Nine
“How do you feel about podcasts?”
Victoria looks up from the medical journal she’s reviewing, twirling her pad thai around her fork.
She swallows the bite in her mouth. “I like them. Seems like everyone has a podcast these days, but there was a really helpful one my classmates and I listened to during med school that broke down important board topics.”
Charlie leans back in her office chair, tapping a chopstick against her rice container. “How would you feel about being on a podcast?”
Victoria looks thoughtful, then points her fork at Charlie. “Which one?”
As succinctly as possible, Charlie explains the basics, glossing over the theme of the podcast and stressing its wide reach and how it can help garner attention for the clinic.
By the end, Victoria appears intrigued, a brightness in her gray eyes that had dulled from the stress of the clinic’s impending sale.
“And you think we could get enough support to remain open?”
Charlie shrugs. “I’m hoping it will help, at least. Carolyn sent some inquiries to her media contacts, and we did have that nice write-up in the local paper the other day.”
They have seen an uptick in appointment requests and have received a few small donations. But right now, this seems like their best option.
Victoria nods slowly, glancing out the window. Charlie holds her breath, carefully watching her mentor’s face.
“Theo Fox?” Victoria faces her again. “He’s an actor?”
“You could say that,” Charlie replies, hiding her amusement as she pictures Theo’s indignation at Victoria having only a vague idea of who he is. “His parents are Cecilia Gao and Christian Fox. He’s only had a few minor roles.”
Victoria taps her chin. “Interesting. And I’d go on and talk about the clinic?”
“That and whatever else you want. The benefits of STI testing, communication during sex, destigmatizing genital herpes.” Charlie waves a hand.
“Like the talks you do around here. His producer will contact you to discuss your ideas. Theo records in New York, so if you’re amenable, he’d prefer to do it there.
” She hesitates before adding, “His podcast recently started catering to a specific crowd. He wants to change that, and having you on might help him as well as us.”
Victoria types something before turning her attention back to Charlie. “What kind of crowd?”
Charlie pauses, trying to find a polite way to describe Theo’s audience of overtly masculine listeners. Before she can, however, there’s a knock on the office door.
Dwayne, one of the clinic’s security guards, stands at the door, accompanied by—
Speak of the fucking devil.
Dwayne points to Theo with his thumb. “This man says he’s here to see you.”
Theo flashes his signature movie-star grin, wiggling his fingers.
“Who are you?” Victoria asks, and Charlie is granted her wish of witnessing the brief flash of confusion that crosses Theo’s face when someone doesn’t immediately recognize him.
Gliding into the office, he recovers quickly, his gaze fixed on Victoria. “Someone who is looking forward to getting to know you.”
“Theo,” Charlie snaps before turning to Victoria, who appears to be contemplating whether to be amused or murder this stranger.
“Victoria, this is who I was just talking about. Theo Fox. Theo”—she shoots him a look that says shut the fuck up—“this is Dr. Victoria Angelo, CEO and medical director of The Wild Rue.”
Victoria stands, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you. Charlie was just telling me about your podcast.”
Theo accepts her hand, something he failed to do with Charlie, but she’s grateful for small mercies. It’s less of a handshake, however, and more of an intense gaze into Victoria’s eyes like he’s trying to read her soul.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Charlie clears her throat.
Releasing Victoria’s hand, Theo slides his hands into the pockets of jeans that probably cost more than Charlie’s rent and proceeds to study the small office. He has shaved, his hair is styled, and he’s wearing a fitted cream sweater that she presumes is no less than the most expensive cashmere.
“I wanted to introduce myself and meet my future guest in person.” Theo picks up the stapler from Victoria’s desk, then replaces it and picks up the Labubu in a rainbow onesie.
“Is there anything specific you want to discuss?” Victoria tracks his movements, her gaze fixed on his long fingers.
He returns the Labubu, drags his index finger through a mug full of pens, and turns a picture frame around to examine the photo of Victoria’s sister and nephew smiling brightly outside the Museum of Air and Space on a recent trip.
After tapping bobblehead Ruth Bader Ginsberg, he finishes his examination of Victoria’s personal belongings and sprawls in the lone empty chair.
“I should be asking you that. Not sure if Charlie mentioned, but I frequently discuss sex and people’s personal histories with sex.
I don’t have a lot of female guests, something I’m hoping to change.
” He tips his head toward Victoria with a smile.
“But I will abide by any limitations you set.”
Victoria nods, her expression inscrutable, yet Charlie has no doubt she’s taking the measure of Theo and forming her own impression.
“No personal questions,” she replies.
He tips his head. “That’s kind of the whole point. Sex sells, darling.”
Charlie’s stomach drops at Theo’s boldness.
Victoria raises her brows. “I have no problem talking about sex, but I don’t need to offer personal information to do so.”
Theo rests his cheek on a fist. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
Theo hums. “Me too. Any food restrictions?”
“No.”
Theo grins. “Excellent.”
What the fuck is happening? Charlie’s not sure if she’s imagining the sudden charge connecting the other two people in the room, but neither of them is paying any attention to her, and she feels like she’s intruding on something much too intimate.
She clears her throat. “What do these questions have to do with the episode?”
Theo continues studying Victoria. “I like to make sure my guests are comfortable when they visit the studio.”
“You couldn’t have just sent an email?”
Theo finally tears his gaze away from Victoria, arching a brow. “You gave the impression that this clinic is too important for a mere email, Charlotte.”
