Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  He shifts his legs. His hand on my head curls into a fist.

  I start to hum around him.

  He groans. “Cleo... fuck.”

  I hum a little more, and his hand on my hair trembles. He makes a low sound in his throat and closes his eyes.

  He’s feeling good. I can tell because his dick swells in my mouth, and his balls, cradled in my palm, tighten a little more.

  I brush the head of him against my throat and suck the rest of him tightly, with all the softest parts of my mouth. I tickle my fingertips gently over his balls, and then I tickle behind them, over the forbidden taint.

  He jumps a little, and I suck him deeper.

  “Christ. Oh shit...”

  I bob my head a little faster. He pulls out a little. His breaths are coming louder, faster. His eyes are squeezed shut.

  He strokes my cheek with his fingertips and pushes back in, moaning. His legs twitch. His balls draw up a little more.

  I whirl my tongue around him.

  “God you’re... fuck. Keep going... Cleo, fuck don’t stop.”

  I flick my tongue against the tiny slit at the head of him. He jumps. “FUCK,” he groans.

  He thrusts deeper down my throat, and his gusting breaths turn to tight moans. His fingers grasp the towel on my head. And then, just when I feel him start to really throb, just when every muscle in his body tenses and he breathes, “oh fuck,” he pulls out. He strokes himself just once, and blows all over my shoulder.

  I rest my hands on his calves while he sits there with his eyes shut, panting.

  When he opens his eyes, he looks dazed. Dazed but happy. Satisfied, despite the way he pulled out of my mouth. “Fucking hell, Cleo. That’s a gift.”

  I laugh. He wraps an arm around my head and pulls me in between his legs. I rest my cheek against his thigh.

  “That felt so good,” he says hoarsely.

  “I’m glad.” I kiss his inner thigh. Chills spread out from where my lips meet his warm skin. I smile up at him. “This has been a great night.”

  “You’re what’s good.” His damp hand cups my cheek.

  “I guess I kinda like being your slut.”

  Something about my comment makes his eyes look unhappy. As I’m wondering what bothered him, he climbs out of the tub and grabs hold of a towel rack.

  “You okay?”

  He laughs. “All the blood’s gone down here,” he says, nodding at his cock. It’s still half-hard.

  I watch him as he towels off. Once, as he turns, I think I see a small tat on his back, just over his left hip. I’m about to ask about it when he helps me from the tub, wraps me in a towel, and hugs me close while walking me toward the bed.

  He settles me on it with my legs spread. “I need to eat you one more time before you to go sleep.”

  Ten

  September 11, 2014

  Cleo-

  Fucking hell, I know it’s wrong. It’s dangerous—for you, for sure, but maybe me as well.

  And yet…

  The taste of your pussy is my drug. I wake up for the chance to be between your thighs. Your body feels so warm and soft when I hold you.

  I’m surprised. My Sloth—I never would have known.

  I need you now. Because of you? Because of me? I’m afraid I know the answer. I’m in a desperate state—that’s true. But not just anyone would do. Maybe it had to be you.

  I should send you home. I should push you far away before you learn more.

  I can’t. I can’t!

  My brother Lyon used to scold me for my lack of moral compass. I guess he was right. Don’t worry, Cleo baby. I can keep my secret locked down. I won’t break your heart. I fucking swear. I’ll be sure you never, ever know.

  I hope you’re not too worried for your friend “R.” Don’t spend your time worrying for me.

  Seventeen more days of you in my house. If I can hold out that long, I’m going to cherish all of them.

  -R.

  (It’s his name. He was Robert Lyon. We both owe you.)

  Eleven

  Cleo

  “Cleo?” Smooth fingers stroke my face. His voice is soft and smoky in my ear. “Do you want to go with me? To the pick-up?”

  I drag my heavy eyelids open. I blink at his handsome face. “What time is it?” I rasp.

  “It’s four-thirty.”

  I open my eyes wider and find Kellan standing over me, looking tired and distinctly soft around the edges. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that hugs his muscles, and...

  “My God.” I flex my legs. “Ohhhh.”

  “Sore?” He smirks.

  “Oh... very. Ow.” I sit up, groaning as I do.

