Savage: A Bad Boy Fake Fiancé Romance

by Kira Blakely

  “Fuck,” Quentin breathed. He eased his cheeks into his hands, smelling the scent of her pussy on his fingers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  A knock on his door sprung him out of his reverie.

  “Come in!” he called.

  Maggie opened the door, peering in. Her eyes were dark, like a wild animal’s. “Can I talk to you, boss?”

  “I have to get going, Mags,” Quentin said softly. “The Morning Star assholes are waiting for me up the road.”

  “I have loads of spreads I need you to look at,” Maggie said, her voice softening with the nickname. He’d been calling her “Mags” off and on since they’d met each other ten years before. “You took quite a long time with that new intern. The brunette one.”

  “Sure,” Quentin said, trying to sound blasé. “I think she has pretty good ideas.”

  “It was just a fucking advertisement, Q. I think she needs to learn when to talk in turn.”

  “When has anyone ever gotten anywhere talking in turn?” Quentin asked her, rising from his chair and leaning against his desk, still feeling the warmth from Charlotte’s body. “In fact, I might remember you talking out of turn earlier this morning.”

  Maggie’s face grew red, startled. She bowed her chin slowly, clearly simmering with embarrassment. “I wanted to apologize about that. It was unnecessary and out of line. I’m—”

  “No need,” Quentin said, raising his hand. “Just don’t question my actions regarding these interns again. I want to be more involved with them. Give them a streamlined route to a professional life. Something I really didn’t have as a twenty-something, if you remember.”

  Quentin left his office, then, and sped down the road, toward the Upper West Side, his shoes flashing black against the sidewalk. He was amazed at how easily he’d lied to Maggie about his decisions to “guide” the interns. Back in his twenties, he’d been an impeccable liar, scarcely able to remember what the truth was after telling a lie once or twice. He’d resolved to give this up as a parent—as a proper “adult.”

  But the lie of his affair with Charlotte was beginning to grow very, very sweet on his tongue. He could lie about “not sleeping with her” for years, as long as he was allowed that sweet, pulsing pussy. He lifted his chin high in the air, feeling the darkness of his youth descend upon him, wholly.

  He was fucking Quentin McDonnell. He wasn’t just some dad, ready to end his life in an easy chair. He was akin to the Morning Star rockers, with a very basic, very stark difference. He wasn’t a sad, aging rocker. He was a yearned-for, wanted editor of a major music magazine.

  In many ways, this was the coveted next step of his sexual life. He couldn’t very well walk like a zombie through the rest of his life, a la the Rolling Stones. He was moving up. He was educated. He had sexual prowess.

  And fuck, if he could get away with it, he would move on Charlotte as many times as she allowed it: that gorgeous, virginal woman, who talked a big game. Quentin could smell how much she wanted him.

  Chapter 11

  The rest of the day at the office, Charlotte sat in waves of panic at her desk, feeling her shoulders slump. She’d broken the no-fraternization clause once more, and, worst of all, she recognized that she was growing linked to Quentin in ways that he probably couldn’t understand, as a man over ten years her senior and far more experienced.

  She was meant to be typing up an article about a Brooklyn show she’d attended the previous week, before she’d even begun at the magazine, with two up-and-coming bands from the area. They’d flung their bodies across their guitars and drawn sweat lines across their t-shirts, screaming out song after song. The energy had been enlightening. It had been akin to how Charlotte had always imagined an Orpheus Arise show to be.

  Of course, she knew she never could see that reality, up close.

  Lost in thought, Charlotte’s eyes danced toward the window, where she watched a plane in the distance barrel toward the airport. Randy poked her with his pen, lightly in the shoulder. Whisking around, her eyes panicked, she slowly found a smile.

  “What are you daydreaming about, little miss?” Randy asked her softly, so as not to pester the others.

  Charlotte shrugged. “Just can’t think of a good introduction for this piece.”

  “Ha. I don’t believe that for a second. I read some of your stuff online, from college,” Randy said.

  “That shit?” Charlotte said, her heart warming. Why had he looked into it? Was he really so kind?

