Seven Dirty Sins: A Hot New Adult Erotic Romance Boxed Set

by Morgan Black

“Listen, Cleo. You and I both know that’s the real McCoy. Why don’t you tell me who you get it from?”

  “Is that a joke? No way. And incidentally, I get it from class, because it’s a class project, like I already said.” I throw his hand off my arm. He grabs me again.

  His eyes are wide and dark. “Your teacher would know about it?”

  “Of course,” I bluff.

  “I don’t believe you. And you know what? If I catch you dealing on campus again, I’ll go out of my way to ensure you get expelled.” He stares into my eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”

  I nod mutely.

  He looks me up and down. “I’d never have guessed. Someone like you. You know, it violates this campuses zero-tolerance policy to have that in your bag in the union. I think you better give it to me.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Maybe I ought to talk to Mila,” he says. “Let her know what kind of person is representing your sorority.”

  I look at his cheek, imagining my handprint there. “So…let her know what happened in here,” I ask slowly.

  He nods. “Yes. Exactly.”

  I press my lips together, twist them down into a thoughtful look. “Maybe you should,” I tell him. “I think it’s something I might need to tell everybody.”

  Just as the look of confusion mars his pretty face, I grab his hand and press it on my crotch.

  His eyes go round as plates. His mouth parts—just a little: perfect lips rioting on a perfect face that’s not so perfect when he’s shocked like this.

  I grind my crotch into his hand. At the moment I should step away, safely able to claim I was groped in a conference room by Kellan Walsh, my eyes rebel. They flicker to his crotch, where I find a rock-hard boner.

  I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. “Kellan—wow. I had no idea this is what you do in your spare time. Hot guy like you, I’d think you could get a woman willingly.”

  As I turn to go, I realize his fingers are flexed a little. He’s grabbing onto me. Maybe just by fractions of an inch, but yeah—he grabbed me. I was groped by Kellan Walsh.

  Let’s see how brave Mr. Perfect is now.

  Chapter 3

  KELLAN

  I’ve been watching her for months. Two, to be exact. Ever since that trip I took to San Francisco back in June. After that, one of my regulars said while I was gone, they bought from “that hot girl with the long, dark hair and the nose ring.”

  I started asking around. Trying to figure out who was elbowing in on my business. The next person I asked gave me an even bigger clue: “I think she’s a sorority chick. Passes out green in these little jars. You know, the kind with the metal top?”

  Bell Jars.

  Yep.

  I started watching for Bell Jars, and one Wednesday night, at a Greek banquet that so happened to directly follow sorority chapter meetings, I spotted a few people with these funny little Bell Jars. Blue top, green top… I only got a perfect view of one, but it was enough to see the baggie inside had a ribbon tied around it. So, probably a sorority girl. One look in last year’s yearbook, and I was pretty sure I’d found her.

  Cleopatra Whatley, a hot as hell Tri Gam with wild, dark, long hair, and a little diamond nose ring.

  I started following her. Found out Miss Whatley was busier than I’d expected. No wonder weed’s been down and coke’s been up. I’m losing all my bud buyers to this bitch.

  Unlike my medical marijuana—top shelf stuff—her shit is street grade, meaning it’s cheaper. The average idiot doesn’t know the difference between swag and Grade-A shit, so people don’t understand why I’m charging $20 more than she is. Two weeks ago, I had to have my distributors drop our prices by $10 an order for our marijuana buyers. You know what that cost me, in one week alone? Around $3,100. In one week. And why? Because little Miss Whatley wants to play the college rebel? Because she needs her hair did? She needs a Coach bag? She doesn’t need shit. Not compared to what I need.

  I’ve got to put a stop to her.

  It shouldn’t be that hard. I’m incredibly meticulous about my business. There are only a handful of people who know that Kellan Walsh is Mr. K., the largest supplier of marijuana, coke, and X east of Atlanta. And those people, I’ve got by the throat. That’s the only way to do it. I know my dealers’ family histories back to the Civil fucking War. I know their bank account numbers. I know their ex-girlfriends. Their bosses’ names. Their student login information. I know what flavor ice cream they like, and who their neighbors are.

  A few years back, I had a lot of time to do nothing but stare at a computer screen, and I taught myself a few skills. You ever heard of the Silk Road?

  Yeah, I didn’t figure.

  I decided to hit up Lora Compton. I fucked her a few times last year, always in the pines behind the Sigma Nu house. Nothing insidious about her. Just a normal girl who buys from me and buys from Cleo, so nobody can tell without some trouble that she tokes up in the morning and keeps that high moving all day long.

