Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  Long legs stretching up from modest heels. A skirt that starts at the knee and hugs tightly. Her feet are slightly spread, and if I got behind her right now, I wouldn’t have to change anything to her position. My hands biting into her hips. That skirt unzipped and puddled around her ankles. Panties pulled aside, cock lined up, her face looking back, eyes on mine.

  I force myself to step forward, to put one shoe ahead of the other, the page crumpling in my grip.

  * * *

  “Explain to me what the fuck you’ve done.” I try to control my voice, try to contain the anger that is rippling through me. The pressure is fucking with my head, it’s fraying at my psyche. Three years ago, I would never have lost my cool over this. Three years ago, I would have politely fired the woman and then left the office, the day still bright enough to get in a trip to Malibu. Three years ago, I didn’t have the IRS and every bank in town on my ass.

  She looks up from her computer and nods toward her door, not one ounce of concern in that pretty face. “Please shut the door.”

  My hands tighten on the back of the leather chair, one of two that sits before her desk. I straighten, and reach one hand out, the tight quarters making it easy to grab ahold of the door and swing.

  Click. The sounds from the office disappear. I turn to face her, and she sits back, her arms crossing over the front of her chest. “I need more clarification. I’ve done a lot of things.”

  “I can see that.” If she were a man, I’d have her by her throat, pushed up against the wall, so close that our bodies were touching. Maybe it’s better that she’s not. I’d probably lose focus.

  She rolls her eyes as if I don’t hold her job in my hands. As if she owns this company, and I am bothering her with my questions. “I don’t have time to play games, Trey. What did I do to piss you off?”

  I should fire her. Right now. Fire her and spend the rest of the day putting my company back together. My hands find the back of the chair again, and I wrap my palms around it, squeezing hard. “You fired seven people.” Seven. A third of the design staff.

  “My job description states that I can adjust staffing.”

  “That’s not an adjustment, that’s insanity.”

  “It cleared five hundred thousand dollars off of the budget. And I spoke to the design staff about it.”

  “Which staff?” I think of the seven people on her ax list. Seven lives she just ruined. Would they find new jobs? Would they—

  “All of them.”

  “Twenty-two employees?” Unlikely.

  “At ten minutes per meeting, it doesn’t take that long. I got in early yesterday and knocked it out. Plus, I used the survey results.”

  Oh yes. The survey. That had certainly put the department into a state of panic. “That wasn’t a survey, it was a witch hunt.” The survey had contained only three questions. It had been sent to her team at precisely two o’clock, and a timer had run in the top of the window, giving the participants only thirty seconds to complete the survey. The first question had asked, on a scale of one to ten, how overworked you felt. The second asked which three jobs were expendable in the company. The third asked which three people were expendable.

  “Witch hunt or not, the results were fairly clear.” She slides a piece of paper forward, one covered in bar graphs and statistics.

  “You fired Ginger. She’s practically our mascot.” Ginger, the seventy-year-old woman who prepared coffee each morning and got everyone’s lunch. Her official title was something about quality control.

  “Be realistic.” She stands up, her steel gaze nothing like the polite interviewee who had quivered before me. “You can’t have mascots and people working here just because they are well-liked. You can’t have a hundred percent of your employees giving ones and twos on their level of stress.” She stabs a finger toward the page. “You are running a business, one that, if we don’t turn around, is going to end up firing every single one of them. I need you to trust me, and in one year, we’ll be giving jobs to a dozen new people. In one year, we will be profitable. In one year, if you want Ginger back, you can have her.”

  I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman so badly in my life. To bury my hands in her hair and dominate that mouth. My hands twitch on the leather back of the chair. I stop myself from moving forward and pulling her across that glass desk.

  I don’t like strong women. I don’t like being yelled at. I don’t like being proven wrong. She has the data. She’s done the homework. I know, I have known, that we are slightly overstaffed. I’ve known for six months that I should lay off one or two people. Seven people is ridiculous. But half a million dollars is badly needed.

