Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  “Open your legs before I pull them apart myself.” He had said that to me. My Trey. He had given that order, and I had spread my legs for him. Had he seen my panties? Had he seen the way that they stuck to me, the way that I had trembled? I imagine him stepping forward, his head tilting, eyes searching, his fingers pulling my panties to the side, and all of me, swollen and pink and wet. He would look up, and that look, that look in his eyes—I come from the idea, the orgasm violent, my fingers sliding against the tile, my body tensing, back rounding, and it is long and hard when it blooms, a wave of pleasure that shudders through me, my cries drowned out by the water, my pleasure extended by the spray. When I finally sink back against the wall, I am numb, my emotions spent, my body limp, my head a fog of orgasmic bliss.

  It’s just fantasies. Fantasies that will have no life. Fantasies that only belong in private moments between myself and my fingers, my toys, my showerhead. Eventually, I’ll have someone new, someone who will steal my heart and take over my mind and erase all of these ridiculous thoughts.

  I reach and turn the handheld off, closing my eyes and stepping under the overhead’s hot spray.

  * * *

  A month later, the woman sits quietly before me, her heels crossed at the ankles, her hands in her lap. She is a few years younger than me, and I can see it in her innocence, her nervous eyes, the tap of her dark nails against her black jeans, the fidget with her smartwatch. I look down at her resume, one fairly impressive, and that aligns well with the graphic designer job. I ask about her current employer, and she begins to speak, pausing when there is a gentle knock on my office door.

  “Good morning,” Trey’s voice fills my office, and I glance sharply at him.

  “Good morning,” I say mildly, in an attempt to mask my irritation. “I’ll be through in a few minutes.”

  He steps inside, and I stifle a groan. “Ms. Cone, this is Trey Marks, our owner. Trey, this is Chelsea Cone.”

  “We’ve met before.” He extends a hand and she rises to her feet, her cheeks flaring bright pink. I watch in interest. “It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for coming in.”

  “My pleasure.” She keeps standing and I look at Trey.

  “I’m almost done here, Trey.”

  “Of course.” He smiles at me, and there is something there, a message of some kind, but I miss it. “Could you see me when you wrap up? There’s an issue with the Brazil order, I just need you to look at it.”

  The ‘Brazil order’ is our code. Something is wrong, and I cycle through the morning’s events, the outstanding issues, all of the things that might have gone wrong. I nod. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  When he leaves, the color in her cheeks fades to normal, her return to her seat almost more of a collapse, and I eye her carefully. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just feeling lightheaded.”

  I close the binder holding her resume. She’s the strongest candidate so far, and I choose my words carefully, my mind distracted by Trey and his Brazil order. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll make a decision on this position by the end of the week.”

  She rises, and I walk her to reception, then head straight to Trey’s office.

  “What’s wrong?” I pull the door closed, thinking of our factory shipment, the pending patent on our new hook closures, the civil lawsuit against our silk manufacturer.

  “Don’t hire her.” He sits in his leather office chair, one elbow on the arm, his hand playing with the stubble on his jaw.

  It is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to catch up. “Who? Chelsea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  His hand falls from his mouth and grips his desk, pulling his chair forward. “I have a history with her.”

  Between Vicka and Mira, I’ve seen the women Trey has histories with. They are strong, confident women, nothing like sweet, meek Chelsea. “What kind of history?” I ask carefully. “You dated?”

  “No. Just a one-time thing.” He nods toward one of his chairs. “Sit down. You’re freaking me out, looming over me like this.”

  “You had a one-night stand with her?” I laugh uncertainly. “Really? Are you sure?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a one-night stand, and yes, I’m quite sure of who I have fucked, Kate.” The emphasis he gives the word sends a dark tingle down my spine.

  “So … you don’t want me to hire her?” I have so many questions, all inappropriate for this moment.

  “I think I’ve made my opinion on interoffice fraternization clear.”

  I meet his eyes, and something thicker than tension passes between us. Yes, his position on that is clear. Crystal clear.

  I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll find someone else.”

  “Thank you, Kate.”

  Just the way he says my name hurts.

  Chapter 27

  HER

  The restaurant is one of those places that takes farm-to-table a little too seriously, the waiter launching into an extended monologue as soon as we sit down. He delivers us each mini-plates with something from the chef designed to “awaken our palates,” something we should think of as a “delightful journey for the tongue.” I automatically glance at Trey, ready for his dirty take on the phrase, but he isn’t looking at me. The smirk is there, but it’s directed at his date—Chelsea—who blushes, her hand nervously playing with the end of her braid. I move to Stephen, who dubiously lifts the cracker and dips it into the gooey caramel-colored sauce. I look down at my own sampling, and the knot in my stomach fully forms.

  The wine is delivered, along with a second monologue about the appetizer options, one Trey fully ignores, his mouth at the blonde’s ear, his arm draped over her chair, the edge of those fingers playing with her bare shoulder. When he finally looks up, the speech is over, and the wine is poured. I reach for my glass and Trey stands, stilling my action.

  “A toast,” he says, lifting his glass. “It’s been three months for the two of you, correct?” He glances from Stephen to me and smiles warmly.

