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.