She walked into the room wearing a cotton robe. Her face was flushed and her skin was glistening from the shower. She toweled off her hair. “You look good there. Except you’re a little big for the room. Maybe even too big for my bed.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining before about size before.” My appetite for Charlotte beat out my hunger for food, and my dick throbbed in my pants. Jesus, I couldn’t get enough of this woman. “Maybe I’m not hungry anymore.”
She smiled at me, thin crinkle wrinkles etching the corners of her eyes. My gaze swept from her tousled wet hair down the planes of her neck to her cleavage peeking out from the folds of her robe.
“Maybe I am.” She leaned toward me, unzipped my fly, and freed my erection from my pants. She took my dick in her hand, stroking it from the head to the base. Softly at first. Then firmly.
My hard-on rocketed in record time. “Charlotte,” I said.
“I want you to feel good, Joe.” She shrugged off her robe and climbed onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath us. Her gorgeous tits swung, then brushed against my thighs. She took my erection into her mouth, and circled her tongue around the head. I groaned, opened my eyes, and watched as she licked my cock from tip to base. She was sexy as fuck. Her moist hair trailed onto my groin and my balls tightened. She cupped them with one hand and peered up at me, the breath from her full, pretty lips warming me, exciting me. Arousal flooded me.
“I want you to feel more than good.” She took my dick in her mouth, closed her eyes, and took me so deep I bumped the back of her throat. I grasped her hair with both hands, fisting it, guiding her movements. I groaned until I couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Oh, God.” I shuddered, my mind bent, and I exploded inside her.
She snuggled next to me as I played with her hair and allowed my brain to re-boot. “Marco,” I said.
“Polo.”
“I’ve got a secret.”
“Tell me.”
I turned on my side and kissed her gorgeous, pouty lips. “I’m crazy about you, Charlotte.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Charlotte
Holiday shopping had always been a chore; a sadness. What kind of present could I buy for my mom or Callie with five dollars banging around in my pocket? My budget increased to double digits in my twenties, but—hello inflation—and I was stuck with the same dilemma. I’d never been Christmas shopping just for fun. Today was a first.
I agreed to accompany Joe only if we stuck to our deal—no uncomfortable gift giving efforts on either of our parts. We’d keep this transaction clean and easy. We hit Oak Street and toured the trendy shops where he looked for presents for Marte, his parents, and his cousins. I oohed and aahed over the gorgeous clothes and jewelry until he decided to get everyone a sweater from Barneys.
“You’d look cute in this sweater,” he said, holding up a red knitted thing the size of my hand.
I glanced around. “We’re in the designer pet department. That sweater’s an XXS and is meant for a Chihuahua. That wouldn’t even cover one of my boobs.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Try it on.”
“No. You’re not me buying anything. That was our agreement. Put that back where you found it.”
We spent the next hour collecting presents for Marte: a new bathrobe and a pretty lambs wool throw to keep her warm. We were surrounded by shopping bags and landed at Totally Hot Chocolate Cafe on State Street for sustenance. We both checked our phones.
“Crap!” Just what I did not want to see. An email from Ryan.
“Bad news?”
“Kind of. Not really. Just an ex-boyfriend.”
Ryan: Your mom won’t forward your new number, Char. Said I should email you. It’s been a year. You coming home for Christmas?
Ugh. No.
I didn’t want to change my personal email. But I would if I had to. I deleted his message.
“What do you want for Christmas, Charlotte?” Joe asked.
He was wearing a white whipped cream moustache and looked good enough to eat. I reached over the table and wiped it away with my hand, my index finger lingering against his full lips. “Nothing. I’m good.”
“I don’t believe you. Everyone wants something for Christmas. Pretend I’m Santa. Sit on my lap. Tell me your list.”
“I want sweetness and kindness to prevail in the world again. I want to see a pro hockey game in person before I die. I want litterers to just fucking cut it out, man. Like seriously, what is their problem? I want mean people to stop being mean and bullies to hang it up and call it a day. Enough about me. What do you want for Christmas?”
“I want Marte to live to 101. I agree with you on the damn litterers. And I want you to be happy.”
“Really?”
“Really, Cupcake.” He leaned over the table, took my hand in his, and kissed me.
We went back to his place, lost our clothes as soon as we got in the door, and screwed in his bedroom. Round one was on his king-size bed in the missionary position, my legs wrapped around his hard, muscular back. Round two, he took me standing up, my hands pressed high against the glass window. He pounded me from behind, one hand on my hip, one rubbing my clit until I exploded under his touch and saw stars.
“Now you,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder, looking back at him, and panting. I ran my tongue over my lips, and arched my back, pressing against him, driving his cock deeper inside me. “Hard. Take me hard.”
He grabbed my hair with one hand, tangled it between his fingers, and pulled it back. “I thought you’d never ask, Cupcake.” He hammered me and I heard the slapping sounds of my ass smacking against his abdomen.
“Deeper,” I said, my voice raspy.
“Oh, fuck, Charlotte. So fucking good.” He bit my shoulder and shuddered into me with the force of a hurricane.
We found our way to the thick rug on the floor, caught our breaths, and lay with our limbs entwined. “Glad those windows are only one-way,” I said.
