Sloth

by Ella James

  His finger, buried in my backside, jerks with every thrust. Finally accustomed to his length and girth, I’m hungry for him: clamping as he draws out, pushing back against him as he plunges in. It’s never been like this...

  “You’re... a fucking... slut,” he groans. “Tight cunt... Cleo. Goddamn... ah, Cleo...”

  “Fuck me,” I whisper.

  “Yes... oh fuck.”

  My palms graze the carpet as I sag forward. The arm around my hips tightens, his hand gripping my hipbone. His cock batters me... and it’s incredible; it’s merciless; it’s terrible. I’m getting sensitive—so sensitive. I can feel my clit throbbing... my pussy roaring as he uses it so hard tears pop into my eyes.

  Somewhere far away, I hear his low breaths turn to mostly groans... I feel him strain against his pleasure: sweating, shaking. He shoves his thumb deeper and pounds so hard and fast I feel a drop of sweat land on my back. I try to clamp my thighs around him... anything. Fuck—anything to get him... just a little deeper.

  “Fuck!”

  He’s so hard now... I gasp each time he fills me up, momentum building like an ocean wave... I want him deeper... need him deeper. I push back against him, and the world goes white and hot. I’m almost there... my clit is pounding like its own heartbeat.

  His cock is like a punch...”I want it...”

  “Yes... fuck. Ohh God.” He pounds so hard I fumble forward and his hand on my hip slides down to my thigh.

  He snarls and grabs me back against him, in and out... another in... he shoves so hard I feel my eyes roll back.

  And then I feel him twitch inside me. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt: the way his cock pulses, then swells as he comes, panting and clutching my hip.

  “Oh God.” His voice is hoarse: delicious.

  I come in the rush of a tsunami overtaking islands.

  As I pulse around him, I feel his thighs tremble. “Oh fuck...”

  His chest pumps against my backside, and then his forehead drops down to my back. He’s shaking hard—his legs, his hips. He’s like an animal, spent and ravaged by adrenaline. His forehead nuzzles me, digging into my back in time with his ragged breaths. And I’m surprised to find: I love it. That I did this to him. That I made him as crazy as he made me.

  The feeling spreads through me like melting butter. I feel warm and sleepy. Kind of—no, not kind of—GOOD.

  My head begins to whirl... the room is tilting. I can’t breathe. I feel the weight of him move off me and I feel him sliding out.

  He says, “fuck.” He sounds surprised, I think as I blink wet eyelashes in the dark.

  He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice sounds stronger than I thought it would. “Press down against me, Cleo.” I’m so dazed, at first I’m not sure what he means. “My finger. Bear down against it.” I do what he asks, and seconds later, I am startlingly empty.

  I can hear him rustling behind me. I push up on my elbows, turn myself around, toward the little bench... but I can’t seem to move. I lie there on the carpet like a turtle in its shell. My heart is beating way too hard. My eyes cast up, I clutch my shawl around myself. I can see the outline of his body, darker than the dark. He’s bending down, combing the floor—for his clothes? Mine?

  I imagine Kellan pulling my leggings back over my feet... tugging them up my calves. The way his long-lashed eyes would crinkle slightly as he stretched the fabric over my thighs, the way his lips would curve into that perfect, cocky smile. The smile morphs: gentler. His hands are warm and kind. As if he wants me, more than just my body.

  I’m insane. Obviously, he’s driven me insane with sex. I mean... my God above, his dick is something else. I feel deflowered. My lips curl into a mad little smile. I shake my head. I just got my brains fucked out. By Kellan Walsh. I blink at his moving form and wonder who the fuck is he? Why did I react this way?

  The sex was just intense. That’s what I tell myself as I get to my feet. My cheeks and neck are hot, my body is unsteady, but the sex we had was so intense, of course I would react differently. I’ve been with other guys. Kellan’s more intense. It’s messing with my head.

  I step over to the wall beside the door and drag my palm along it, feeling for a light switch. When the room lights up, I draw my first deep breath since being pulled atop his lap.

