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In that moment, the doorbell to her aunt’s apartment rang. Charlotte’s eyes popped open and she stared at her naked form in the mirror. She removed her fingers from her warmth, not bothering to clean them before rushing to throw on her dress. Still a bit tipsy, she struggled into the dress, tumbling against the doorframe as she maneuvered toward the front door.
Who the fuck was calling on her after ten at night? The doorman, maybe? Her aunt, back from Florida? Rachel, unable to get home as she’d drunk nearly an entire bottle of wine herself?
Wrapping her hand around the gold-rimmed door handle, she swallowed sharply, realizing she still smelled like her own sex. With a timid sigh, she opened the door just a crack, hoping this would be someone she could shoo away. Hoping she could retreat back to her bedroom and pretend she’d never felt anything sexual in her life.
But no. On the other side of the door stood her boss, Quentin McDonnell. With his muscled arms crossed over his chest, his eyes dark and brooding, Charlotte sensed that he’d been waiting for her. He’d wanted her.
And with her mouth ajar, her head spinning, and her pussy clenched tightly, pulsing, she felt no urge to dismiss him.
Destiny had pushed her over the limit. And she couldn’t refuse.
7
Quentin didn’t speak for a long time, instead choosing to hold Charlotte’s gaze, his body domineering and towering over hers. His lips pressed firmly together, as if he were judging her. The pressure between them grew, with Charlotte standing stupidly in the doorframe, still able to smell the scent of her pussy emanating from her fingers. Could he smell them, too? Could he smell how much she yearned for him? Her breasts lifted slightly as she stood, humming over all the possible ways she could entice him and convince him to stay.
God, he frightened her. Her heart raced with panic. This was a top-level celebrity, a fucking hunk of a rock star, and an ex-sex addict, who’d apparently cleaned up his act.
The man in front of her didn’t seem like a person who’d ever cleaned up his act. If she didn’t know any better, she’d expect him to yank out a bag of cocaine and do a line of it on her tits, bending her over backward and sweeping his nose from her neck to her nipple. She shuddered at the thought.
After what seemed like a small eternity, Quentin suddenly thrust himself toward her. He caught his arms around her head and kissed her, passionately, on the mouth. He sucked at her lower lip, parting her lips and allowing his tongue to cascade against hers. It was a sensual, provocative move, causing her head to spin with the warmth of his mouth and the mixture of their juices. She closed her eyes easily, feeling in a dream. Bringing her hands behind his head, she cupped his hair and wound her fingers through his dark, rough locks, yanking at them slightly—telling him, without words, that she needed him, too.
Finally, their kiss broke. He shoved her away before grasping onto her shoulders, kneading at the bones with his firm fingers and looking at her with frustrated, angry eyes. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising sharply with each inhale.
“Jesus Christ, little intern,” he whispered, swiping his hand across her forehead and drawing her hair behind her ear. “How on fucking earth am I supposed to resist you?”
“You don’t have to,” Charlotte whispered, sounding childlike and inexperienced. “What happens in our apartment building, stays in our apartment building.”
Quentin’s eyes glittered, almost evilly. He lifted her, carrying her back to his apartment—reminding her, perhaps, that he couldn’t leave his daughter alone. Just in case. Once inside, he pressed his hands against the top of her chest and moved her into the foyer forcefully, taking the lead. He pressed her against the wall, kicking the door closed behind them in a flourish. Charlotte couldn’t breathe. She pressed her tongue against the top of her mouth, trying to focus, finding that small tears were building up in the corners of her eyes. Shock. Horror. Fantasy. Sexuality. It was all converging, in the here and now. And her pussy throbbed with desire for all of it.
Suddenly, Quentin brought his hands to the little dress she’d worn at the office that day, flicking his fingers over the buttons. He unbuttoned the top one, allowing the gleam of her ivory skin to protrude through. He knelt down and kissed that soft spot hungrily. His lips were warm, soft as they pressed down. Charlotte’s head bumped back, leaning heavily against the wall.
“Jesus. You taste amazing,” Quentin said gruffly. He unbuttoned the second, then the third button, revealing that she was no longer wearing a bra beneath her clothes—not after her little charade in the bathroom. His eyes glanced up as her breasts bounced from the dress. “You were wearing a bra today at work. I would have noticed if you weren’t.”