  “I just wanted to see where a little Midwestern thing like you came from,” Randy said, not unkindly. “But you have some damn snappy ideas, Charlotte. And I know the big man, Q, can see it, too.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks reddened with sudden panic. Was Randy alluding to something? Could everyone tell? Jesus. This was why the no-fraternization policy was in place.

  “Oh, no. He still thinks I’m a know-nothing intern. Trust me on that one.”

  “I don’t know. Seems he’s showing a bit of favoritism,” Randy said, his eyes glinting. “Of course, I’m happy for you. I really am.”

  “It’s not like that,” Charlotte began. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, really.”

  Pamela marched past, flipping her red hair. Listening to their conversation, she suddenly leaned toward her, almost conspiratorially. “Now, all you have to do is get him to sleep with you. Then, you can work your way up to some of the top writing positions at the magazine. Who wouldn’t want such a coveted seat?” Her eyes glinted evilly.

  Charlotte’s lips parted with sudden panic.

  “Hey,” Randy said, smacking his palm against the desk, just beneath Pamela’s brooding face. “That is uncalled for, girl. One hundred percent uncalled for.”

  “I have to get home, anyway,” Charlotte said, bursting from her seat. It was nearly five in the afternoon, the time when the interns were freed. She’d seen Maggie leave about twenty minutes earlier, ducking from the office like a spy. With Charlotte’s mind revving at a million miles an hour, she wished for a safe space, for a walk to clear her head.

  “Bye, Char,” Randy said as she packed up, rising from his chair as well. “And, kiddo…”

  Charlotte spun around, her eyes holding light tears. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry if I irritated you with what I said. I really do think you’re a great writer. And I know you wouldn’t do anything like sleep with the boss, or whatever.” He turned and glared at Pamela, who scurried away, like a rat.

  “Thanks, Randy,” Charlotte murmured, her heart falling into the acid of her stomach. “That means a lot.”

  She sped into the sunshine of mid-September, a sunshine that spoke of lost summers and of the approaching coziness of winter. She couldn’t shake the scent of Quentin, nor the thought that some of the interns were “catching on” to their affair. She’d known Quentin just one day of her life and already it seemed he’d tipped it upside down. Nothing she’d assumed about herself the previous day—regarding her approach to her career, to professionalism—was correct any longer.

  Charlotte took the long route home, gliding through the park, taking in as much of the sun as she could before it nestled beneath the trees. The tug of her apartment, waiting for her to unpack her clothes and other things she’d lugged from Ohio, was palpable. But she ignored it, knowing that if she waited alone in her apartment, she’d yearn for Quentin even more.

  He was just down the hall. And he was all but irresistible. Even though she knew that every time she slept with him, she was literally detracting from her professional development.

  She was whoring herself out.

  Her phone began to buzz. She lifted it, discovering it was her aunt, down in Florida.

  After three rings, Charlotte answered brightly, trying to sweep away her sense of melancholy.

  “Hey, there, Auntie.”

  “Darling Charlotte, it’s so good to hear your voice. How is the apartment holding up for you? Your mother said you got the keys all right from my lawyer.
”

  “I did, yes. And the apartment, well, it’s too good to be true,” Charlotte said. She stared at a child on a swing set, swooping in a wild arc through the air, his legs flailing. “How’s Florida?”

  “Florida is quite swell,” her aunt answered, speaking the language of a woman over seventy years of age. “I’m getting quite a bit of writing done, and I’ve been flirting with the pool boy almost constantly. Such a hunk, Charlotte. That’s what you call them? Hunks?”

  “Ha. I’m not sure, Auntie,” Charlotte said, grinning. “Hey, Auntie, do you happen to know many of your neighbors on the ninth floor?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I’ve lived there over twenty years, now. Have you met any of them?”

  “Just a few. One man and a daughter. Morgan.”

  “Morgan. That little thing. She used to come water my plants in the wintertime. Once, she broke a vase, and her father—a hunk of a man, to say the least—bought me a delightful new one in its place. It was made in Paris, of all places. He really knew how to charm this old lady’s heart.”

