Never Let Go: Top Shelf Romance Collection 6

by Steiner, Kandi

  He laughs and pulls it off. "Come on, Kate. We've been working too hard. I need some comic relief."

  I snort, and lean back in the seat, kicking my bare feet up on the closest empty chair. "Nope."

  "Try it on, and I’ll let you have full control over the November catalog.”

  That bit of negotiation lifts my head. "Seriously?"

  "Swear to God." He sets down his beer and leans forward, reaching out and sliding the garment toward me. "Come on. Show a drunk man how the competition looks."

  I stand. "Don't test me. I'll do it."

  He lifts his eyebrows in a challenge, and that's all I need, snatching the bathing suit off the table and walking toward the bathroom. "The November catalog. Full control?"

  "You gotta sell it,” he calls out. “Make me want to buy that thing!"

  * * *

  I don't bother looking in the mirror. I can feel the pooching of the material on my hips. My breasts are firmly supported by its stiff underwire, and the neckline is one that my Sunday school teacher would have approved of. I make sure that the tail of it isn't stuck somewhere it shouldn't be, then step out into the hall and head toward the conference room. Trey’s dress shoes are up on the table and he turns at my approach, the chair swiveling under his weight, his eyebrows lifting as he sets down a fresh beer. "Well?"

  I set my hands on my hips. "What do you think? Super sexy?"

  He stands. "Super sexy." He nods to the window. "Go check yourself out."

  At night, the sky outside dark, I can easily see myself, the way the fabric bloats around my curves in the most unattractive way possible—as if the designer had set out with the sole focus of making a woman look horrible. "Oh God." I cup a hand over my mouth and giggle, the combination of beer and exhaustion making the image hilarious.

  I watch in the reflection as he comes closer, stopping behind me, his finger trailing up the side of my arm, his head dropping as he examines the shoulder of the suit. "Is this polyester?"

  "It's a blend, I think. The tag's there, on the back." I reach back for it, and he bats away my hand, his fingers confidently dipping underneath the edge of it, his neck tilting back as he reads the tag. "You're right. Twenty lycra, twenty cotton. Though I'd bet..." He turns me toward him and looks down at the suit, his forehead wrinkling, deep in thought. When his gaze flips up to me, there is a twinkle in it. "Do you trust me?"

  "Hardly," I snort out a laugh. "But yeah. Go ahead."

  I jump when his hands settle on my hips, his body bending forward, his eyes on mine, and it is almost as if he is going to kiss me. I go to step back, and his fingers tighten. "Easy, Kate." he whispers. "Close your eyes. This is purely for research, I swear."

  I shouldn't close my eyes, but I do. It’s one of those senseless responses to a man I would trust with my life. I inhale when I feel heat against my right nipple, and I open my eyes and look down to see his mouth on the outside of the suit, his lips against the cheap fabric, his eyes closed. He suckles the fabric, and my eyelids drop from the sheer pleasure of it. Has a man ever kissed that part of me like this? His grip on my waist gets tighter, and I exhale as his mouth lifts off me. "What are you—?” The question falls away when he lowers his mouth to the other side, and I am unable to look away as his tongue swirls around the bead of my nipple, hard against the thin fabric. He covers the entire area with his mouth, and I almost groan with the sensation.

  We can't do this. Trey’s mouth on me, the bite of his fingers into my hips, my mind going crazy—pulled between lust and possibilities—he lifts away from me, and I struggle to open my eyes.

  "Look at your reflection." There is a rough catch in his voice that is unfamiliar, and I look up into his face, unsure if I’ve ever heard it before. The heat in his eyes ... that I recognize, a look I always pretend to ignore, the connection between us that I always run from with a flippant comment, phone call, or eye roll. Now, I don’t run. I stand, my heart wild in my chest, my nipples crying for more attention, and meet his eyes.