  “I didn’t hire you to run my business. I hired you for your creative input and vision. I hired you to create products that sell. You have to consult me in these decisions, even if it involves your team.” She doesn’t understand that this is my family, paychecks I have paid for nine years, lives that depend on me.

  “I was typing up a memo when you came in. You’ll have it within the hour. It will explain all of the reasoning behind the decisions.”

  “Next time, get me the memo before you fire anyone.”

  She tilts her head, as if she is considering the order. I watch her front teeth bite gently down on her bottom lip, and all I can think about is my cock sliding into that mouth. “I need decision-making ability. It’s in my job descript—”

  “Job description,” I interrupt. “I know.” She’s obsessed with them. I can see, spread out on the glass top of her desk, a dozen of them, covering different roles in the company. She’s probably the only one who has ever read them, much less taken them as gospel. I need to review hers. I have a feeling it will be haunting this relationship. I unwrap my fingers from the chair, and can see the indentations I have left, the bites in the leather, ones that are already beginning to fade. I step back, and notice her heels, lined neatly up by the credenza, her bare feet against the wood floors, the tip of each toe painted a light pink. She has tiny ankles, and I have a brief vision of my hand wrapped around one, her feet against my shoulders, my palm running down the length of her legs.

  She raises her eyebrows and I try to find a coherent stream of thought. “I’ll be looking for that memo.” I stop, one hand on the doorknob, and feel like I’m running. I need to say something else, something that puts me back in the driver’s seat and reaffirms my authority.

  There is a long beat where her eyes hold mine, a challenge flashing out, clouding the arousal. My dick is confused, and so is my head.

  I open the door and escape into the hall, into my domain.

  If this woman was lingerie, she’d be black leather, with studs along the seams and enough of a dominatrix vibe to give a man pause.

  If this woman was lingerie, I’d strip it off and then properly show her who is in charge.

  Chapter 5

  HER

  two months later

  “I just don’t understand how you didn’t get it.”

  I let out a controlled breath, pulling my seatbelt across my chest and pushing it into the clasp. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t figure it out.”

  Damn Mensa and their “delightfully fun puzzles!”—puzzles that I had failed. We’d had four challenges in tonight’s party, and I had failed three of them. Craig was—still is—dismayed by my results. Next week’s event is a ”fun team challenge!” which I’m assuming will mean that Craig’s and my scores will be combined. That possibility seems to be the true root of his panic.

  I glance over at him, watching as he flips on the windshield wipers and checks all three mirrors before shifting into reverse. His face is pale blue from the restaurant’s sign, the fluorescent neon highlighting the thick mop of dark hair that is perfectly combed, despite the stress of the evening. I consider telling him the truth, and just as quickly discard it.

  The truth is, I cheated on the Mensa admittance test. I found an online answer sheet and penciled in enough right answers to get me in, without arising any su
spicions over a perfect score. I got my laminated card, slid my hand into Craig’s, and walked into that damn event. I didn’t think it would be so hard. I didn’t realize that everyone would be so freaking serious about the thing. Each challenge had been timed, the correct answers written on a big white board in order of timing. In the air, competitive spirit had almost crackled with intensity. At the end of the night, Craig had placed second. The losers had been on their own board, a board that I dominated in depressingly consistent fashion. The only name lower than mine had been Chad, a scrawny guy with skinny jeans and a pierced tongue. Chad had been brought by his parents, and was a high school sophomore, a fact that Craig had pointed out three times.

  “Maybe you have performance anxiety.” Craig rolls the syllable of each word on his tongue as if testing their flavors. “Athletes suffer from it all of the time. Maybe it caused your brain to lock up.”

  “Maybe.” I reach down, into my purse, and pull out a pack of gum. “Want some gum?”

  “I bet there are exercises we could do online. We could time them, to try to recreate the environment. Or maybe food—you know, tryptophan relieves anxiety.”

