Chapter 17 Keller
SEVENTEEN
Keller
Mardi Gras Economics: Carnival generates hundreds of millions of dollars annually for New Orleans through tourism, hospitality, and event production, much of it driven by krewe-led parades and private balls.
Behind the pageantry lies a complex financial ecosystem sustained by membership dues, sponsorships, and city coordination.
By the time I turn off St. Charles, the sky has slipped into that violet hour New Orleans does better than anywhere else. The air still holds the day’s heat, thick enough to cling to skin, but without the sun bearing down it’s almost tolerable.
March here doesn’t follow rules. One week it feels like spring. The next, summer elbows its way in early. Today leaned hard in that direction.
Quinn’s block is all narrow lots and raised wood-frame houses, most of them painted some version of faded blue, pale green or pink with black shutters. A row of camelback-style houses sits shoulder to shoulder, each porch just high enough off the street to require three or four shallow steps.
I ease the car along the curb and cut the engine. A streetlamp hums overhead and in the distance dogs are barking, but otherwise, it's a relatively quiet New Orleans street.
Her porch light is already on, casting a warm yellow glow over the narrow steps and the two potted ferns flanking the door. The iron railing is old and slightly uneven, the scrollwork more practical than ornamental. Nothing about the house feels staged or curated. It feels used. Kept. Cared for.
It suits her.
I grab the two bags from the passenger seat, basil and lime rising through the paper as the night air settles around me. The car double-beeps when I lock it. A neighbor’s television hums faintly through an open window a couple of houses down.
Before I knock, I catch my reflection in the dark glass beside the door. My jacket's still on, shoulders tight and my expression too controlled.
I exhale once and loosen my grip on the bags. Whatever Marcus uncovered can wait until morning.
I lift my hand to knock. The door opens before my knuckles land a second time.
Quinn stands there barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders, the ends still damp. She’s in a soft T-shirt and nothing about her looks like she's trying too hard. And it's hot as fuck.
“You’re early.”
“By maybe a minute,” I say. “I’m not sure that qualifies.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Fair. I might be projecting. I was scrambling. I'm glad you're here. Come on.”
She steps aside to let me in. The hardwood is cool under my shoes. A candle flickers on the coffee table, citrus layered with something floral. Books are stacked in uneven piles on the side table. A throw blanket rests over the arm of the couch like it was used this afternoon and never put away.
I hold up the bag slightly. “Elephant Thai. The lady who helped me was full of unsolicited wisdom. Who knew Thai came with life lessons.”
"Oh, you must have met Mali. She's a hoot."
"Interesting set-up, going through a laundromat to get to the restaurant. That was a new one for me. I wonder how that rent situation went down."
Her eyes hold mine for a second longer than necessary. Then she takes the bag and heads toward the kitchen. "I like the quirkiness of it," she says over her shoulder as she puts the bags on the counter.
We move around each other in the narrow kitchen with an ease that surprises me.
She pulls plates from the cabinet while I unpack the containers.
I ask where she keeps napkins and she nudges a drawer open with her hip.
Our hands brush once when we both reach for the rice container and neither of us comments on it.
She opens the Pad Thai and inhales. “No peanuts. Thank you. They forget more often than you’d think.”
“I made sure to stress it when I ordered,” I say. “I wasn’t messing that up.”
“Oh, come on Keller. You don't mess up, do you?” she asks teasingly.
I almost laugh at that. “On occasion. I try not to make a habit of it.”
She studies me a second longer than necessary, then looks back at her plate. “Just messing with you.”
The air shifts slightly, but not enough to fracture the moment. We carry our plates toward the living room.
“I know. So, do you do television recommendations too, or am I on my own?”
She pauses halfway to the couch, considering. “I do love my shows. What about you? Do you have any must-sees, or are you one of those people who claims not to watch television?”
“I don't have any shows, to speak of. But I’m not above zoning out to documentaries or whatever game happens to be on.”
Her mouth tilts. “That’s tragic. I’m going to have to fix that.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“No. I have excellent taste.”
“That’s reassuring.”
She sets her plate on the coffee table and reaches for the remote. I watch her with mild curiosity, interested to see what she chooses.
She scrolls for a moment, then glances over at me. “Have you seen The Lincoln Lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
She nods toward the screen. “He’s a cocky defense attorney who thinks he knows more than everyone else in the room. And most of the time he does. It’s irritating in a very satisfying way.”
“I’m not sure that’s a glowing endorsement.”
“It is for me.” She studies me briefly. “I think you’d appreciate how he reads people.”
“I feel profiled.”
“Maybe you should.”
Our knees brush as she shifts closer to angle the screen toward me. Neither of us moves away.
She hits play on the trailer. I watch it with half my attention, more aware of the warmth at my side than whatever dramatic music is swelling in the background.
She doesn’t rush. Not the show. Not the food. Not this. From the beginning, she’s been deliberate about pace. At the gala. After she learned what I do. Every time the tension climbs, she decides whether it tips or settles.
And I let her.
Not because I’m uncertain, but because I like it. And I like her.
“Well?” she asks when the trailer ends.
“I can tolerate him.”
“That’s high praise.”
She smiles faintly and starts the episode. Are we starting a show together? Or, are we just watching a show, something to do while we eat?
We eat for a few minutes in relative quiet. The dialogue between Micky and Dana is saucy and definitely interesting. She points things out, and I ask questions to prove I’m paying attention.