“No. The one way windows are only in the living room.”
“What?”
“Kidding!” He grinned and kissed my lips.
We had an early dinner with Marte, who for some reason didn’t find it odd that I was hanging out with her grandson. We watched a few episodes of The Golden Girls and then went back to my place. We fed Benedict, then sat on the couch and picked a spy movie to watch on Netflix.
I woke in the middle of the night pretzled up against Joe who lay naked in my bed, one foot hanging off the edge. I watched him sleeping. I stared at his beautiful thick hair, his eyelashes brushing against his etched cheekbones, the planes of his shoulders. He felt like home. He felt like family. It scared the crap out of me.
Late on Sunday afternoon, Joe and I hit the dog park. There was a chill in the air as December marched on toward Christmas and year’s end. We parked on a bench outside the fenced-in area and watched the puppies play. “I love it here,” I said. “I wish I knew about this place a year ago. Thanks for sharing this with me.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Tell me about your ex-boyfriend.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t look all that thrilled when the email came in from him. Is there a problem?”
“Not anymore,” I said. “What do you want to know?”
“How did you meet? How long did you date? Why’d you break up? Who’s better in the sack? Me or him? You know, the usual. You know a lot about my life. I don’t know enough about yours.”
“I met him by accident. He wandered into my last job. We dated close to seven months. We broke up because we had differences that could not be overcome. Obviously, you’re better in the sack.”
“Good answer,” he said. “Why do you think he called?”
Fishing…
“He reaches out, but for me, it’s done.”
“How long?”
“It’s been over a year.”
“Good,” he said, looking relieved. “I have a confession.
I broke our rule.”
“Which rule was that?”
“The no Christmas present rule.”
“But I didn’t break the no Christmas present rule. Therefore if you give me a present you’re just going to make me look like an asshole.”
“What’s with you and all the rules,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket. “I’m giving it to you.”
“Don’t give it to me! I’ve got enough guilt to recover from wantonly shacking up with my client. I’ve broken enough rules to get me thrown in matchmaker jail.”
“Lighten up, Cupcake. Break one more. The new week begins tomorrow and Pilot beckons, yes?”
“Her name is Violet.”
“Whatever. Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
I did and felt him place something light into it. I opened my eyes and stared at two paper stubs. “Chicago Blackhawks vs L.A. Kings? Tonight? You got me hockey tickets?” I leapt off the bench and jumped up and down. “Oh my God! Sweet Jesus, dream come true!” I fell to one knee, crossed myself, and kissed the sky. “Thank you! Does this mean I have to take you as my plus one?”
“Yes,” he said. “Wait. You’re kidding.”
“Yes, Hot Waiter! I’m kidding. Holy crap. Best. Gift. Ever!” I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him so tightly, I feared I might break his neck. When I looked up at him I saw a side of him I’d never seen before. Open. Raw. Worry free. Happy.
What the fuck were we doing?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Joe
3 years ago
The game finished. My team, the Badgers, had won. I cheered, hollered, and high-fived the air in front of the TV.
I peered up at the clock: a half hour had passed since Zoey had left for her run.
I looked out our living room window. It was late November. The days were getting shorter and the sun was already descending toward the horizon. Back on the TV, the players and coaches were congratulating each other. A few hardcore fans waved signs, but the stands at Camp Randal Stadium were already emptying. The victory felt a bit hollow.
I picked up the remote, clicked the ‘Off’ button, and stared down at my French paper finally taking shape on the laptop. I sighed. I grabbed my phone from the coffee table and texted:
Joe: The mountain is moving. I’ll meet you. Which trail?
I knew Zoey. Once she got going, she’d put on her music and hit the running path until she worked out her stress, dissolved the spider webs, and erased the strain in her brain. I could still catch her if I moved it, just like she suggested.
She texted back.
Zoey: Green Marsh Trail. A few miles out. Turning around. Yay!
I hopped in my Trailblazer and drove the few miles down the country road to the jogging trail. The rain drizzled. My windshield wipers swiped on low. I hit the intersection for the path, turned left, and pulled over onto the shoulder.
I strode down the five feet wide dirt gravel mix path, surrounded by a yard or so of dried brush that dropped into the marsh on one side, woods leading to yellowed farm fields abutting it on the other.
I picked up the pace and jogged. A minute in, my lungs began expanding and I started shedding the stress. The sun was descending and the temperatures took a dive, chilling everything quickly. I’d forgotten to bring gloves. I balled my hands in fists, and picked up my pace, jogging faster, pumping my arms harder.
A red-tailed hawk circled in the cloudy sky above me. I rounded the trail’s bend and spotted Zoey jogging toward me.
She looked refreshed. There were rain droplets on her hood and her face was glistening in the setting sun. “Yay,” she said. She slowed down and lifted her hands in the air like Rocky Balbao and smiled at me.
I smiled back.
A crack rang out, and her face morphed from happiness to confusion. “Tall Guy?” She staggered a few steps and stumbled, red blossoming in spurts on her chest.
A second shot rang out. Zoey twisted and collapsed onto the path. Her chin hitting the dirt and her neck twisted.
