by Kira Blakely
“Wow,” Charlotte breathed. “And just like that, you became a new person.”
“I’m sure you feel similar,” Quentin said. “You just moved to the big city from the middle of nowhere. Everything must seem chaotic and bizarre and otherworldly.”
“I don’t often talk about it,” Charlotte admitted softly. “I don’t want to sound like that little country bumpkin.” She swallowed sharply. “How strange that your daughter will never go through that kind of fear. She’s ahead of her age in confidence, surely. And she’s got beauty and brains. A treacherous combination.”
“I’m terrified,” Quentin admitted, laughing. “To tell you the truth.”
“I think we’re all terrified,” Charlotte murmured. She sipped her wine, feeling closer to him, emotionally. Her heartstrings yanked. Why was this happening? Should she even question it?
“What time is her mother coming?” Charlotte asked, remembering what Quentin had said. “Morgan’s spending the night over there?”
“Right. Yes,” Quentin said, shaking his head, jostling himself from somewhere far away. “She’ll be here in about twenty minutes, I guess. She lives just up the road and never runs late. Ever. She’s like clockwork. It’s almost freaky.”
Charlotte exhaled through her nose, her eyes holding such light and humor to them. She licked her lips, gazing up at him. When she felt the tension between them might crack the very molecules of the kitchen, he suddenly burst forward and kissed her on the lips. Charlotte swept her hand back, leaving the wine glass on the counter, and then wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him into her. Accepting him. What the hell? If she wanted it, she was going to have it.
She sucked at his bottom lip for a moment until he tore into her, allowing his tongue to part her lips, and then searching through her, toying with her. He reached down, grasping her ass and yanking it upward, holding tightly to her. She cried out quietly, breaking their kiss with the shock of pleasure bounding up and down her back.
Fuck.
She gazed into his eyes for several moments, pressing her hands against his chest.
“What are we going to do?” she finally whispered. “What on earth are we going to do?”
Suddenly, they heard Morgan break her hands from the piano keys. She began to pad into the dining room and kitchen, her blond hair waving behind her like a flag. Quentin stepped back casually, his face breaking into a smile, void of the emotion he’d just held for Charlotte.
Charlotte felt broken, aching. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to smile at Morgan. In reality, she wished she was somewhere far away.
“What did you think?” Morgan asked her, popping up on her toes. “Did I do good?”
“Well, Morgan. Did you do well,” Quentin said, correcting her.
“Well, whatever. Did I?”
Charlotte nodded primly, taking a step toward the door. She sensed it was her time to leave. The spell had been broken. “You are a wonderful musician. I can’t wait to write about you one day, when I become a real music writer, and when you become a renowned musician.”
“Promise you’ll give me a good review?” Morgan asked, laughing.
“Promise. And I’d never lie,” Charlotte murmured, her voice wavering. She felt fatigued, aghast, frustrated. She waved to Morgan. “I suppose I better get back to my house. I know you’re heading to your mom’s, as well.”
“Aw. Dad, make her stay.”
“I can’t,” Quentin said.
Still, what Charlotte had said seemed to echo in the air around them. “What are we going to do? What on earth are we going to do?”
But the question remained unanswered.
Charlotte gave a final wave to the father and daughter before rushing into the hallway, racing down the rug, and finding solace in her aunt’s cold, dark apartment, exhaling roughly and finding it difficult to regain composure. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting her black V-neck. Her unsteady legs forced her to the floor in front of the wooden door. Her ears grew accustomed to the silence around her, and the air felt sick with her panic.
Would she ever kiss Quentin again?
She was beginning to crave it. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. He was becoming interconnected with her time in New York, becoming the very oxygen she breathed and the thoughts she formed.
And she was going to make herself sick with lust for him.
Chapter 14
Quentin worked diligently in Morgan’s bedroom, packing her backpack for the following day and feeling the approaching tide. Kate was on her way. Sleepy-eyed, his daughter collapsed upon her bed, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest.
“I don’t want to go to Mom’s,” she murmured once more, rolling her sad little eyes.