Charlie rolls her eyes. Based on their meeting yesterday and what she knows about his public persona, Theo Fox does whatever he wants whenever he wants while enjoying an air of mystery.
Rising to his feet, he taps the picture frame on the desk. “Cute kid.”
“My nephew,” Victoria replies. She leans back in her chair, gently swiveling back and forth.
He turns for the door, calling over his shoulder, “My producer, Bianca, will be in touch.”
“I’m looking forward to our discussion, Theo.” Victoria’s tone is the epitome of professionalism.
He gives a thoughtful hum, his fingers strumming against the doorframe. “How often are those protestors out there?”
“Every day,” Charlie replies.
Theo frowns, looking uncharacteristically perturbed. “Are they usually old white men?”
Charlie sighs. “In general, yes.”
He grimaces. “That’s…disturbing.”
He wiggles his fingers once more and disappears. The door to front reception opens and closes, and silence settles over the office.
“So.” Charlie looks at Victoria, whose expression is a mixture of contemplation and bewilderment. “That is Theo Fox.”
Victoria’s mouth lifts at the corners, her fingers tapping her desk. When she flicks her gaze to Charlie, the glint of determination in her mentor’s eye sends a surge of anticipatory excitement through her.
“I guess I have some podcast episodes to listen to.”
Wes texts her later to schedule another tutoring session. They agree on a time, and she insists that they meet at her place again.
Quinn
I eagerly await your conclusions regarding our experiment ??
She stares at her phone, her fickle heart flipping in her chest. Too excited about her victory with Theo, she hasn’t thought—much—about the sensation of Wes’s hands on her body and his mouth on her neck.
She doesn’t respond.
That night, Charlie lies awake for a long time, staring at her bedroom ceiling. Flopping around, she tries finding a comfortable position, a cool spot on the sheets. She punches her pillow to fluff it, but everything is too hot, her skin overly sensitive even against her soft bedding.
Kicking off her blankets in a pique of frustration, she huffs out a breath and closes her eyes.
She is drowning. Drowning in the waters of Wesley Quinn that are crashing against her shores like a tsunami, battering down her walls like they are mere kindling. It reminds her of what she once yearned for, something foolish and far too na?ve, before she learned from her heartbreak.
While he might not have feelings for her, he made it clear he’s attracted to her, which certainly helps. And he’s offering her something she’s only ever dreamed of.
Do you want to come for me, Charlie?
A whisper in her ear, words etched into her bones.
She reflects on what she learned from their frustratingly illuminating experiment.
The way he deliberately moved his hands over her body indicates experience she’s been yearning for—confidence that he knows what his partner wants—but he was also unafraid to confirm that she liked it. Already a stark contrast to Nash.
Wes’s mouth, sucking on that spot on her neck in a way she didn’t know she wanted, dragging his lips across her skin.
And his words—god, had Wesley Quinn uncovered her desire for dirty talk? The things he said sit in her brain like an itch she’s forbidden to scratch. Taunting her. Burrowing deeper and deeper.
His voice, deep and rumbling, has always done something to her, but now her imagination concocts the most wildly inappropriate phrases he might whisper in her ear.
She exhales; she can feel the ghosts of his hands on her hips, his fingers dancing across the waistband of her pajama shorts. His mouth hot on her neck, his thumb brushing her nipple. So real that she’s burning up, shifting her legs as a gnawing ache builds in her core, begging to be released.
She imagines him covered in a fine sheen of sweat, kneeling on her bed, his hands and powerful arms maneuvering her exactly how he wants, the low timbre of his voice igniting her blood while he tells her what to do, asks her how she likes it, moans his approval.
She may be a virgin, but she knows how to get herself off—she tried to show Nash how to do just that very recently, for god’s sake. But the thought of Wesley Quinn doing it for her has never been so real until this moment.
Years ago, before she learned about her body, about her desire, before she retrained herself to think of sexuality as something to be unashamed of, she felt a paralyzing amount of guilt about her thoughts, about her body’s reactions when a boy kissed her or when she read something tantalizing in a book that made a pressure build between her legs.
Now she knows what she wants, knows it’s normal, and she craves release.
Swallowing, she shifts her hand to her breast, caressing the peaked bud. Wes’s mouth is on hers, his tongue tracing her jaw, laving at her neck. She’s rocking under him, his hard cock pressed against her, right where she needs it.
Her fingers dip below her waistband, and she inhales as she circles her clit, her slickness evidence of how incredibly turned on she is simply by imagining his touch.
Everything is smoldering, and she is one match away from setting all her careful control ablaze.
Sliding another finger over herself, she dips one inside, arching her back. It’s not nearly enough—her own fingers are never enough. A soft mewl crosses her lips, and she is powerless to resist envisioning what his fingers would feel like inside her.
Do you want to come for me, Charlie?
Yes, she moans. Faster, please, she gasps.
He complies, finding a rhythm, building her higher and higher, coaxing her, telling her how good she is, how good she feels, how he wants to see her lose control—
She breaks, shattering over the edge. A quiet gasp escapes before she bites down on her bottom lip, riding herself through her orgasm, her fingers keeping a frenzied pace until she collapses against her mattress, utterly spent.
Her pulse thumps in her ears as her breathing returns to normal. Blinking up at the ceiling, she removes her fingers from her shorts, content to remain spread-eagle, waiting for sleep to finally take hold. And then the realization of who exactly she just got off to slowly dawns on her.
Audibly, she groans. “Fucking fuck.”