  “That’s correct.” Stephen extends his glass and half-rises in his seat.

  “To three months, and many more.” Trey lifts his glass, and we toast, my eyes meeting his as our glasses touch. I narrow my eyes slightly but he only smiles. “Congrats, Kate.”

  “It’s three months,” I say as sweetly as I can manage. “Not exactly toast-worthy.” We all return to our seats and I watch Chelsea cup both sides of her wine glass as if it’s a warm mug of coffee. I don’t need to ask how long they have been dating. I can tell you that with psychotic clarity. Two and a half months. Two weeks after Stephen and I became official, she showed up at the office, a Kate Spade slung over her shoulder, yoga pants and a midriff-baring tank top on. She had waved a cheery hello at me and bounced into Trey’s office, his door quickly shut, blinds drawn. Apparently Trey hadn’t wanted to hire her, yet had wanted to rekindle their past. I had stared at an inventory report and tried to think of anything other than what was happening in there. It had been the longest twenty-two minutes of my life. And that afternoon, after he’d taken a ninety-minute-lunch with her, when I had asked him about it? He had only shrugged. She’s fun, he had said. When I’d asked him if he liked her, he had cocked an eyebrow at me and questioned if we were all still in high school. Since then, I’ve kept my Chelsea questions to myself.

  It’s strange, seeing him in this role, seeing the tenderness come through all of the layers of playboy. How he sweeps a loose tendril of her hair and tucks it into her braid. How he lowers his head to listen to her words, and watches her when she walks through the room. I’ve had his undivided attention for so long—seeing it directed at another woman is disconcerting. I feel lost when I look at him and don’t have his gaze, when I say something to him and it takes a moment to get his attention. I reach under the table and slide my hand into Stephen’s, needing to feel something, a connection, filled with a sudden yearning to be held, cupped against a man’s chest, the feel of arms wra
pped around me. Stephen’s arms, I remind myself, lifting my eyes from Trey’s hand, from the slow slide of his index finger around the lip of his bread plate. I move my gaze up Trey’s chest, his jacket open, his dark V-neck shirt snug to his body, light stubble across his neck and jaw. His lips twitch and I flip my gaze to his eyes. They study me, and there is a moment where I can’t swallow, where a bit of bread just sits on my tongue. He slowly palms his glass, and I can only watch as he lifts it to his mouth. The simple act of sipping a drink shouldn’t be seductive, it shouldn’t make a woman clench her thighs or swallow in need. I’m suddenly thirsty, and hot, and I look away, reaching for my ice water, smiling when Stephen glances my way.

  Chelsea asks me something about my dress, and I answer, forcing myself to meet her eyes, to respond in kind, to have some stupid conversation about an episode of The View, one I haven’t seen but that she seems desperate to chat about.

  “We’re going to Exuma at the end of the month,” Trey cuts in smoothly. “You two should join us.”

  “They have wild pigs there,” she says excitedly. “You can swim with them.”

  “Pigs?” I ask dubiously. “Is that sanitary?”

  “They’re very clean,” she informs me, leaning forward, her voice dropping, as if this is a secret of some sort. “They have an Instagram account; I can send you the link.” I don’t tell her that I’m not on Instagram, or that I have little interest in swimming with an animal that I’m minutes away from eating. I simply nod, look for the waiter, and regret agreeing to this dinner to begin with.

  “What do you think, Kate?” Trey settles back in his chair, and his foot bumps mine. “Exuma? You and Steve?”

  “The end of the month?” I look up to the ceiling. “I think…” I look to Stephen for rescue. “Isn’t that when we’re going to your parents?”

  He misses my cue but brightens up at the thought of me and his parents, an introduction he has been pushing for weeks. When he nods, I frown at Trey, painting my features with as much regret as I can muster. “Maybe next time,” I say, and he holds my gaze for a moment before he turns to Stephen.

  “Steve, Kate says that you’re an oral surgeon.”

  “It’s Stephen,” I interrupt, irritated when Stephen waves off the nickname, his shoulders hunching forward as he launches into his spiel on tooth maintenance and root canal procedures. I glance at Chelsea, who is studying her menu. I watch her hand leave one edge of the menu as she reaches under the table, my eyes zeroing in on a movement that has Trey pausing mid-sentence. She glances up, catches me watching, and colors slightly, her hand returning to the menu, the linen paper flipped over as she stares at the wines.

  Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe behind her blushes and soft words, she’s a super freak. Something had to cause him to hop on the dating bandwagon after so many years of being single. I look at my own menu and try to push out the thought of what her hand encountered, what he feels like through his slacks, and if he had hardened under her touch. I flush and stare at the list of entrees. Yeah. We’re definitely not going to Exuma. A full weekend with them would be pure hell.

  “So, I’ve got to tell you, Steve.” Trey sets down his glass and I sense the danger before he even reopens his mouth. “I’ve always wondered if Kate is as much of a hard ass in relationships as she is at the office.”

  “Oh please.” I roll my eyes. “Ignore him, Stephen.”

  “No, really.” Trey leans forward, his hands linking, his forearms resting on the linen tablecloth. “Is she an alpha?”

