Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

“People will seeeee!” I push against his blond head and he leans back, grinning.

  I look down. “There’s a wet spot!”

  “More than one I’d bet.”

  I hmph. “You’re evil.”

  He just lifts his brows and lays his hand between his legs. I feel another burst of warmth between my thighs as his fingers curve around a huge erection.

  “God... that’s hot. I’m not going to lie.”

  “Good.” His voice is low; a purr.

  He reaches for me again. I slap at his hand. “I’ve gotta go!” I giggle—not a sound my mouth is used to making.

  Kellan’s eyes are hooded. His smile back is dark. He pushes the base of his palm against his dick one more time, watching my face as I watch him.

  “I’m putting you on Smuffins,” I say. “It’s decided. Secret footage... upload, BAM. Everyone gets to enjoy. Your dick is so big.”

  He strokes it and smirks. “What happened to ‘I’ve gotta go?’”

  “I do! Now leave!” I slide down from the Escalade and pull my shorts up—high. Then I bend down, pushing my ass into the triangle of space created by my open door.

  I hear him groan as I straighten up and grin. “What? Just dropped my pencil.”

  I catch that dark look in his eyes again as I slam the door shut.

  When I sit down in my desk in class, my phone’s screen lights up with a text.

  ‘Hope that ass is ready. Tonight... Pick u up at 5 after your art class?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  I mean I can’t wait to see him again, but I decide to let him think I’m clamoring to have his dick in my ass. If he wants to do it, I’ll end up letting him, so might as well have the added satisfaction of seeing him all eager for it.

  I sigh and clench my pussy. I’m so wet. I’m pulsing all through class.

  Art instruction techniques, my next class, includes a lecture on sculpting. I can’t quit picturing my hands over Kellan’s naked body. God, he’s hot. Soft, soft skin... The hardness underneath.

  I can’t believe things have taken a turn this way. Kellan the asshole, Kellan the kinky bastard, is someone I like. Like... really like.

  I’m not sure I can sit through class, I want to see him so badly. I want to touch him. Want to suck his dick. I really do. I want to cup his balls and stroke my finger over his taint and feel his cock pulse in my mouth. I want to hear those hoarse sounds he makes.

  I want to swallow. And then after he’s satiated, when he’s gone all sleepy and soft, I want to curl around him and whisper funny things into his ear.

  It’s strange to have these feelings. They’re so big and... engulfing. But I feel happy to lay myself at his feet. Why? Because he’s giving me something no one has in... ever, maybe. It’s... this sense of peace. In my counseling classes, my professors go on and on about a happy place. It’s like... this little mental cubby you create for yourself, a little bit of fantasy where you can just relax. It’s a conceptual thing—something to tell clients in therapy; they think of something traumatic, you’re supposed to steer them to a happy place when they’re done—but with Kellan, life feels like that. Cozy.

  I slip out of art class a few minutes early and go wait for him behind the building. Mmm. I’m going to stroke his dick while he drives us back to his house. When we get there... God, it’s crazy to say, but I kind of hope he does put it inside me. Back there.

  I smirk as I stand on the curb, watching the cars that flow in and out of the U-shaped lot.

  I hope his uncle’s still doing okay. I wonder if he’ll talk about that sometime, and I hope he will. I think of how upset he was, and all I want is to make him feel good. The way he made me feel when we drove down to Albany.

  I stand there for what seems like an entire day, feeling soft and raw and wanting and... exposed, in such a weird way. Like everyone who drives and walks by can see my longing for Kellan.

  Maybe they can.

  Geez, where is he? I check my phone, and find it’s ten after five.

  That’s kind of strange. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. I don’t know where he parked, after all.

  By 5:20, I haven’t seen him, and I can’t get an answer on his phone. I’m stuck between annoyed and concerned—until I remember my car is here on campus.

  I rush to his house and find him sleeping in the windowed room. His shirt is unbuttoned, and he’s curled over with his palm pressed to his throat. I see a half a Xanax—it’s got jagged edges, like he bit it—on the bedside table and feel a curl of sympathy. Concern.