  "Kate, look." His hands move to my shoulders, and he turns me to the window, his chest against my back, our eyes meeting in the glass reflection. When his gaze drops, so does mine, my cheeks heating when I see the dark stain of my nipples, clear as day through the wet fabric. "If I was at a party," he whispers, “and you stepped out of the pool wearing this..." His hands slide down the outside of my arms. "You'd ruin every man there for life." He tugs on the back of the suit’s skirt, and the jerk of fabric pulls across my most sensitive places. "Even with a tail."

  "Trey.” I can't think of a distraction, can't think of a way to stop this. His eyes flick up, catching mine in the reflection.

  “Is the crotch lined? I’m curious if it—”

  “It’s lined,” I interrupt him, my cheeks heating, the thought of him continuing the test in between my legs … my knees almost buckle at the thought. “I should change.” I want to grip the neck of his suit, just to keep myself upright. I want to rub the tips of my breasts against his suit, just to feel the friction. I need the friction. I almost lean into him, my hand reaching out, stopping myself just in time. I push gently on his suit and force myself to step back.

  His eyes are on fire. I can feel the heat of his stare, it eats at my resolve and this is the closest we have ever been to breaking. “Be right back,” I whisper.

  His hand wraps around my wrist, tying me to him. “Don’t stop for that pretty boy, Kate. He doesn’t—”

  “Don’t.” I flick my gaze up to his and all but beg him with my eyes. “You’re drunk.”

  He says nothing, his eyes on me, as steady as the day he showed me his father’s grave, as strong as when he gave me control of his company. Between our eyes, we fight and lose fifty wars. Then his lids fall over those dark eyes, and he carefully lets go of my wrist. “You’re right. I am drunk.” He turns away from me, ambling by the table and snagging his keys off the polished wood. “See you tomorrow, Kate,” he calls, an exaggerated slur in his words. “I’m out for the night.”

  Chapter 34

  HIM

  I don’t take the elevator all the way down. I stop on the sixth floor, moving quietly through the dark cubicles and into my office, my hand quick on the blinds, then the door’s lock, my back hitting the door, hands fumbling at my belt, my zipper, my underwear.

  Her hand flat against the window, cheek against the cool glass. I kneel behind her, my suited knees against the wood floor—

  no.

  I pull out my cock, and I widen my stance, clenching my thighs, my hand wrapping around my cock and slowly tugging down its length. It’s half-hard already, and stiffens further under my touch, a soft groan tumbling out of my mouth as I picture pulling her from that window and scooping her up, knocking over beer bottles and lingerie and laying her out on the table. Would she fight? Protest? No. Not as soon as I lower my mouth back to that white bathing suit, my mouth teasing her through the fabric, lifting up her legs and wrapping them around my shoulders, her thighs against my ears, the smell and taste of her so close, right there. Fuck the lining of the suit—I’d get her so wet that I’d see it all, her all but naked on that table, the sight of her, her back arching against the hard surface, her hands reaching for me … I quicken my hand, squeezing the base of my dick as I jerk the shaft, my breath quickening, and I’m going to come like a fucking teenager for her.

  I wouldn’t be able to stop, I would pull her to the edge of that table and yank that wet suit to the side, exposing the beautiful look of her. She would be the first woman I would ever take without a condom, and that initial push, the thick slide of my cock inside of her, her name off my lips—

  My shoulders shudder against the door, and I come, breathing her name into the empty office.

  If my need was lingerie, it’d be blood-red, with lines that scream for attention.

  Chapter 35

  HIM

  When the doorbell chimes, it echoes through the house, bouncing off wood floors and glass, the tones catching my attention
in the moment before I reach for the remote. I stand, running a hand through my hair, scratching an itch on the back of my head. I pull at the bottom of my T-shirt, stepping out of the media room and jogging down the house’s front staircase, the figure on my front porch manipulated by the poured glass. I hitch up my workout pants and pull open the door, blinking through the glare of the morning light. It takes a moment to recognize the man on my porch.