“I know, baby,” Quentin murmured, stuffing her Ramones sweatshirt into her backpack, just to irritate Kate. “But your mommy really wants to see you. And we have to play along with that, even though it sucks sometimes.”
“Whatever,” Morgan said tartly. “Hey. I really like Charlotte. She’s so pretty! She looks like a model, like Mom did when she was younger.”
“Ha. You think?” Quentin asked, his stomach stirring. He wanted to dance as far away from this topic as possible, without giving her cause for alarm.
“I mean, Mom’s still really pretty. But she doesn’t smile as much as Charlotte,” Morgan said, sounding astute. “And my teacher says a smile is the best fashion you can have.”
“Well, then, you must be the most fashionable girl at school,” Quentin said, leaning down and lifting his daughter by grabbing her beneath the armpits and twirling her, causing her to squeal.
“Again! Again!” she cried out, laughing hysterically.
Quentin twirled her the opposite direction, causing his own head to begin a wayward spin. He saw black and red dots flurry his vision, and he couldn’t help but give her a crazed smile, allowing the stress of the day to fall from his shoulders.
The doorbell always rang at the wrong time. He set his daughter back on the carpet, still giggling outrageously, and then walked casually toward the front door, mentally preparing himself for his ex-wife. He pressed his lips together evenly and then cracked the door, looking sternly toward the tall, blonde, bone-thin woman before him, whose cheekbones seemed like knives.
“Hey there, Q,” Kate said softly, tilting her slight form. Her gaze danced behind Quentin’s back, assessing the apartment. “I smell Chinese.”
Quentin opened the door a bit wider, his heart lurching with anger. “I made sure she didn’t have anything bad or fattening. She just ordered fried air.”
Kate entered, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor. She was sculpted from clay, maybe, with refined leg muscles, peeping beneath a leather skirt. Quentin couldn’t blame himself for being so head-over-heels for her, as a younger man. But now, to him, she reeked of something off-color. Something evil.
“Ha,” she laughed, waiting. “Honey? It’s Mom.”
Morgan stomped into the room, then, with her coat unzipped and on, and her backpack bouncing. She frowned, her eyebrows coming together in the center. “Mom, did you get the piano tuned yet?” she asked, sounding outrageous and tired.
Kate turned her head swiftly toward Quentin, her eyebrows rising. “She always gets this way when you feed her bad food.”
“Ugh. That means no,” Morgan sighed, rushing toward her. She gave her a lackluster hug and then collapsed in a dining room chair, her legs bouncing up and down.
“Honey, I told you I would get it done soon, and I meant that,” Kate said, sighing. “I have a lot going on right now. And it’s only slightly out of tune.”
“You don’t have an ear for music,” Morgan said, sounding snotty.
Secretly, Quentin’s heart soared with pleasure. He promised himself to take Morgan out for ice cream again, next time he saw her. But he pressed his lips together, creating a show. “Hey, now. You know you can practice on that piano. This isn’t the end of your life. And your mother’s
doing the best she can.”
“I’ll never survive being the non-musician between us,” Kate said begrudgingly. Turning her head swiftly toward Quentin, she asked, “Hey. Do you mind if we talk privately for a few minutes?”
“Oh. Of course,” Quentin said, swiping his arm toward the bedroom, guiding her. As an aside, he told Morgan, “Watch TV till we’re back, squirt.”
“No! It makes it difficult for her to sleep,” Kate sighed, already giving up. She watched as Morgan raced into the television room, her tennis shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. “Damn, Q. You really do win the cool dad award.”
“Ha,” Quentin said. He sat on the bed, drawing comfort and looked up at his ex-wife, trying to find some kind of recognition in her eyes. Did she remember that they’d fucked all night, when they’d first met? Did she remember that they’d actually created that human out there together, that this hadn’t always been the plan?