  See? I’m totally good now. When I turn around, things will be just the way they were while we were studying. Just business. Okay—maybe some occasional heart-thumping... but definitely nothing serious. These squishy-wishy feelings I’ve been having in the last few minutes: they’ll be gone. Because I don’t even know him. And what I do know, I don’t like. There’s no reason I should feel drawn to him in any way.

  I stand there facing the wall, breathing slowly, and allow myself to admit that I’ve been lonely. Really lonely. The kind of lonely that always feels like after Olive died, when Mom and Grans were never home and I would find Mary Claire standing in the street “on accident,” and I would curl up in my bed at night and pray for someone to come take me to another house. Any time life gets quiet, the image of that sharpens in my memory. I start needing things I can’t get. Things I think maybe no one ever gets. Things that don’t have names.

  So maybe I’ve been a little like that lately.

  So his hands on me felt good. No big deal.

  Deep breath... blow it out my nose... five, four, three, two, one...

  I turn slowly and it’s almost a shock to see him there. My nerves spark as I look him over: Kellan in his unzipped slacks. He’s freaking beautiful. And perfect. Those wide shoulders, and his heavy chest—that look is one I love. The way his abs are dusted with gold-brown hair, trailing down...

  I jerk my eyes up to his face and find his mouth curved into a gentle, sideways smile. His eyes seem to twinkle. Is that a smug look? Happy? His smile widens and I realize that it’s both. He’s pleased with himself, and he looks also pleased with me. I had you, and I liked you. Yeah, you. That’s what his face says.

  My leggings are draped around one of his forearms; there’s a tissue in his hand. He steps to me. I tell myself to look down at my feet, but my eyes look to his eyes. Low-lidded. He looks satiated. His hand, clutching the tissue, raises.

  “I would have cleaned you up.” He trails the tissue along my chin, the motion soft and teasing. And he smirks. It’s... intimate, that smirk. As if he knows me.

  “I’ll take care of you while you’re with me. You’ll like it,” he says. He drops a light kiss on my forehead, and I take a step back.

  “When I’m with you, my ass.” I hold my hands out, as if his tissue will hurt me. “I’m not going with you! I’m not going to your house. I can’t do this. This.” I wave wildly at the room, then snatch my leggings from his arm. “I’m not a crazy person, Kellan Walsh, you make me feel crazy!”

  When my eyes return to his face, I’m surprised to find he looks thoughtful—almost relaxed; the bastard. “You’re a person who likes pleasure,” he says, reaching for my shoulder. I step back, though it doesn’t get his eyes off mine. “What’s so crazy about that?”

  I blink at him, because it’s too hard to explain. “I know guys like you,” I stammer. Guys like Kellan Walsh are bad for girls like me. It’s a cliché, even. “Doing this in here—” having wild sex in the library—“it’s not my thing. I’m not that kind of girl. I know you’ve been with tons of them. You’ve got the wrong girl, Kellan.”

  He chuckles, tilting his head a little to one side. He folds his arms. “Oh, Cleo. You have no idea what kind of girl I like. You are my kind of girl. And you know what I think?” His sea blue eyes look through me. “I think you’re surprised how much you liked what we just did.”

  It’s true. There is nothing I can say to deny that, and I’m too strung out to lie. I shake my head. “I told you, I don’t like surprises.”

  “I thought surprises were okay as long as they’re good,” he says. His face is hung between emotions, totally unreadable to me. So I’m honest. I tur
n slightly away and yank my leggings on as I say, “Maybe they aren’t. Maybe they’re never okay.”

  I turn back around to face him just as his face tightens, unreadable to gravely serious. “Someone hurt you,” he says, low. “Tell me who. Did you lose someone, Cleo?”

  “What are you talking about?” My voice rises, then cracks.

  He blinks, and stares right through me. Right down to my bones. “It was a surprise, wasn’t it? Was it your dad?”

  My throat knots as my pulse goes haywire. “How... do you know that?”

  “The poem in the painting.” His eyes blink again. “That Plath poem. A Post It note from ‘Mom’ was in your textbook, so I know she’s still around.” His gaze pulls at mine as his lips fold down, apologetic now, remorseful. “It was just a guess.”