Ice water ran through my veins. “Zoey? Zoey? Are you okay?”
Half in and off on the path, she lay crumpled, her feet in the weeds, her body twisted like a broken doll.
I raced the remaining yards to her and dropped to my knees. I touched my shaky fingers to her face and took her hand with my other hand. Her eyes were fixed and staring into the marsh.
My Zoey was dead. Her heart taken. Stolen in accidental moments, sealed with her hand clasped firmly in mine.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Charlotte
I let him go.
I kissed Joe goodbye at 4 a.m. Monday morning while he was sleeping. I didn’t think I’d be able to make love with him one more time and then pass him along like yesterday’s clothes that were no longer wanted. I wrote a note and left it by the kitchen sink.
You, Joe Delacroix are the best. Client. Ever. Your adoring matchmaker, Charlotte.
It took all my willpower to walk out that door and I cried buckets on the way home. I was puffy-eyed by the time I made it to the office. I texted Violet Joe’s details and copied him with hers. I emailed Tyler Gentry and reminded him about the office party on Wednesday night.
I hadn’t eaten since I downed some nachos at the hockey game the night before, and my stomach felt like it might revolt. I wandered into the coffee room and looked in the box of donuts open on the table.
“Why didn’t we do a Secret Santa this year?” Ian asked. “It doesn’t really feel like the holidays without a Secret Santa. Don’t take the last glazed donut, Charlotte. I’ve got dibs.”
“Got it.” I picked up a chocolate butter cream.
“I still can’t believe you signed Sophia Vanderveld,” Hailey said.
“She’s practically perfume royalty,” Ian said. “She might even show up at the party tonight.”
“Congrats,” I said half-heartedly, munching on the pastry.
“If it doesn’t work between Violet and Joe you could set him up with Sophia,” Ian said.
“Not a bad idea,” Hailey said. “She’s gorgeous and fabulously wealthy. What do you think?”
I pitched the donut across the room where it collided against the wall and plopped onto the sink. ““I’m trying not to. Thinking’s over-rated.” I stalked out of the room.
Over the next few days I divided my free moments between hanging out at the dog park and running on the path around Lake Shore Drive. I cut my runs short, turning around right before the Delacroix Hotel came in sight. I knew it would only make me sad and I was depressed enough already.
The dog park was a different story. I went there on my lunch break and returned after work. Watching dogs play seemed to calm me down more than a glass of wine, anti-depressants, or ice cream. I wondered if Violet had met Joe yet. They’d probably fallen in love immediately and would send me an invite to their wedding next year. I’d find a way to be out of town for that one.
Wednesday arrived and along with it the big White Glove Agency holiday party at Positano—an adorable five star trattoria in the Armitage and Sheffield neighborhood.
“What are you wearing?” Hailey asked when she stopped by my cubicle. “Don’t throw a donut at me if you don’t like the question.”
“Clothes,” I said. “I’ve got to find someone for Tyler Gentry. I think I’m going to concentrate on him from here on out.”
“Good call. If you change your mind I’ll take him.”
I collapsed my chin into my hands on my desk. “Holidays suck.”
“For everyone,” Mr. Black said, standing in his winter coat. “Why so glum?”
“No words.”
“I hear you. So, some guy called here today looking for you.”
“He did?” I perked up. “Joe Delacroix?”
“No,” he said. “I overheard snippets of the conversation with Janet, that super relaxed receptionist from the temp agency.”
“She just got her medical marijuana card,” I said. “She showed it t
o me. Maybe it was a new client. A referral.”
“That would be good. Might I make a suggestion, Charlotte?”
“Sure, boss.”
“Don’t lock up late tonight. Have fun at the party. Just enjoy. You’re overdue.”
I almost didn’t go to the White Glove holiday bash. I changed outfits five times. I styled my hair three different ways and cracked open two cans of cat food for Benedict. Then I laid on the couch and watched an episode of The Golden Girls, before getting up and re-touching my makeup in the bathroom mirror.
By the time I got to Positano Trattoria, the event was in full swing. The restaurant full of people, plates on the table, the smell of Italian spices wafting through the air.
“White Glove holiday event?” a hostess asked.
“Yes.”
“All the way to the rear and through that door.”
“Thanks.” I made my way through the trattoria and entered a banquet room in the back. It was bigger than the actual restaurant. There was a bar in the corner, a mixture of high top tables on the outskirts, and a dinner buffet manned with a few uniformed servers. A few waiters circulated amongst the guests while Christmas classics played through invisible speakers.
I spotted Violet, wearing a black velvet cocktail dress, at the far end of the room. Her long, shiny hair was held with a pretty rhinestone pin. She was even prettier when dressed up if that was possible. She chatted with a woman who could have been her twin.
A firm male hand landed on my arm. “I’m here,” Tyler Gentry said. “Can I leave yet?”
“No. Give it an hour. We both need to socialize. You never know, you might get lucky and meet the love of your life at some stupid Christmas party.”
“I’m only here for the free eats and booze. I’ve got a threesome lined up in a bit with a hot brunette and her roommate who live in the ’hood.”
The Client: A Playing Dirty Novel Page 15