  Charlotte felt her heart erupt with warmth. Jesus. This man wasn’t just a sexual icon. He was probably a good person. What was this emotion, this spinning in her head?

  Was she falling for him?

  No, no. It was too early.

  “Well, great. I’ll know to go to his apartment if I ever need anything,” Charlotte answered softly. “It’s good to have kind neighbors. Especially in a new city, alone.”

  “Darling, you were never meant for Ohio. I could see it bleeding you dry, every year when I came to visit. You have something more in you. I can smell it.”

  Charlotte thanked her aunt for the apartment once more and then said her goodbyes, with her aunt telling her that she’d spend the rest of the evening drinking mimosas near the poolside. Brimming with daydreams and impossibilities regarding her boss, Charlotte walked back home, hopeful that she’d somehow run into Quentin in the elevator once more.

  But the elevator doors opened, revealing an empty, silver interior. Her neck bent like a sad giraffe, she stabbed the ninth-floor button and felt the pressure of gravity as it launched into the sky.

  Her apartment was just as lonely, just as somber as she’d imagined it to be. She unpacked slowly, methodically, stabbing hangers into her dresses and stuffing tights and shoes into the closet. She played music that made her anxious, and then stabbed the “Next” button countless times, trying to hone in on her mood.

  Nothing fit. Nothing fit except Quentin, beside her. Speaking with her. Teasing her.

  Frustrated, she lifted her phone and texted Rachel, ready to confess.

  CHARLOTTE: I did it. I slept with him.

  Charlotte dropped the phone on the bedspread, immediately panicked. Writing it out meant it was real; writing it out meant that she was allowing this to happen. Writing it out meant she wanted it to happen again.

  After a small, panicked eternity, Rachel began to message her back, in a flurry.

  RACHEL: OMG. You slut.

  RACHEL: Just kidding.

  RACHEL: I mean, how did this happen?

  RACHEL: Please, tell me everything.

  CHARLOTTE: He just came over last night.

  RACHEL: Very cool. Very hot. He’s used to getting what he wants, I guess.

  CHARLOTTE: I just don’t want to be his collateral damage. I told you. I want a career. I want to be a music writer.

  RACHEL: But you also want that sweet dick.

  CHARLOTTE: Sad, tragic, but true.

  RACHEL: HAHA.

  RACHEL: Let me know if you want me to come over. It must feel crazy, just being down the hallway from him.

  CHARLOTTE: It does. But I’ll be all right. I’m going to have to get used to this eventually.

  Charlotte undressed, donning a pair of leggings and a black V-neck shirt. After she realized she hadn’t yet gone grocery shopping, her stomach did a brief flip of hunger, crackling within her. “Shit,” she murmured, surfing through the Internet, on the hunt for cheap Chinese. She felt concave, like she was folding in on herself. “I can’t survive like this.”

  Would she grow accustomed to talking to herself, now that she lived alone? Now that she was growing more and more mentally unstable, due to lusting after her boss?

  “Yes, hi,” she said, speaking now to the Chinese restaurant down the road. “I’d like to order some food for delivery. Orange chicken, with a few of those spring rolls. Yes. That’s all.”

  The Chinese woman on the other end spoke to her tartly, telling her it would be about twenty-five minutes till she’d receive it. The order amount was almost nothing—less than eight dollars, shockingly, and without a designated amount required for delivery. Charlotte imagined that if she passed the Chinese place on the sidewalk, her stomach would curdle at how disgusting the interior was. What she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.

  Poised on the couch, she waited for her Chinese, sensing the nighttime come rushing in. Unfortunately, her mind turned to thoughts of Quentin almost immediately, imagining him with his daughter. She imagined him stirring dinner, his business sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his tattoos. He’d instruct Morgan on her piano technique, using his many years of musicianship to guide her hands. Just because he’d been a raucous rock star didn’t mean he didn’t have the skills to back it up.

  And, Jesus, those hands hand been pressed against her clit earlier that afternoon as he’d bent her over his desk.