  Kellan helps me down from the big bed and I dress quickly in jeans and a black Tom Petty t-shirt, because I assume there’s a certain time we have to be there.

  As I sit in the wing-backed chair and tie my sneakers, looking out at the pitch black night through the window wall, he comes and crouches at my feet. He rests a hand on the shoe I’ve already laced and looks up into my eyes. “There’s a risk here. I want to be sure you know that. Are you okay with that?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I finish tying my other shoe and straighten up. He takes my hand and rubs the top of it, so gentle that, for a second, my eyes drift shut again. I pull them open, finding him somber. “Isn’t there a risk with dealing too?”

  He nods, covering my hand fully with his. “But this is different. I’m not getting that much imported anymore, but this is a lot more than you’ve ever had on hand. I don’t think anything will go wrong, but we could get busted. It’s always a possibility.”

  I shrug. “Optimist, remember?” I push my hair back. Little strands of it have escaped my French braid and are hanging in my eyes, but I’m not going to take the time to re-braid it. Not here, anyway. Maybe in the car. “Hey, that reminds me. Where’s that stray cat you were telling me about?”

  He shrugs. “I haven’t seen her lately.” He stands up and pulls me with him. When I’ve gotten to my feet, he laces his fingers through mine, and as we walk through his room, I think how strange it is to just be holding hands. In a way it’s even stranger than our casual-not-casual sex has been. He bends his wrist, bringing my arm a little closer to his body, and it feels so nice.

  We walk downstairs that way, and I find he’s already made us each a water bottle. There’s a granola bar by mine. Kellan lets my hand go so he can grab both bottles. I grab my granola bar and Truman bounds over from some unknown Truman resting spot. The three of us clomp down the hall as if we’re going to do something ordinary, like throw a Frisbee at the park, and I’m reminded of “Scooby Doo.”

  “Did you ever watch ‘Scooby Doo?’” I ask Kellan as he locks the front door.

  His mouth curves up in a lazy, sort-of smile. “Oh yeah. Did you?”

  “Yep. I was always wanting to wear my Grans’ old lady head scarves around my neck so I could look like Daphne.”

  Kellan laughs—a rich chuckle that makes my skin tingle—and steps in front of me to open my car door. I scramble into my seat, disappointed when I have to let his hand go. I beam at him as he closes the door behind me, then I smile out at the darkness through the windshield. I hear the door behind me open and close, and then Truman’s head appears between the two front seats. I rub his ears as Kellan gets into the car.

  I notice as he cranks it that the design on his worn blue t-shirt is a manatee. My eyes drift down to his thighs, which are clad in dark denim.

  “You’re such a California guy,” I tease as he turns down the dirt driveway.

  He tugs on his t-shirt and raises his brows.

  “I love manatees.”

  “High school fundraiser,” he says.

  “I want to hear about your swanky high school.”

  Kellan reaches down by his door, pulling out a navy Braves cap that he presses onto his head. He adjusts the bill as he turns from his driveway onto the dirt road that will take us to the highway.

  “Some other time,” he says.<
br />
  “Are you nervous?” I ask as we bump over the dirt road. Moonlight pearls on the hood of his car, so bright white it hurts my eyes.

  He shakes his head, and I’m surprised to find that I’m a little disappointed by how focused he seems on the road, by how his free hand rests on his right knee instead of twined in mine. And realizing my feelings, I feel a trill of fear.

  This isn’t serious, I remind myself. But the words ring hollow in my head.

  He looks somehow both younger and older in the ball cap. Like a high school baseball player—or a young dad. The light from the dash illuminates the planes of his face, and they look like mine. My heart says MINE. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Who will we be seeing tonight?” I ask quietly.

  “I get the imports from my Uncle Pace,” Kellan says. “He’s really a cousin, but he’s kind of old, so we just always called him uncle.”

  “Oh. A family member.”

  He nods. “I used to get more shipments, but now I’m growing so much—so much good shit—that I only get a shipment once a month. It helps supplement in case something happens to my crop, and it gives us seeds to continue cross-breeding. The plants we’re getting tonight are pretty young, so they’re small. We’re only getting twenty of them.”

