurting her. For years, she’d been one of his confidants. One of his friends.

Before Charlotte had ignited some kind of bad boy mentality in him once more. Now, he wanted to stomp through his life, blast through people, tower over them, become the very portrait of his past self.

“So, you fired her?” Quentin asked, his voice quiet.

“I told her to leave. Yes,” Maggie murmured. She collapsed in the chair across form him, clearly shaken. “Quentin, if you don’t see any validity for my position any longer—”

“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin said, his heart hammering. “You know I don’t feel that way.”

“I don’t know what to feel,” she murmured.

Fuck. Quentin felt yanked between two worlds. Maggie’s shrunken face was bursting slight tears from her eyes, while Charlotte was probably packing a small box of things, fired on her fourth day of work.

“No one’s fired, Maggie,” he said firmly. “Especially not Charlotte. We need her.”

He burst from the office and bounded toward the intern offices, his heart continuing its mad ramming against his ribcage. If Charlotte couldn’t work at the magazine, if she left New York, he wouldn’t see her again. And it would be his fault.

The interns sat demurely, their eyes downcast, with Charlotte’s little blond-haired friend’s shoulders slumped with dismay. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, her laptop closed, her long, brown locks missing in the sea of blondes and redheads. Quentin stood in the doorway, as one-by-one, the interns turned to face him, their faces like moons.

“Where is she?” he asked, his voice booming.

Pamela pointed at the elevator. “She just left. Bawling her eyes out.” She smirked as if she took pleasure in it. Her eyes cut into slits, looking dark.

“Fuck,” Quentin murmured, turning toward the elevator and rushing, his black shoes blasting across the hardwood. He stabbed the “down” button, sensing all eyes on his back. The office was like an echoing cavern, rich with other people’s assumptions about him, about Charlotte, about Maggie.

If he fought to bring her back, what would that show them?

And if he didn’t fight to bring her back, just because of what they thought, what did that mean?

The elevator swept him to the ground, where he chose a direction—north, toward their apartments—and then all-out sprinted, his breath catching and his lungs tightening. It had been years since he’d exercised, having kept a trim, muscled figure just from hanging out with his daughter. But his muscles grew loose, warm, and his body opened up to the sprint, as if this was life or death.

The sunlight caught on Charlotte’s brunette hair as she stood at the corner, three blocks up. Her spine was arched; her back muscles quaked with tears. Quentin blasted forward in a final bit of both rage and panic, feeling as if she was falling off a cliff, and he had to catch her. He had to halt the impact.

“Charlotte!” he cried finally, placing his hand firmly on her shoulder and ripping her back toward him.

She spun like a ragdoll, with black makeup drawing lines down the tops of her cheeks. Her lips quivered; her eyes met his with confusion.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice raspy. “Did you want to fire me again? Did you want to make sure I really got the message that you don’t want to sleep with me anymore? That you don’t like my ideas? That you don’t think I’m a good enough writer to be in the club or whatever?” She pointed a finger directly toward his muscled pectoral, showing more passion than he’d ever seen. “Because you’ve made it pretty clear. You tossed me out like a plaything. And that’s fine, Quentin. Now I know just how New York guys work. I know just how my idols—my musician idols—would treat me. If I could take back the first time I ever listened to Orpheus Arise as a teenager, I fucking would.”

As she spoke, her voice reached a crescendo. Quentin’s eyes grew wider, taking in the gorgeous image of her. When he and his ex-girlfriends had fought, he’d felt almost nothing, instead understanding that what they’d had was never meant to last and usually rushing out the door afterward.

But now, he felt no urgency to leave. He wanted her. He wanted all of her.

As Charlotte began to charge into another tirade, he wrapped his arms around her waist and yanked her into him, cupping her bottom lip and then ripping her lips apart, gliding his tongue across hers. She let out a small whimper and then collapsed into him, bringing her arms around his neck and allowing him to lift her into him.

They kissed as the traffic pulsed past, as the taxis honked brightly, as bicyclists twirled over the pavement and as pedestrians cut behind them. The entire world continued its manic racing, but they paid no mind.

After what seemed like a tiny infinity, Quentin broke the kiss and stared down at her glittering eyes, which had filled with tears. Neither of them spoke, recognizing the depth of emotion between them. They didn’t want to interrupt the spell. It felt like a million years since they’d last faced off in the conference room. It felt like even longer since they’d made love.

“I don’t want to fire you,” Quentin whispered. He nudged his nose against hers.

“You didn’t show that very well,” Charlotte murmured back, her eyes filling with humor.

“I didn’t know she was going to do that. Maggie sometimes makes decisions out of turn. And I’m sure, on some subconscious level, she’s jealous. I don’t think it takes a smart person to sense what’s between us.”

“Well,” Charlotte began, visibly shaken. “Shit. I don’t really know what to say.”

“Say you’ll come back to the office. Say you’ll help me with the Thick Soled piece. I love your idea. It’s absolutely impeccable. I want you to come to the next interview. I want you to take your place as a writer for MMM. You fucking deserve it, Charlotte. Your shyness really falls off when you care about something.”

“Music writing is one of the only things I care about,” Charlotte admitted. “Besides this new obsession I have.” Her eyes glittered toward him. “That’s you.”

Quentin lifted her into his arms once more, kissing her soundlessly on the nose, then the lips. His heart drummed against his chest; his cock grew insistent, pulsing out against his crotch and rubbing into Charlotte’s stomach as he eased her higher into the air.

“I have an idea,” he murmured then. “And there’s no arguing.”