  No. She had to stop thinking about it. She had to draw the line and tell him, almost immediately, that she couldn’t be alone with him again. Resisting his prowess was almost impossible. His scent drove her wild, made her frenzied. Even just thinking about it, her legs began to part; her pink pussy lips bounced softly apart, yearning for him.

  The doorbell rang, then. Charlotte ripped up from the couch and rushed the door, feeling out of her mind. She grabbed her wallet and opened the door to reveal a Chinese delivery driver on the other side. He passed her a massive dripping bag, and she handed him ten dollars, including the tip. He nodded primly and then turned away, without speaking. He darted toward the elevator before Charlotte even had the chance to say goodbye.

  She brought the bulky bag of Chinese into the kitchen, having to carry it with two outstretched arms. She began to leaf through it, sensing immediately that they’d gotten the order wrong. There was enough food in it for at least three people, for one. And also, her orange chicken was missing, replaced with some strange, sloppy-looking beef and vegetable dish.

  “Fuck,” she murmured, rushing to her phone. She’d given up eating red meat the previous year and didn’t want it to turn her stomach. She dialed the Chinese restaurant, getting the same lady on the phone. “Hello,” she said, her voice still bright, if manic. “I ordered food about twenty-five minutes ago, and it’s the wrong order.”

  “Okay. What is your address?” the woman asked sternly, as if she didn’t believe her.

  “I’m at Wabash and 181st. On the ninth floor.”

  “Ohhh,” the woman cooed into the phone. “Let me see.”

  She paused for a long time, leaving Charlotte to bob her weight uneasily, anxious. All she wanted, now, was to munch on orange chicken and dive between the sheets. Perhaps all thoughts of Quentin would flurry away when she woke in the morning.

  “There were two deliveries to the ninth floor,” the woman finally announced primly. “One just down the hall. McDonnell. You know?”

  Charlotte’s heart began to hammer in her chest. How could this happen? How could they possibly order from the same Chinese restaurant, at the same time? Why was the universe racing her so swiftly into Quentin’s arms?

  “Fuck,” she sighed into the phone, an accident.

  “It just down the hall,” the woman stammered, clearly agitated. “If you’re so lazy that you can’t walk down the hall—“

  “No, no,” Charlotte whispered hesitantly. “It’s not that. Thank you. Thanks.”

  She hung up the
phone and pressed it tightly against her chest. The Chinese food stunk from the countertop, emanating MSG and salt. Her nostrils flared, and her pussy seemed to find its own heartbeat, hammering its desire into her panties.

  If she went, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

  If she went, she’d fall further from her professional track.

  If she went, she’d dissolve into the greatest pleasure of her life. She couldn’t get enough of it.

  Fuck. What was she going to do?

  Chapter 12

  “Orange chicken?” Quentin said, sighing. Morgan blinked up at him, expectant, her fingers still scribbling their scales across the countertop.

  “You didn’t order that, Daddy,” Morgan said, her voice bobbing up and down. “Is my rice pudding in there?”

  “No. Not here, either,” Quentin sighed, frustrated. He dumped the bag on the far side of the counter, unsure of what to do. There wasn’t enough food for both of them, and Morgan had been quite picky lately, eating only vegetables and avoiding meat at all costs. She was a seven-year-old activist and an annoyance at the dinner table. Phase after phase after phase: that was childhood. Maybe it was adulthood, as well.

  “Well, what am I going to eat, Daddy?” she asked playfully, spinning on a single toe.

  “Why don’t you go practice the last page of that new one you brought home and leave me to the dinner making, huh?” Quentin said, snapping his hands to his knees and leaning down to her height, looking her in the eyes. “We all have responsibilities in this house. And yours is to ENTERTAIN ME!” He wrapped his arms around her, suddenly, and spun her in a mad circle, causing her to giggle maniacally.

  Finally, he let her loose, watching as she scrambled back toward the piano. She gave him a final, half-evil look, and then curved her fingers over the keys. For a moment, Quentin felt his heart pulse with happiness, and with pure love.