  Uncanny. I push the thought away and focus on his chest. His stupid, gorgeous chest. “I don’t like you guessing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like you.”

  He steps closer to me, moving cautiously, as if he knows I’m a flight risk. “I don’t think that’s true.” He wraps an arm around my back and spreads his hand over my shoulder blade. He brings me gently against him, so my breasts press against his warm, hard abs, and then—before I can move away—he smooths his thumb along my jaw, tipping my head up. His mouth finds mine. He kisses me so gently I drift toward the ceiling. I grab onto him, his elbow, and pull away panting.

  His thumb brushes my lips. “Three weeks, Cleo.” His eyes burn. “Three weeks you’re mine. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  I whirl away from him and push through the door, spin back around to grab my bag. He stands there, fastening his pants, although his eyes are stuck to mine. My mouth flails as I throw my bag over my shoulder; tell him “no” again. But I can’t breathe. I’ve got no moves, no words—but I can feel his eyes on my back as I flee.

  I jog the whole way to the Tri Gam house, pulling all my leg muscles and making my chest over-tight. When I reach the top of the stairs, I find Milasy holding the brick.

  THE BREEZINESS OF THE afternoon is gone. The night is heavy and still. It’s neither cold nor hot, but tension warms me as I stand on the balcony outside the windowed room, watching the treetops as they sway.

  All I can think about is Cleo.

  Tomorrow, I will bring her here.

  It hasn’t been like this before. Not the urgency. Everything is different now. I am different now.

  Cleo is a relapse. Bringing Cleo here is letting go. No more logic. No more restraint. Finished. The word swells to fill my head. I let it have me—giving myself over as I shut my eyes and touch the cement railing.

  Moments later, the phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and blink at the name I knew would flash across my screen: PACE.

  I never answer on the first ring, even though I always know when he’ll be calling. I want Pace to feel that I am difficult to contact—always one ring out of reach. It’s important: the control. Not just because I enjoy control, but because Pace is so closely aligned with Robert.

  I bring the phone to my ear and let the static fill my head while I wait for him to speak.

  “Kellan?”

  “Pace.”

  An ocean breeze whips over his phone’s receiver, muffling his question: “How’s it going, man?”

  I let my gaze fall through the pines, landing on the gushing river below. It’s narrow here—not even the width of a tennis court—so the water is fast-moving.

  Pace gets my point and clears his throat. “Got some teddy bears coming your way. Double nickel and penny. You ready for ’em?”

  “Always.”

  “They’re good bears.” He pauses, as if thinking. As if we haven’t had this conversation thirty times before. He adds, “Made in America.”

  I roll my eyes. Pace and his love of talking in code. I can only assume that ‘Made in America’ means the weed he’s bringing me from California is higher quality than what he usually sends.

  “Sounds good. I’ll be ready.”

  This is where I’d choose to end the conversation, but my cousin never can just let things be. Pace is an awkward motherfucker. Coming up on fifty, he’s a beach bum with nothing to his name except a lot of good intentions. I like Pace well enough—as kids, we called him Uncle Pace—but these phone chats can get tedious.

  “You doing okay?” he asks after a silence.

  I shut my eyes. “Fine.” The word is sharp.

  “Really?” he asks.

  Fucking Pace.

  “Just checking, dude,” he says defensively. “Robert has been sniffing my ass crack, wanting to know if you’ve decided anything.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Pace.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Fuck him,” I growl.

  “You just... you can’t say that, man. Robert is—”

  “Who do you work with, him or me?”

  It’s a simple question with a complex answer. I’m not being fair to Pace. Not that I really give a fuck. He’s not being fair to me, either.

  I hear him breathing. Biding time as he tries to figure out how to broach forbidden subjects. I hear the phone brush the scruff of his beard, followed by his low voice saying, “Whitney called him. She said she hasn’t been able to get up with you.”

  Whitney. Of course.

  My fingers rearrange themselves around my phone. “I haven’t noticed any missed calls from her,” I lie. Whitney has been calling weekly for three months.