  Something’s bugging him. My thoughts of sex fly out the window. Later, I think to myself.

  I climb up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I press my cheek against the firm plane of his back. In his sleep, Kellan sighs gently.

  Seventeen

  Kellan

  When you add it all up, it’s never enough. It wasn’t enough with any of the others, and it’s fuck sure not with Cleo.

  I watch her sleep. I stroke my dick and dream of sliding it inside her.

  I’m not going to.

  She doesn’t know it, but our time is up.

  * * *

  Cleo

  When I wake up in the canopied bed, I have no idea what time or even what day it is. Wasn’t Kellan in here with me? He was... I remember, but he’s not now. I’m alone. The window wall in front of me is dark, which makes it easy to see the flashing of my cell phone.

  I hope for him until I see the number: (800) 627-7692.

  Ugh. I quickly debate answering, and decide I will because I think it may be the Albany power company. One of the last times I went home, I dropped by the office and changed the phone number on my house’s account from Grans’ to mine. This way if they’re late on the bill, I can pay off some of it, so when Grans or Mom gets the money to pay it, it’s less than they expected.

  I swallow, clearing the sleep from my throat. “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Autumn Whatley?”

  I slide off the bed, eager to go in search of Kellan. “This is Autumn—otherwise known as Cleo.”

  “Hi, my name is Cindy and I work with Be The Match.”

  My heart stops. At least, it feels that way. I urge my lungs to breathe again and lean against the bed. “Um... yeah?” The word cracks.

  Fuck fuck fuck...

  “I’m calling to request a preliminary evaluation. Our records indicate you might be a match for someone on our roster. Would you be willing to undergo basic testing in the next few days, understanding we may make additional requests pending results?”

  I let my breath out. “That’s why you called?”

  “We’re on an expedited timeline, so we’re asking that you act on this as soon as possible.”

  I nod slowly, letting this sink in. It’s been years since I heard from them. I never thought I would again. Not unless... I shake my head. “Sure... that’s fine. No problem. If I am a match, I would... go through this again?” Would it be to the same person? My pulse races.

  “If you are a match, you would be called upon again. I see here in your records that you’ve done this before.” There’s a brief pause, in which I try to breathe. Then she says, “Are there any other questions, Cleo? We’re so glad that you’re a part of Be The Match.”

  I inhale deeply. Exhale. Let my two-ton question tumble forth. “Can you tell me anything about Robert?”

  “Robert?” she echoes.

  “You don’t know the name of my last match?” My tone is sharper than I intended, but I find I don’t care.

  I hear a brief pause, followed by loud typing. “What information are you requesting, Miss Whatley? I’m limited by—there are rules in place to—”

  “How is he?” I whisper.

  I hear a delicate clearing of her throat. “It looks like... mmhmm. I can see your chart is marked with blue—which means you’ve been flagged based on your file from last time.”

  My stomach hollows out. “Are you saying that I’m being called again as a m
atch for R.—Robert, I mean? Could I be matched with him again?”

  Silence fills the line. “What’s the last report you received on Robert D., Miss Whatley?”

  I clamp my teeth down on my tongue. “I haven’t gotten one. Not since a while back. That’s why I’m asking. It’s been really bugging me, the silence from him.”

  A heavy sigh comes through my phone. My throat tightens. My stomach heaves, and I just know. I can feel the bad news coming like a train. “Cleo. I’m so sorry to inform you, your last match is listed as deceased.”

  “Deceased?” The word makes no sense. Less than no sense.

  “I’m sorry that you didn’t know. We don’t want to discourage—”

  Her voice sounds like it’s underwater. I hang up the phone.

  Eight forty-three PM, my phone says.

  I sit down on the rug. I wait for tears, but they don’t come. My face feels like a slab of wood. My heart thumps painfully.

  I check Kellan’s bedroom first, peeling the blanket away from the wall so I can examine the hidden door. As I dash downstairs, I wonder why I’ve never asked what’s in there. I wonder why I didn’t tell him about the girl I saw today.