  “Tryptophan?” I pull a stick of Big Red out and hold it toward him, his head shaking subtly, his hands remaining locked in their ten and two positions. “Like turkey?”

  “It’s a precursor to a neurotransmitter called serotonin, which helps you feel calm.”

  “I know what serotonin is,” I say flatly, though—honestly—I don’t. I mean, I sort of know what it is. Though I thought it had something to do with sunshine and skin. Or maybe that’s melatonin. Or melanin. Something like that.

  “It’s not just in turkey,” he continues, the van coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. There are no cars in sight, not so much as a falling leaf moving, yet he looks left, then right, then checks his rearview mirror. “It’s also in chicken and bananas. Cheese, oats, peanut butter…” He continues to list food and I rest my head on the headrest, tuning him out. He’s crazy if he thinks that I’m going to do a food prep for the next meeting. I’m not even certain I’m going to the next meeting. I’m not even home from this one, and I’m already dreading it.

  “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” I interrupt his continuing list of tryptophan foods, a list that is getting ridiculously long, and I don’t know what is more alarming—how many foods contain tryptophan, or how many foods that Craig is aware of. There are times when it is convenient to date a brilliant man. There are other times, present moment included, when it is just really damn annoying. It’d be one thing if he was quietly brilliant, the sort of quiet and unassuming genius that keeps all of his worldly knowledge to himself. But Craig is more of the “let everyone know how much I know” type. He won’t shut up about it. And tonight, I can’t take any more of it.

  “Oh. So … I won’t come in, then.” He puts the van into park and turns on his hazards, a habit I used to find endearing but tonight is absolutely maddening in its overkill. The chances of someone tearing around the curve and hitting his vehicle in the moments in which he is walking me in … they are minute at best. He waits a beat before opening his door, his head tilting to me, waiting for confirmation of his suggestion.

  “That would probably be best.” I stuff the gum pack back into my purse, waiting for him to walk around the front of the car, his journey marked by the orange flares of his hazard lights. He opens my door and I step out.

  “Tomorrow, we can brainstorm about next week,” he says, helping me up the dark path to the building.

  “Sure.” I’ll brainstorm all right. I’ll spend every second of tomorrow’s spare time devising an excuse for my absence. Maybe a last-minute meeting? Or a highly contagious cold?

  We come to a stop outside the door. “Goodnight, Kate.” His kiss is soft, a gentle press that speaks of forgiveness. I forgive you for your terrible performance tonight. I forgive you for your performance anxiety, and for embarrassing me. Next week, we will do better. I know it. I hear the words as clearly as if he speaks them.

  “Goodnight.”

  It’s not his fault I cheated. I unlock the door and wonder how much of my irritation is due to myself, and the un-winnable situation I’ve put myself in. Once inside, I reconsider inviting him in. Will he be able to move past my performance? Will we be able to discuss anything other than that damn whiteboard and his second-place standing on it?

  I move down the hall to my apartment, heading for the shower as soon as I step in.

  Chapter 6

  HIM

  My sex life has occasionally put me in awkward situations. That’s what happens when your brand of kink is outside the box. It puts you in unique places, with unique people. This is the first time it’s put me in front of a gun.

  The setup had been simple, which typically works best in these situations. I leave a key at the front desk. I go to the room. At 10 PM I go into the shower, taking my time. When I finish, and step out, into the hotel room, she will be waiting on the bed. Cue the fun.

  She is waiting, all right.

  I rest my hands on my bare hips and look past the 9mm, and to the woman holding it. She looks nothing like the profile photos, her hair dark instead of light, her breasts big instead of small, her eyes calculating instead of sweet. She smiles, and a silver tooth glints out from her smile. I hope she’s not planning on raping me. I have a wide range of women who I find attractive, but crazy bitch isn’t on that menu.

  A man comes from behind her and steps past me, into the bathroom. There is the rustle of clothing, and then he emerges, rattling my car keys. “Struck the jackpot with this one,” he drawls. “Tesla.”