  “Only!” I laugh.

  As we start down the highway, headed for the east side of town, Kellan explains that he bought the abandoned toy factory at a bank auction; it has doors on the back that open like a garage. He tells me he’s in the process of remodeling so he can sell it. Until then, it’s used for deals like this.

  The east side of Chattahoochee is the “bad” side of town. Even I, who rarely leave campus, know that. And tonight, the evidence is everywhere. Shadowed figures with bowed heads shuffle along the uneven sidewalk that runs alongside the street. Run-down cars idle in front of decrepit-looking buildings. We pass a violent jade Mercedes Benz with flashy rims, and my eyes slide to Kellan.

  “Do other drug dealers know you?” I ask.

  He smiles tightly. “I don’t have any criminal enemies, Cleo. I’ll open the warehouse doors with this—” he taps a flip-down compartment in the ceiling of the Escalade—“and we’ll drive in. The doors will close right behind us. In the main garage area, there are no windows to the outside. No one will see a light in there and come to see what’s up. There’s an office attached, and all the lights will be off there too.”

  I chew my lip, and his hand spreads over my knee. “I’ve got a good security system, baby. Just because of the neighborhood it’s in.” He nods at the digital clock on the dash. “By the time we get there, Manning and Pace will already have things all settled. Only reason I go too is prudence.”

  “You mean you don’t trust Manning?”

  “Not at all,” he says. He takes a left at a litter-strewn intersection and we drive slowly down a dark, one-way street. Kellan reaches up to touch the ceiling, hits the brakes, and a second later, we’re driving into darkness. “I trust him,” he says calmly as the dark garage looms around us. “But this is my thing. I’m the one in charge, so I should be here with him.”

  Just as my throat starts feeling uncomfortably tight, someone flicks the lights on, and I’m stunned to find we’re in a large open space, almost like a skating rink, with creamy, sheetrock walls and a smooth, cement floor. About a dozen yards in front of us is a large white van, and by it, Manning’s Harley.

  “Lights flick off when we open the garage door, and flick back on once we’re in,” Kellan explains. He lifts his hand off my knee and tugs the bill of his cap in what seems like a nervous gesture.

  Manning and a short, pot-bellied man walk out from behind a white van, and Kellan nods. “See the old guy?” I note the man’s torn jeans and Pink Floyd t-shirt. “That’s my Uncle Pace. I’ll check things out, we’ll do some back slapping, and then you and me are out. It should be simple.” He winks, and I try to calm the riot rushing through my veins.

  “I wanted you to see how easy this is,” Kellan explains as he adjusts his cap again. “So if you ever had to do it, you’d know how.”

  “If I ever had to—”

  Truman barks when he sees Manning, and I watch Kellan’s face tighten as Pace raises his hand in a wave.

  They both start toward the Escalade, and Kellan says, “Wait here. Manning is picking the stuff up. Don’t know why he’s on his bike.”

  My stomach twists as Kellan saunters over to them. I never noticed until now what a nice swagger he has. In a t-shirt and jeans, it’s easy to admire.

  I watch as Manning holds out a hand and Kellan clasps it in a friendly shake. It’s weird, though, because as he does that, I see tension in his back and shoulders. Manning’s face is serious. Kellan holds out one arm, and Pace holds out both hands.

  I can’t hear what’s being said, but Manning’s face tightens, and Pace looks unhappy. Kellan’s arm slices the air. Manning touches his shoulder. Kellan takes a long step back.

  Over the dull roar of the Escalade’s AC, I hear someone shout.

  Kellan? The low boom echoes through the empty warehouse. Pace gets right in front of Kellan, reaching for his shoulder. Kellan pushes him. My heart hammers as I crack my window.

  Manning looks unhappy. Do I trust him? He seemed like a good ole boy.

  Kellan grabs Pace’s collar. “Don’t you fucking mention Lyon! EVER! Goddamn fucking Pace!” I can’t hear what Pace says back, but it doesn’t go over well with Kellan. He shoves Pace’s shoulders. Manning grabs Kellan’s arm, and Kellan takes a swing at Manning.