  But I already know the answer: because I didn’t want to rock the boat. Despite the strong connection I feel to him—a connection that seems to grow stronger every minute—the boat with Kellan feels unsteady. Probably because he runs so hot and cold. My mom has always been that way: happy when she’s on a two-day off shift from the factory; quiet and withdrawn on work days. I grew up trying to make her happy, trying to help keep our struggling household steady. It’s why I got good grades. To avoid rocking the boat. I do the same thing now as I press my lips together to hold in a sob, despite the awful ripping sensation in my chest. I want to fall onto the floor and wail.

  Instead, when I get downstairs, I stalk through the living room and kitchen, then the formal dining room, the half-bath, and the library, which I’ve only ever peeked at through a half-cracked door till now.

  I can’t find Kellan. I can’t sit down. I swallow repeatedly as I get Helen more diced chicken, re-fill Truman’s water bowl, and rearrange the pillows on the couch.

  I pace the living room, peek out the back door, the house’s front door, and then dash back upstairs. I give the rumpled bed a glance—I imagine Kellan and me, intertwined tightly enough to extinguish the awful ache behind my breastbone—before I change into a black cotton sundress, pull a gray sweater on over it, and slide my feet into black flip-flops. Then I step out onto the balcony.

  The pine trees are a dark mass. I aim my gaze above them, looking frantically for Leo.

  I drank a shot of Snow Queen for you 8/7 also. Maybe in an alternate reality, we were drinking them together.

  Just as hot tears start to come, something pale near the ground attracts my gaze: a smoke cloud. I know without question that it’s Kellan.

  Why did he tell me he never smokes? What’s the point in lying, I wonder as I trek down to the river. I want him to feel like he can tell the truth with me. So I can tell the truth with him. Raw pain slices my heart as I wonder if I’m being foolish, letting myself feel this way.

  No choice.

  I have no damn choice, I’m finding.

  It feels dangerous. So dangerous, especially tonight.

  Oh God...

  I cross the lawn with long strides, my flip-flops sinking into warm, damp grass. Please be okay, I find myself chanting.

  With this loss sitting heavy in me, the night air seems to vibrate. I can’t see in the growing darkness. Unease is a small hand knocking on my chest.

  I find Kellan leaning against one of the thicker pines, his bare feet planted in the muddy riverbank. The fingers of his right hand cradle a blunt. Truman sits beside him on his haunches, stiff-backed, as if he’s trying to make his wayward owner more respectable.

  I stand a few feet from them, waiting for Kellan to look over at me. When he doesn’t, I press my trembling lips together and wait until I can’t wait anymore. I murmur, “Hey.”

  His gaze glides to mine, and I feel cold in my soft dress and flip flops. The sweater I’ve got on doesn’t shield me from the river breeze. The air slaps at me, seeping into my chest.

  I fold my arms under my breasts and try to read his face. It’s so... still. At the moment I need connection more than ever, Kellan gives me no clues to his mood. When he shifts his eyes back to the water, I look him over frantically.

  The guy before me doesn’t look a thing like the Kellan Walsh I met in the student center. He’s wearing that same charcoal t-shirt from last night and what I think are black jeans. His soft blond hair is sticking up, like he’s been running his hands through it. His handsome face, so kind at times, so open in quiet moments, has its doors closed.

  I feel a sharp ache in my chest when I think of his arm around me at Olive’s grave. The way he looked holding the mug of spiked hot chocolate... was that yesterday? God, I feel as if we’re in some kind of time warp. Again, the sensation that I’ve known him for a long time. That I know him well. And now, the bitter truth that I need him.

  I need something...

  The sound of my exhale is louder than the rushing river, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t want to look at me. I may not be a Kellan expert yet, but I can feel his withdrawal—his isolation.

  It makes me desperate. I want to grab onto his shoulders and just... bite him. I could bite him hard enough to taste his blood. I want to throw him down and ride his cock. I want to sob into his chest.

  I fold my wants away and level him with an impassive look. “I thought you didn’t smoke,” I say softly.

  “I don’t.”

  I wait a moment for his gaze to brush my face. I need the softness of his gaze, the touch of his interest. But his attention is mired in the river.