  He’s an idiot if he thinks that stealing my car is a wise move. The thing is outfitted with enough tracking software and cameras to find Jimmy Hoffa’s body. I open my mouth to enlighten them, then shut it. Let them get caught. They’ll have to stop and charge the damn thing soon enough, its battery already low. He has my wallet and watch in hand, and I wince at the sight of the Glashutte Original in his hands. The watch was my father’s—the inscription imprinted on me, his rough drawl clear as day in my mind every time I read it. You are the captain of your soul. The loss of it will hurt more than the car.

  “Nice watch.” He grins at me and he is lucky I value my life. Take the gun out of this equation, and I’d have him down on the ground, my fist in that smirk, then my elbows. He thinks I am a rich prick who grew up above the law. He doesn’t know the neighborhoods I roamed as an only child, the type of streets where you fought for your respect and stole everything else.

  Maybe I’ve gotten soft. I should have left the watch at home. I could have stuck a twenty in my pocket and left the keys in the car, locking it with my phone instead of the fob. Instead, I trusted the address, the Ritz Carlton logo, and a squeaky clean online profile. Now I’m literally left with my dick out, watching the man stuff my clothing into a duffel bag, my thousand-dollar jacket shoved, with little regard, in last. I watch my phone disappear into his jean pocket.

  “You mind leaving my clothes?” I flash the woman a smile. “It’d be nice to walk out of here.”

  The grin, one that hasn’t failed me yet, earns me a downward glance, her eyes drifting over my cock. “Go right ahead, beautiful. Nothing to be ashamed of there.” She smacks her gum and smiles. “Now, let’s get your sexy ass on that balcony.”

  I am half-relieved, half-concerned, at the instructions. Maybe she isn’t going to kill me. Maybe she’ll just lock me out, thirteen floors up. If so, how long will it take for someone to see me? How long before they track down my room and let me out? I glance toward the balcony door. “Give me a robe, at least.”

  She considers the idea, then nods, barking out an order to the man, who scoffs at my request while wearing a puffy jacket that I could climb Everest with. I watch as he yanks a fluffy white robe off a hanger and walks past me, giving me a wide berth, the sliding door opened, the robe left outside. Sixty seconds later, I am beside it, the woman’s bright o
range fingernails waving at me as she closes the curtain and locks the door. I pull on the bathrobe and wonder how the fuck I got here.

  * * *

  “Mr. Marks, you can’t throw furniture off the balconies.” The hotel’s night manager sneers at me with a snobbish scowl that I haven’t seen in a decade, not since I moved solidly into the upper class.

  “I understand that. I was trying to signal to the people out on the deck.” In the lunacy of this situation, I seem to be in trouble, the man glaring at me as if I am about to be put on a Ritz Carlton blacklist of sorts.

  “You will have to pay for the damage. You destroyed the chaise lounge. And the side table.” He pushes a piece of paper forward, one where he has neatly written down both items, as if I might argue this point at some future moment. Underneath the two, he has added “Bathrobe: $40,” the words underlined.

  “That’s fine. I’ll pay for it.” I rub my eyes and wonder at what point everyone lost their damn minds. The police had been the first to show up, called by this idiot, who still seems convinced that I was drunk and slinging furniture off my balcony just for the joyous hell of it. It took fifteen minutes to explain the situation and get them in pursuit of the Tesla, which could be halfway to the border by now. Then, I had to practically beg the hotel for use of their phone, making calls to my credit cards and bank. By the time I hung up with American Express, this vulture was waiting, pouncing on me with the ferocity of a disapproving parole officer.

  “We aren’t a party hotel, Mr. Marks. We would appreciate it if you conducted such … events at another establishment.” Events. I’m not sure if he is referring to my sex life or the robbery. I ignore the statement and stand, rubbing my fingers across the lines of my forehead. “I’d like to make a final call, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”