  “Get out of here.” I think that’s what he growls. Manning doesn’t move—I think he’s saying something I can’t hear. Kellan scoffs. His face, which I can see from the side, looks as if he’s laughing at Manning—but his shoulders are still heaving. Manning shrugs and gets on his bike. He looks pissed, but I hear him crank it, so that must mean he’s leaving.

  For the next minute, my attention is split between Manning riding slowly out the garage door, and Kellan as he and Uncle Pace begin to go at it again.

  Shit!

  Pace grabs Kellan’s arm, and cold fear sweeps me. Kellan shoves his chest, and for the first time, Pace looks angry. Kellan gets up in his face, and after something else is said, he shoves Pace again.

  My mind races. Is Pace a nice guy? Does he know I’m in the car? What if he hurts Kellan? I crack my door open, because I want to feel more mobile.

  Kellan’s voice booms through the warehouse. “I am!” Pace says something and he gets up in his face. “Oh no, you didn’t think. Fuck you, Pace. Fuck you,” he sneers.

  I catch another low, pissed off voice, and possibly an “idiot” from Pace’s mouth. Then Kellan leans closer, with his hand on Pace’s shoulder. I think they might be making nice when Kellan hauls his arm back and smashes the shorter man in the jaw.

  Truman barks—a low, intimidating sound that has me shrinking against the cracked door before I realize his tail is still thumping against the back seat. I put my hand on the door handle, clutching it as Pace shouts something.

  He covers his face with one hand, and Kellan laughs—a bitter sound.

  Pace says something loud and forceful. I see blood drip from his nose. Kellan shoves his shoulder, and he holds his hands out. I can’t hear his words, but they are loud and they sound pissed off.

  Shit, did someone sell him out? My pulse is so frantic, I can barely breathe.

  I slide into the driver’s seat and crack that window too.

  “It’s up to me. Not Robert—ME,” he says, as Pace puts pressure on his bleeding nose. “You need to remember that shit.”

  Something else is said. Pace looks sad. Kellan seethes. Pace opens his mouth, and Kellan seems to take that as his cue to go.

  He stalks back toward the car, his hands in fists, his long strides closing the distance between us quickly. He’s within spitting range when Pace says something else. Kellan whirls around, stalks over to him, and slaps his shoulder.

  “Fuck you
then,” I hear him say. He sounds resigned.

  Seconds later, he is at the driver’s door. When he sees me there, he walks around and gets into the passenger’s seat.

  “Drive,” he snaps.

  I do.

  Twelve

  Kellan

  I’m so furious I can’t speak. I can barely breathe as Cleo drives us back toward my house. I train my gaze on the night outside the windshield. Pace’s words ping pong around my mind, and every echo brings on new fury. The rage I feel is thick enough to fill my chest, until I’m numb and heavy, curled around a fire deep in my gut.

  After parking the car, Cleo shepherds Truman toward the porch, steers me up the stairs with her hand on my lower back, and uses my key to open the front door.

  I feel ill as we walk toward the kitchen. All because of Pace—and Manning. Fucking Pace betrayed me. Fucking Manning. Clueless bastard. They took this shit I’ve been pushing out to sea and brought it crashing through me, crashing through my house. I can’t be here. I stop before I reach the living room and look down the hall, at the front door. I could go. A part of me just wants to go.

  Cleo’s hand around my forearm brings me back. “Come on in here,” her soft voice says. “Your hand is scraped. I can clean it up for you.”

  She leads me to the couch and I sit down, my eyes cast to my boots. I can’t look at the TV. I don’t want to see the sunset post cards on the end table. Even the sight of my own legs makes my throat tighten in impotent fury, but I can’t escape myself. Not yet, anyway.

  Cleo disappears. I feel a pang. When she returns, she’s got my first aid kit. I don’t move as she cleans my knuckles, smooths a Band-Aid over one of them. I rest my head against the back of the couch and let sleep tug at me.

  I could go to sleep.

  I can’t go to sleep.

  On every level possible, I have to rage against that bullshit Pace threw at me. I’m tired but I have to fight. I’m living on my own damn terms—but when I feel this desperate, I know of nothing that will help except to be between a woman’s legs.