  “I’m actually very submissive,” I lie, for no reason whatsoever, except that Little Miss Chelsea here seems to be positively collared by design.

  “Oh please,” Trey scoffs. “You couldn’t be submissive if your life depended on it.”

  “Put your hands on the counter. Flat. Palms down.” I stare at him and wonder if he has forgotten that moment. “I think you’re wrong.”

  “It’s not a bad thing,” he challenges. “A lot of men like a little fight in their woman.” He glances at Stephen. “So settle it for us. In a relationship, is she dominant or submissive?”

  He’s asking a man who barely knows me, and he knows it. This isn’t a question, this is a pop quiz, one to find out how involved my relationship actually is, how much of my heart this man has actually sampled. I rip off a piece of bread with my teeth and wonder how convincingly I can feign illness. Maybe we could skip the main course and escape after appetizers.

  “She’s not that simple,” Stephen says, his hand running down my back, his fingers cool on the bare skin. “Just when I think she’s the most independent woman in California, she’ll surprise me.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss on my shoulder. “Like you did last week.” I flick my eyes up to him, a question in them. Last week? He leans in, lowering his voice. “In the elevator,” he reminds me.

  Oh. I wouldn’t exactly call that a submissive moment; it was more of a weak one. The elevator in his building had shuddered, the lights flickering, and I had all but crawled into his arms, terrified of being stuck there, in the dark, a claustrophobic attack armed and ready. It hadn’t been necessary. The lights had stayed on, and the elevator had resumed its climb, crisis averted. I shrug, ready to be done with the conversation. “You’re right. I’m a paradox of contradictions.” I stick my tongue out at Stephen, and he gives me that smile, the one he reserves for moments when he’s enamored with me, and I’m not surprised when he leans forward, pressing a kiss to my lips. When I pull away, the waiter is finally here, and I smile at him in relief.

  Chapter 28

  HIM

  The dinner is two hours of absolute agony, and I don’t know if it had originally been Kate’s idea or mine, but it needs to never ever happen again. Every time he touches her, my skin crawls. The prick kisses her, and I about come out of my chair. And I’ll never be able to step on an elevator again without running through every possible scenario that could have occurred between them. The question had been a test, and he’d failed. Submissive and dominant aren’t words that apply to Kate. She is both, constantly, and at the same time. She challenges me as she begs for domination. She argues for what she wants to be told. She needs a firm hand that gives her everything she wants. She needs me, and no one else.

  Chelsea says something and I turn my head, nodding, willing her to go to the bedroom and sleep. Tonight was as cruel to her as it was to me. Each touch was a show, each whisper a power play, the entire meal a battle between Kate and me. Chelsea pulls on my hand and I stand, following her to the room.

  “Wait here.” She pushes me down in the chair, the one by the bedroom’s fireplace, and I sink into the velvet, rubbing my hands across my face.

  “Not tonight, Chels—”

  “Shut up.” She disappears into the bathroom, and I slouch in the chair, closing my eyes and resting my head on the back of the chair, listening to the sound of water running and drawers opening. When she reappears, I crack open an eye, her profile silhouetted by the bathroom’s light. “Close your eyes,” she whispers.

  I don’t, my head rolling to one side as I eye her, trying to understand what is different. It’s her hair, it’s dark and shorter, brushing the top of her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh…” she says, straddling me. “Don’t ask questions.”

  She leans forward, and it’s then that I smell the perfume, the scent that Kate wears. I stiffen, and she lifts my hands, placing them on her hips. “Undress me.”

  “Chelsea…”

  “Don’t think about it. Pretend I’m her. You need it.” She drags her fingers through my hair, and in the dark bedroom, with the dark hair, her smell … I can almost believe it. I can almost believe that this is Kate, and I can have her. Right now, I can unbutton her top and bury my face into her breasts. I can push her to the floor and have her mouth around my cock. I can carry her to my bed, and wrap her legs around my waist and tell her everything that I always think and never say. I love Chelsea for this, and I also
hate her for seeing it, for how transparent I must be.

  I drop my head forward, resting it on her chest, my arms stealing around her waist. I hug her to me and feel myself breaking, feel exactly how fragile every piece of my world is. “I can’t,” I say, the words gruff. “I’m sorry.”

  She leans back and lifts my chin. I’m glad it’s dark, glad I can’t see her face. “Don’t be sorry. It was a stupid idea. A little creepy on my part, too.”

  I laugh, and drop my forehead into the crook of her neck. “It wasn’t a terrible idea. I’m hard as a rock right now.”

  “Yeah, I can feel that.” She rocks against me. “Any chance of me taking advantage of that?”

  “Not tonight.” I reach up and gently pull at her hair, the wig coming off, her blonde hair spilling out. “I’m in one hell of a mood. I’m just going to step in the shower, if you don’t mind. Then I can take care of you.”

  “I’m fine.” She rolls off my lap, bouncing to her feet. “I’m ten minutes away from a wine coma anyway.” She wanders toward the light, and pauses, turning in the doorway. “But you’re setting up something for this weekend, right? Someone for me to play with?”