  “Stephen?” Worry shoots through me, my thoughts rocketing to my last call with Kate, a few hours earlier. She’d been on her way to the store; we’d talked about increasing shipping costs and whether she needed a freaking parakeet. I should have told her to be careful, to get off the phone, to watch her surroundings and get back home. I—

  “Everything is okay,” he reassures me, reading the alarm on my face. “I just came by to talk to you.”

  As quickly as the panic came, wariness replaces it. I can count the conversations I’ve had with this man on one hand, all of them in the presence of Kate. There is no good reason for him to be at my home, on a Sunday morning, without her. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, sizing him up, my protective instincts on full alert. He’s my size, but less fit, his frame less muscular, the sort that looks good in a tux but gaunt in a bathing suit. In a fight, I would demolish him—not that he would go toe-to-toe with me. He’s too nice for that—too respectful, too friendly. He would adopt kittens but lacks the sharp edge to haul a woman to his side, then fuck her over the trunk of his car. My eyes move past him and to my new truck, its tailgate down, the vehicle blocking my garage, and the sleek collection of testosterone inside. I’d have her against its door, or sitting on that tailgate, her clothes ripping on its rivets and hinges, the cool metal against her skin, her hands trembling against its surfaces, her nails scratching its wax.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you.” He clasps his hand, one palm over the other, and gives a nervous smile. “I’m sorry for not calling first. I…” he spreads his hands, “I’m running out of time.”

  Running out of time. I think of Marks Lingerie’s fourth year, the two-million-dollar loan I secured with a trio of Italians who’d made my terms of repayment very clear. I had sweated through every minute of that year, through every check I’d written them, until their principal and interest had been paid in full. Maybe that’s what this is about. My eyes flick to the nervous twitch of his gaze, and the possibility of his insolvency encourages me. “What do you need?” I ask.

  He glances past my shoulder, hinting at his desire to be invited in. I don’t move, my eyebrows raising, and wait on his response.

  “Well.” Those fucking hands spread again, and he looks at them as if they hold something, maybe the words that he needs. He looks back at me. “I know that Kate and you are close. Best friends.”

  Best friends. It’s a title that should be reserved for teenage girls, not two people who can barely keep their hands off each other. My lip curls but I say nothing. Is this still about a loan? My body tenses at the idea that Kate may somehow be involved, that she might be in some danger as a result of his incapability to manage money. “Get to the point.” I grit out the words, barely able to stop myself from reaching forward and yanking the damn message from his throat.

  “Oh.” He collects himself, then looks up. “Ah … I.” He pauses, then starts over. “Tomorrow night, I’m planning to propose. There’s an office party I am hosting—I’m going to do it afterward. Since her father is no longer living, I thought I would ask for your blessing. I mean, I know it’s a bit outdated, but you’re like a brother to her.”

  Like a brother to her

  The rage ripples out, taking my thoughts and spewing them out, my words terse and deadly, barbs of truth that stab across the space. “I’m not like a brother to her. A brother wouldn’t think about bending her over my desk every time she walks into my office. A brother wouldn’t check out the curves of her ass every time she turns away.”

  The smile drops from his face. What an idiot. Does he not know her impact? The weight of her smile, her laugh, her challenge? Doesn’t he understand that it’s impossible to know her and not love her? His hands, those patty-cake-palms, clench into fists, and I hope to God he is about to swing at me.

  “What the fuck did you just say?” The man steps forward, and I push off the doorway, coming to my full height and meeting his glare full-on.

  “You heard me. Now get the fuck off my property before I embarrass you.”

  She will be mad. Hell, she’ll be furious. But I’ll be damned if anyone thinks I’m like a brother to her. A brother. My muscles tighten, and I come off the stoop and toward Stephen, pushing my shirt sleeves up, enjoying the rush of blood in my veins. A fight, that’s what we need, the ability to take this back to caveman days and finish it. I clench my fists, and he steps back, his hands raising, his slick dress shoes moving down one step, then a second. He turns toward his Audi, his eyes warily staying on me. “I’m marrying her,” he promises me, and the headlights of his car flash as he unlocks the doors.