But how could it be any other way? Kate was cold, almost calculated in her parenting scheme, and although she usually took Quentin into account when deciding things for Morgan, she often did it with a grimace, as if she couldn’t understand why on earth he was still around. Shouldn’t he have died of a heroin overdose by now? Shouldn’t he have married some dimwit model and gone to live on a tropical island? Why on earth was he responsible? These were all things he imagined she thought about him, daily, as he continued to complicate her world.
“So. What did you want to talk about?” Quentin asked her.
Kate stood, pin-straight, and clasped her hands together.
“Is it about Morgan?” Quentin asked then, suddenly alarmed. “She went to the doctor last week. Did anything—“
“No, no,” Kate answered firmly. “Morgan is healthy as ever. She could use a cold to put her in her place.” She grimaced. “Sorry. Of course, I don’t mean that.”
“You can joke time and again, if you want,” Quentin said, flashing a smile. “It suits you.”
“Ah, well. Joking’s never been my strength. You know that.” She smiled, showing how beautiful she was. Her eyes twinkled. “The truth is, I met someone. Someone who might become very, very serious. Someone I’m considering introducing to Morgan, and even having move in after a while. And I wanted you to know.”
“Wow,” Quentin breathed, unsure how to feel. His mind raced with a million different responses, none of them completely sincere. “Well, congratulations, I suppose.”
“Right. Thank you,” Kate answered, her voice prim. “I think I’ll introduce him to Morgan in the next few days, if it’s all the same to you. He’s a Wall Street guy, but a big lover of kids. A bit older than me. Forty-five.”
“Even more mature than myself, then,” Quentin said lightly, laughing.
“Ha. Says the man who missed his own daughter’s birth,” Kate said, choosing the first thing she could think of and trying to make a joke of it.
Quentin hesitated. Anger didn’t fuel him, now. Just sadness. Just an ache of loneliness, perhaps.
“I’m sorry. You’ve more than made up for it since then,” Kate said softly, rubbing her cheeks. “I think I’m just nervous, telling you this. I don’t know why. Our love died just about the time it started. But I want this to be different. This time. I might even want more kids. I’m not sure. And that will affect you, and it will affect Morgan, and I just want to be really proper about how I do this. That’s all.”
Quentin stood evenly on his socked feet, remembering what Morgan had said about Charlotte. Pretty, like Mom used to be. But Kate was still quite gorgeous. And she was still trying, out there in the world. She was fighting for love and emotion and experiences.
Why wasn’t he?
“Thank you for telling me,” Quentin answered finally, bowing his head. “It means the world. And you already know that Morgan will take to him, whoever he is. She loves everyone. She’s open to everything.”
“You’re right,” Kate answered. “I know you are. I don’t know why I’m so anxious. But really—” She paused, giving him a meaningful look. “Really, I was wondering about you. You’re on your feet, now. Mature. An editor-in-chief, for god’s sake. The best father Morgan could ask for. And I wanted to know when you were thinking about moving on.”
“On? As if I’m still pent up about you?” Quentin asked her, his voice teasing.
“No, of course not,” Kate said, hesitantly. “I just mean, have a meaningful relationship for once. Actually take it beyond the one-night stand, if you even do that anymore. I sense a loneliness about you.”
Quentin stood abruptly, his heart revving with sudden anger. How dare his ex-wife come into his apartment and tell him he “seemed lonely”? He pointed toward the door, trying to force words. “I think we should get back to Morgan. Enough about me. And enough about what’s-his-name, the prince from Wall Street. Need I remind you, my business isn’t yours unless it affects Morgan.”
Kate’s face grew gray. She recognized she’d crossed a line. Her heels clicked across the large bedroom and back into the hallway. Quentin’s anger receded; he forced himself to take long, easy breaths. He placed his hand across his daughter’s head, alerting her it was time to go. She snapped the television off and joined them at the door, feeling the tension in the air.
“Good night, Daddy,” she murmured, yanking him down to her and kissing him on the cheek with tight lips. “I love you.”
