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He tossed himself into his chair, then, and slowly unzipped his crotch, pulling out his rock-hard, pulsing member, and rubbing his thumb against the large veins. It seemed to have a mind of its own, drawing a tight circle of pre-cum at the opening, which Quentin swiped off immediately, hopeful it wouldn’t stain his pants.
He couldn’t have her. He had to end it.
Wrapping his fingers around the wide girth of his staff, he eased up to the tip, then pulled the skin all the way back to the hilt, allowing the pleasure to course through him. He wouldn’t allow this girl to make a mockery of him. He’d proceed with his original plan for Thick Soled. It was a fine idea, and it aligned with the questions he’d asked them, in their initial interview.
Although, as this was a feature in the magazine in two weeks’ time, he did have the option to fix it…
No.
He continued to rub at himself, bringing his thin, red skin far above the tip, and then fueling it down, moving faster, with more insistence. As he gave himself this pleasure, Charlotte’s trim form appeared in his mind, with her bouncing breasts cupped in his hands, her stunning, pink lips opening to reveal a provocative moan.
His idea didn’t really amount to much, did it? He halted his masturbation, suddenly stuck on his job. Fuck. Keeping his hand around his cock, he waited for the feeling to pass—for his lust for release to return. But again, Charlotte’s idea sprung to his mind, growing more insistent.
He couldn’t fuck her. But with that brain, he couldn’t fire her, either.
With sudden anger, he released his hand and then yanked his pants together, zipping them with a flourish. “Jesus Christ.” He rose to his feet and stared out the window, wishing he’d just stayed with his daughter that day. Things were simpler, out there. Cartoon-watching. Eating macaroni and cheese. Outside, the traffic had ramped up, becoming bumper to bumper. Taxis blared and squawked. Everything felt sinister.
Maybe he needed to face the disaster head-on. Yes, he and Charlotte had an immediately, physical and emotional attraction. But also, they could be partners; they could be friends. If only he gave her the opportunity. He was the fucking editor-in-chief of MMM. He could do whatever he wanted.
“Stop being so fucking weak,” he whispered gruffly to himself, having a sudden, urgent desire for a lick of hard alcohol or even hard drugs. He hardly had those cravings any longer, having been to rehab as a younger man. But occasionally, the urgency struck at inopportune times, proving that he would always, eternally, be an addict.
Perhaps now he was more or less addicted to Charlotte.
A knock on the door disturbed his reverie. “Come in!” he yelled and tried to return to some kind of normalcy, at least outwardly.
Maggie shot into the office, then, with a mighty, tooth-filled grin on her face. She shut the door behind her and then meandered toward his desk, tossing her hips flirtatiously. God, when was this going to end?
“Hey, there, Q. Sorry about that rogue intern,” she said, her voice casual.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Quentin said, trying to toss it away. “Really. The girl has spunk. I like that.”
“Well, she’s going to have to take her spunk somewhere else,” Maggie said, giggling madly.
“What? What do you mean?” Quentin asked, eyeing her darkly.
“We can’t have an intern interrupting you in your own meetings, Q,” Maggie said, speaking like an impatient mother. “I mean, she’s rude as can be. Sure, her ideas are—”
“Really great,” Quentin interrupted. “They’re really great ideas. You haven’t had an idea like that since you started.” He stamped his hands on either side of his waist, simmering.
Maggie halted. “Fuck. That’s a thing to say,” she murmured finally, stretching the sad tension in the room.
“You know I didn’t mean it,” Quentin began, bowing his head. He no longer made eye contact with her, angered at himself for hurting her. For years, she’d been one of his confidants. One of his friends.
Before Charlotte had ignited some kind of bad boy mentality in him once more. Now, he wanted to stomp through his life, blast through people, tower over them, become the very portrait of his past self.
“So, you fired her?” Quentin asked, his voice quiet.
“I told her to leave. Yes,” Maggie murmured. She collapsed in the chair across form him, clearly shaken. “Quentin, if you don’t see any validity for my position any longer—”
“Don’t be foolish,” Quentin said, his heart hammering. “You know I don’t feel that way.”
“I don’t know what to feel,” she murmured.
Fuck. Quentin felt yanked between two worlds. Maggie’s shrunken face was bursting slight tears from her eyes, while Charlotte was probably packing a small box of things, fired on her fourth day of work.
“No one’s fired, Maggie,” he said firmly. “Especially not Charlotte. We need her.”