  “You’re not marrying her,” I disagree, and I stop, watching him nearly scurry around the hood of the car. “You won’t even be engaged to her.”

  The words roll out confidently, but they aren’t mine to give. I watch him peel out of my circular drive, his window coming down, one cowardly middle finger raised in my direction, and panic sweeps through me.

  * * *

  All Sunday, I wait for her call, for her car to screech through my driveway, for her scream to echo through my home. By Sunday night, I’m convinced he hasn’t told her. By Monday afternoon, I’m almost at ease, my mind halfway through a clusterfuck of a marketing plan when my office door slams open, the handle punching a hole in the plaster, the artwork clattering against the wall.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I’ve never seen her so mad, her body literally shaking before me. I set down the folder and meet her eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Kate. I was just reviewing—”

  “Stop playing games and answer me.”

  “Nothing is wrong with me.” I speak in the tone that would put a submissive to their knees. She doesn’t even flinch.

  “You told Stephen you wanted to fuck me?!”

  “I do want to fuck you. I think we’ve all been clear on that for quite a while now.”

  She digs her fingers into her forehead, her eyes pinching shut. “I know you’re not this stupid, Trey. I know you understand simple fucking society and how much what you just did severely fucks my relationship.”

  “You didn’t have a relationship,” I interrupt. “You had a guy who wanted a goddamn trophy wife. He came to my home and tried to tell me what our relationship is like. He told me that I am like a brother to you.” I stand, and if this desk wasn’t between us, I’d have her pressed so closely against me that she’d feel my need. “Do you think of me like a brother, Kate?”

  She clenches her fists and looks away, as if there is a fucking answer in my potted plant. “I like working for you. I’m not prepared to leave Marks, but I can’t—”

  “I removed an idiot from an equation,” I grit out. “Stop thinking about that and focus on my goddamn question. Do you think of me as a brother?” Fuck the desk. I walk around it and spin her to face me, pinning her back against the oak, my feet on either side of hers, my thighs hugging the rigid line of her legs. This close, I can feel her tremble. I pull up her chin and relish the fight in her eyes.

  “I wouldn’t want to kill my brother,” she whispers.

  “You wouldn’t want to fuck him either,” the words slip quietly out, and her eyes widen, just a hair, at their receipt. God, I am in love with this woman. The force of it yanks at my foundation. My hand softens at her chin and slides down the front of her sweater, coming to rest on her hips, my fingers biting into the fabric as I pull her against me. “Tell me you want to fuck me, Kate.”

  She shakes her head minutely. “I don’t.”

  I lean forward, my lips gently brush
ing over her ear and down the hollows of her neck, my control wavering and I steal a kiss, just a few, along the way. I feel her shift in response, the work of her thighs against each other, the arch of her into me, her tells as loud as a scream. God, the things I could give her. The ways I could please her. I travel back along her neck and pause at her ear. “Tell me Kate. Give me this one fucking thing so I can go home, wrap my hand around my cock, and picture every filthy thing I want to do to you. Do you want to fuck me?”

  She puts a hand on my chest, and I stop, the bite of my grip loosening, the breath in my throat stalling. I lift my mouth away from her ear and look into those eyes.

  “You didn’t have to say anything to him,” she whispers. “I would have said no. It wasn’t your fight. I’m not yours to fight over.”

  It should make me happy, but it feels like a breakup.

  She steps back, and a part of me dies. “Wanting to fuck you has never been the problem.”

  I don’t know how she can look into my eyes so calmly when she says it. I don’t know how, when she turns and walks away, she doesn’t stumble.

  I watch her leave, and I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so lost.

  If our relationship was lingerie, it’d be fur-lined handcuffs, latched around you, the key lost, escape impossible.

  Chapter 36