20
Quentin smacked his notes onto his desk and slammed his door, feeling an intense, passionate rage fuel through his bloodstream. His c**k pressed tightly against the crotch of his dark jeans, angered that he hadn’t f****d Charlotte immediately. The moment he’d made eye contact with her—something he’d been trying whole-heartedly not to do—he’d sensed it wasn’t over between them, no matter how much he tried to convince himself of such.
And now, she’d blasted his idea, telling him a much better one. When he’d been a beginner writer at MMM, he’d had the balls and the gumption to pitch ideas like that, blasting past all staff above him and making several enemies, but even more friends.
He tossed himself into his chair, then, and slowly unzipped his crotch, pulling out his rock-hard, pulsin