Quentin snapped the door closed behind them, frustration brimming within him. He hadn’t been alone in at least four days, always with Morgan pattering around the apartment or tinkling the keys. Now, the place felt cathedral-like, far too large for one man. He bounded toward the piano, a place at which he sought solace, and began to ram out his frustration, feeling a new song begin to coil from his fingers.
And as he played, as he tinkered, as his creativity grew, he saw a single face in his mind’s eye.
Charlotte.
God, kissing her in his kitchen earlier had tugged at his cock, pressing the ridge hard against his jeans and giving him flashbacks to being inside her tight, almost virginal pussy. Its pink walls had crushed into his pulsing, veiny, rock-hard member before accepting it in a flurry of wetness.
God, he wanted her. He could feel her physical form, moving just a few doors down. How her eyes had pleaded with him to keep her, to hold her, just before she’d gone home. He’d only known her a day and a half, but already it seemed he was under her spell. He’d never fallen this fast or this seriously. He’d never felt such impenetrable lust.
“Fuck,” he cried out, slamming his fingers against the keys. His ex-wife felt sorry for him, using words like “loneliness.” And maybe he was lonely. He wanted someone by his side who he legally couldn’t have. And he knew what it would look like, taking Charlotte as his girl. It would look predatory. It would negate her entire professional career.
But it was exactly what he wanted. It was the only thing he could focus on.
Chapter 15
After nearly an hour, positioned against the door, her nose buried between her knees and her heart pushing somewhere beneath her stomach with stress and sadness, Charlotte finally convinced herself she needed to go to bed. She was being foolish, feeling her thoughts churn in a meaningless circle, always coming back to the same thing.
Charlotte and Quentin couldn’t be together. It was against the clause in the contract. And it was against her morals, along with everything she’d ever worked for. If she moved up in the ranks at MMM and became an actual music writer, she wanted to do it on her own merit. She didn’t want to feel the disgust glittering back to her in her co-writers’ eyes.
But how could she avoid him?
In that moment, she heard a knock on her door. Still leaning against it, she felt the vibrations of the almost angry, volatile knock up and down her spine. She lifted herself, feeling anxious, her heart fluttering like a rabbit’s. Pressing her top teeth into her lower lip, she wrapped her hand around the golden knob, waiting. Hoping. Once she opened the
door, she knew she’d never be able to come back.
She felt his sigh on the other side of the door. Immediately, her pussy loosened. Blood pulsed around her shoulders and thighs and stomach, causing her head to roll back slightly with desire. Her lips parted. She unlocked the door and cracked it open slowly, watching as the shadowed form of Quentin appeared before her, as if planted there, awaiting her decision for years.
His face looked brooding, dark, almost angry. There wasn’t time for talking. He burst forward and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her into the air. She felt herself lifted, unable to protest. He kissed her passionately, there on her stoop, and then fled back to his apartment, still with his lips locked over hers. She closed her eyes, feeling her chest press up against his. She felt the abrupt push of the door behind him as he slammed it, locking her in his apartment with him. The once-family atmosphere had changed completely, putting in its place a stern, insistent, over-sexual feel.
Their desire for one another couldn’t wait.
Quentin shoved her up on the kitchen counter. He dove into her neck, kissing and then sucking at her skin, causing her to toss her head back. Her hair wound in curls down her back, almost all the way to her ass. Grasping her buttocks, he lifted her, then slipped her black leggings down to her knees, revealing her tender, kissable legs.
Bending down, he exhaled warmly between her thighs, gazing down at her perfect, peach lips. He stripped the leggings from her feet, one by one, and then allowed his tongue to release, drawing a line from the inside of her knee, all the way to her wet pussy. Sensing his impending tongue, Charlotte lifted her legs high, pressing her feet on either side of her, on the countertop. But he toyed with her, poising, silent, in front of her silky, wet pussy, its lips parting, opening into soft, gorgeous darkness.
“Do you want this, Charlotte?” he asked her gruffly.
Charlotte hesitated. Countless questions flashed through her mind. But she nodded, almost imperceptibly, feeling warm, anxious, needy. “Fuck me, Quentin,” she whispered. “Please.”