  “Well you do,” I say. I chew my lip.

  “Sometimes...”

  I want to grab his thick forearm and pull him close in that proprietary manner he uses with me. But the thought of it burns—because I don’t feel like I can. Kellan calls the shots with us, and that’s a shame, because he’s stormy. Changeable. Sometimes I feel like I’m getting close, and then he flits away. Like now.

  “When you go to sleep that night, be sure you’ve had some alcohol or even Xanax. If that’s not your scene, fall asleep... I don’t know. Reading. Or doing something else.”

  Kellan leans his head against the tree’s trunk and slowly brings the blunt up to his lips. I watch the cherry flare as his chest expands; he holds the smoke in his lungs. A second later, his shoulders slacken, and a thick cloud pours out his mouth.

  He takes another drag, then turns quickly to me.

  He doesn’t cup my mouth or take my shoulders in his hands. He wraps an arm around me, pressing my breasts against the hardness of his chest—and then his lips close over mine.

  For a second I forget what I’m supposed to do. His mouth is closed so tightly over mine, I inhale instinctively, to ward off the sensation of being suffocated.

  Stinging smoke fills my lungs, and Kellan’s mouth lifts off mine. I gulp fresh, damp air. I brace myself for the removal of his arms, but instead, he holds me tight. He wraps an arm under my backside, so my feet come off the ground. He’s holding me to his chest.

  He leans his back against the tree. I feel a tremor flicker through him. Then he buries his face in the crook of my neck.

  I tell myself it’s just his high making him needy, but his grip on me is firm. His breath beneath my ear is warm and real. I can feel his heart pound.

  He sets me down a moment later, and he doesn’t look down at me.

  Just when disappointment spreads through me, he shifts his night-gray eyes to mine. His lips curve up: a little smile; sad little smile.

  “Let’s go inside... so I can hold you for a while.”

  “That sounds good.” I blink back tears.

  Kellan takes my hand and shuts his eyes before we start to walk. I wonder why he seems so
sad—if he can sense my loss. I worry that his uncle took a turn, or that the girl called him, but that doesn’t seem likely—because his hand is threaded through mine. His fingers stroke mine, easing something taut inside me.

  “Your hand is warm,” I whisper as a lightning bug drifts over us. Beyond the blinking yellow light, I find the crouching lion, Leo.

  “Your hand feels good.” His voice is low and rough.

  I run my eyes over Kellan’s messy hair, his tired face... and this time he looks back at me. One corner of his mouth tucks up.

  “You’re good to me,” he murmurs, heavy-lidded.

  “You’re good,” I say back. Oh, please be good...

  I want to throw my arms around his neck and cry. He seems to sense my building grief. His big hand squeezes mine at the moment my heart races, spurred by pain. It’s perfection. I feel weak and warm. Strangely satiated, despite the darkness that hangs over us. I don’t notice Kellan’s stopped walking until I feel the tug of his hand. I look back and find his mouth stretched open.

  I know what I’ll see before I turn back toward the house. It’s in the ether: hurt. Kellan’s sweetness hid it from me, but it was always on its way.

  “Why are you sad? I’m afraid I know the answer, and that brings me to my instructions.”

  It’s her—the girl from the garage. Standing next to her on Kellan’s back porch is his healthy-looking Uncle Pace.

  I see the color drain from Kellan’s cheeks even in the dark. In the faint moonlight, his skin looks alabaster.

  His voice is static. “Go inside, Cleo.”

  My throat closes. I push against the pressure. “Why?”

  “Trust me. I’ll explain this later. I just need a few minutes.”

  “What?” I look from our joined hands to the duo on the porch. They look solemn. Maybe even angry. “You’ll explain what later? Who’s that girl?”

  “She’s no one.” He shakes his head.

  “No she isn’t. She knocked on the car window. In Atlanta.” I drop his hand as my pulse quickens. “Who is she? Just tell me now.”

  His eyes widen, and I know. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I know enough to see that he’s deceived me. His uncle isn’t hurt. Why did we go to Atlanta in the middle of the night? To meet this girl? Who is she to him?