  “You’ve got everyone all stirred up,” Pace says in his low-but-nasally voice. “Man, I’m worried too. Don’t get all butt hurt, but we all have the same horse in the race. We’re a motherfucking family.” In a low voice, he says: “No one wants to see you wind up like Lyon.”

  The mention of my brother makes my eyeballs ache. Pressure builds inside my head. I suck a deep breath back and clutch the phone. “Don’t go there, Pace. Ever. You have a problem with Robert, deal with it. He’s your burden—not mine.”

  I hear a shuffling sound: Pace’s flip-flops on that little deck that hangs over the beach. He puffs some smoke out; I can hear his breath. “I just want to help you, man.”

  “You can’t, so stop trying.”

  I want to punch him in the teeth. I want to roar at him. I can’t believe he mentioned Ly. Instead, I say, “Till one-one, then.”

  The shipment will arrive at the old toy warehouse on Fifty-First Street on the eleventh of September. That’s what he meant by “teddy bears” and his made-up drug trafficking code, “double nickel and a penny,” as code for the eleventh.

  “Next week,” he says finally. He sounds defeated.

  I still feel enraged.

  I slide the phone into my pocket and stalk down to the basement. I tear into the punching bag that dangles from the ceiling, and imagine that it’s Pace’s pug-dog face. It turns into my father’s face, and then Ly’s. Which is almost indistinguishable from mine.

  I’m tired of fighting. I’m so tired of fighting me.

  I wait until the darkest part of night to go to Nessa’s house.

  I’M UP BEFORE THE SUN, pacing the balcony outside the glass-walled room. Gulping chilly air into my lungs.

  My knuckles are bruised from my assault on the punching bag. My body screams for sleep, because I stood outside Nessa’s window for three hours last night: a silent ghost, eviscerated. Now I’m drinking coffee—black and hot.

  After a while outside, listening to the river slosh below, watching the pines tip in the breeze, I pull on some basketball shorts and go down to the basement. Fifty minutes on the treadmill, and it doesn’t tame my hunger. I do my weight routine for longer than my usual, making sure that by the time I’m done, all my muscles are shredded. Then I make myself two waffles and choke down every bite.

  I wander back up to the room: her room. I take a small, black remote out of the night stand drawer and press the button that makes the middle part of the indented ceiling retract. I take the canopy off the
bed and lower the harness down to the mattress. I caress the ropes and smooth the sheets and rub my cock as I imagine Cleo lying right here, her wrists and ankles bound to the four ends of my X-bar, her wet, pink pussy ripe and ready for me.

  When I realize I’m going to stay hard until I see her, I sink down on the edge of the mattress and stroke myself off, remembering the way her pussy clenched around my cock on the floor at the library.

  When I’m done, I put the harness and spreader away and leave the room with my pulse hammering in my ears.

  I need to shower and get dressed. Focus. I’ve got things to do this morning.

  I shower quickly, and dress in khakis and a plaid button-up: the preppy shit that helps me blend in on campus. Then I walk into the bedroom I’ve been using, pluck a brass key off the duvet, lift up the Native American blanket that hangs on one wall of my room, and step to the mahogany door hidden behind it. I slide the key into its custom keyhole. My feet feel heavy as I turn the doorknob and step inside my sanctuary.

  The room is small: no bigger than a half-bath. The wall I face as I step in is smooth and beige. Cashmere, the paint was called. Built-in bookshelves indent the tiny wall on my right. I had them built because I wanted to like something about this space, but I could never place a book on them.

  The wall on my left is not a wall but stacked cabinets and a small counter. The four-foot slab of granite is black, with tiny veins of gold. The cabinets above the counter are dark and glossy, stretching to the ceiling. They contain my arsenal of secrets.

  I run my hands over the cold granite. As always, I try not to look into the mirror, but my eyes betray me. As I meet my own gaze, the far-off echo of a hopeful spark strikes in my chest. I look into the eyes and wait to see the face transform. The mouth should smile—a dimpled smile. The eyes should crinkle. The face should relax, the way mine only ever does if I’ve had a good, long hit and held it in my lungs for several seconds.

  If you never met him, you would never understand the way this face could look. My mouth tugs down into a deep and dimpled frown, and I wrench my gaze up to the cabinets.