The problem is, my meeting with Marcus keeps pressing at the edges of my thoughts. Savannah. A name. The idea of walking into a room and finally looking this man in the eye. I don’t even know what I would say. Maybe nothing.
I finish my plate and force the thought aside. When she sets hers down, I carry both into the kitchen. She follows without asking, bumping my hip lightly when I block the sink. We rinse and stack, moving around each other in a way that feels practiced even though it isn’t.
By the time we return to the couch, the episode has rolled into a sponsored break. She tucks a throw over her legs, casual, comfortable.
“So?” she asks, turning toward me. “What’s your verdict?”
“I like it,” I say. “He does what he has to do, with no apologies. My kind of guy.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a second. “I thought you might relate.”
I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean, but I take it as a compliment and don't respond. There’s something quieter in the look she gives me now. Less teasing, more assessing.
“Thank you for dinner,” she says. “It was really good. This has been nice.”
Is she trying to end the night?
“You’re welcome.”
The room settles into a pause that isn’t awkward, just aware. The commercial continues in the background, too loud for how close we’re sitting.
I turn toward her slowly, but I don’t rush it. I give her time to shift away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Our mouths meet in a kiss that feels like continuation, not ignition. Familiar. Intentional. Her hand comes to my jaw first, then slides into my hair. The kiss deepens by degrees, not all at once.
I pull her closer, my hand settling at her waist. She shifts against me, fitting into the space I make without hesitation.
The show resumes, but neither of us notices. When she breaks the kiss, it isn’t to retreat. It’s to look at me. Her breathing is steady but heavier. Her eyes aren’t uncertain.
“Come with me,” she says. I stand and take her hand. The walk down the hallway is quick but not frantic. Anticipation, not impulse.
Her bedroom door swings open. She turns back to me once before we cross the threshold, as if checking something silently.
I’m still here. That seems to be enough.
"I've been thinking about this." Her voice comes rough against my throat. "Since the porch."
"Just since the porch?"
"Since the storage room. Since the night in your loft."
I groan. My hands find the hem of her shirt. She lifts her arms, and I pull it over her head. Black bra underneath. Simple. Functional. The hottest thing I've ever seen.
"You're wearing too much." I unhook the clasp with one hand.
"Then I need you to help me get more appropriate."
"Gladly."
The bra falls away, and I let my hands find her carefully, claiming her. Not rushed. Not uncertain. She leans into me like she’s already decided. The sound she makes is quiet and restrained, and so fucking hot.
My dick is hard, tenting my jeans, anxious to get out and feel her skin against it.
Her fingers move to my belt, working the buckle free with focus, glancing up once to meet my eyes as if measuring my reaction. The zipper follows excruciatingly slowly.
Once they are undone, I slide them down, not taking my eyes off her.
“I don’t want to think tonight,” she says quietly.
“Then don’t.”
She presses her palms against my chest and guides me back a step at a time until the backs of my legs meet the mattress.
She steps out of her pants without hurry, then stands there a moment in front of me, holding my gaze instead of performing for it. There’s no coyness in it. No bravado. Just the quiet certainty of someone who knows what she wants.
Fuck.
Freckles bloom across her collarbone. My hands trace the curve of her hips, and my mouth waters. She's so stunning. I didn't get the chance to appreciate her like this the night in my place.
"You're staring."
"Yes, I am. You're beautiful."
She lowers herself onto my lap. Her wet heat presses against my cock through her thong and my boxers.
She watches me with an intensity that almost undoes me. I inhale her citrus scent, my heart racing. She bites her bottom lip.
I hook my thumb into the waistband of her thong, and she rises slightly as I pull it down. Her smooth, toned legs are warm against my fists. She stands up so I can push them all the way down.
Then I slide my boxers down, pulling my leg out of one and letting them fall to the floor at my other foot.
My cock springs free between us. Fuck, I don’t have any condoms.
She shifts back, sitting on my knees and wraps her hand around my shaft, moving slowly at first, watching my face as she does. My breath stutters before I rein it in. This woman makes me want to let it all go for her.
“I’ve got an IUD,” she whispers, as if she can read my mind, before taking her bottom lip between her teeth.
I search her face for a second. She nods once steadily.
"Come here." I tug at her ass, inching her toward me. I nibble at her earlobe as she settles above me. When she finally lowers herself, she exhales against my mouth, and I feel it everywhere.
Fuck me. Holy shit, this has never felt so good.
I bring my hand to the front of her as she grinds down, my thumb moving in slow circles on her swollen clit.
The sounds our body makes as she bounces on me, mixed with our collective moans, are deliciously erotic. Her head falls back, and I bury my face between her full breasts. So warm and full.
She picks up the pace, and it's all I can do to hold back, to let this last long enough for her to come. I drive her ass down with her tempo, going deeper with each thrust."
"Yes, Keller. Oh, my god, oh my god…," she yells out. I grip her harder on her ass as she comes on me, clenching around my dick. She turns her face into my neck and bites down as her body shudders.
That's it. I'm done.
"Fuck," I yell out.
I flip her around onto her back and pull out just before I explode in her. It spreads across her flat stomach, dripping down her side.
She tugs at my arm, pulling me down on top of her. My come spreads and congeals between us as we both lie there together, coming down from quite possibly the most explosive sex I've had in a long time.
Perhaps ever.