  I have Robbie, one of my dealers who is also friends with Lora, tell Lora he’s heard Cleo lost her supplier and is almost all the way through her backup stash. If Lora still wants weed, he tells her, she should give Cleo his number. He knows a big dealer, who deals to other dealers. Cleo can call him when she needs a little extra. This big dealer has always got a lot, and he’s happy to help.

  I have Robbie plan to go by Lora’s dorm late on a Wednesday night. It just so happens, that same Wednesday, we’re doing a joint cake walk with the Tri Gams. Lora’s there. Cleo is there. To my surprise, Cleo is toting her big, straw bag.

  To my delight, Cleo is dealing.

  I do my best to put some fear in Cleo. Then, by some strange twist of fortune, I find myself touching her pussy.

  She makes a ridiculous, veiled threat, and I leave the student union feeling amped up from our encounter.

  This girl is one of a kind. The sorority bitch drug dealer. A pretty decent liar, and owner of one hot, plump pussy.

  Robbie lets me know later that night that he’s spoken with Lora. The next day, he calls again and tells me Cleo called him. It’s a Friday afternoon, less than three hours from the start of band parties, and little Miss Whatley is all out of the green stuff.

  I have him give Cleo directions to one of our stock condos. She meets him there around seven-thirty, and in the course of their hour-long meet up, she drinks the proffered glass of chocolate milk, tells him she deals a little more than a pound of weed per week, and confides she needs more. She’s growing.

  Mrs. Pacman, gobbling my money.

  Next time she needs help, he tells her, she should meet him at his stock house. He doesn’t deal large quantities to other dealers without first having a longer meet and greet.

  He tells me afterward that she looks skeptical, but says she’ll probably call sometime.

  Turns out, she has a good night at the band parties. Sometime is the next evening. Robbie gives her the “safe house” address and sets up an appointment for six-thirty.

  Wonder how surprised she’ll be to find herself face to face with me?

  *

  CLEO

  Rob answers on the second ring and says we can meet later today. He gives me an address in the middle of nowhere. I know it’s the middle of nowhere, because I have a photographic memory, and this town’s not that big—but I’ve never heard of this street before. My GPS won’t accept the address, so I have to go on Rob’s directions.

  “Six-thirty okay with you?” he asks.

  I bite my lip. “You live down near the river?”

  “My friend’s place. Yeah, it’s by the river.”

  I tap my fingernails on my Economics textbook. “Hmmm.”

  “You good for it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I don’t usually go to random strangers’ houses without taking someone with me. Especially strangers like you.”

  He laughs. “You gonna bring someone with you?”

  �
��I’ve got another idea.”

  A few minutes later, I get a text’d photo of his license. I mail it to my friend Lora, along with a message saying I should be home by nine. I don’t want to text anything about weed, so I tell her I’m going on a blind date. That should trigger skepticism, which is what I’ll need from her if Rob turns out to be a creeper and I’m never seen or heard from again.

  I put on my favorite black jeans, a form-hugging red blouse, and my silver Manolos. I go by the ATM, taking out a thousand dollars for good measure. Then I point myself south, toward where the river weaves its way between the Alabama and Georgia lines.

  The drive is shady and nice, with lots of pastures, big trees, and a few glimpses of the winding river. I have the top down on my car, and I’m excited. If I can start buying from Rob, I won’t have to drive to Albany every Sunday. Assuming he’s not lying to me, or a freaking cop, he’s got a big supply. He might even have better prices than Kennard.

  I turn down a dirt road, and my car begins to bounce. A dust cloud hits me in the face, and I wish I’d left my car’s top down. I take it a little slower, shut my mouth and squint, and look down at my directions. The dirt road forks, and the dirt gets a little wetter—like it’s rained out this way recently. I’m going to slow, I can hear the river rushing just through the trees.

  Rob seems nice, like a normal guy. I hope he really is.

  Finally, I see my signal: a big, brown mailbox tacked onto the side of a large oak tree. I veer right, and find myself bouncing down a driveway that’s not visible from the road. The sound of the river gets louder. A black bird flies overhead, sailing up into the fluffy, white clouds, then down, where he soars over my car.

  I drive between a few pecan trees, and there it is: Rob’s friend’s house, a large, elegant two-story brick mansion that seems to be situated at the edge of the creek.

  Wow.

  This is nice.

  Like…really nice.

  I strain to see how many cars are there, but there are too many trees. I can’t see the porch or end of the driveway yet—only the second story of the house. I drive slowly, telling myself that if it seems too sketchy, I can simply turn around and leave.

  But when I get to the end of the drive, I see a handful of ordinary (if nice) cars. The porch is scattered with white rocking chairs and framed by big Azalea bushes. Maybe Rob’s friend is a little old lady.

  I spot a humming bird feeder hanging from the limp of a mid-sized Maple tree, and that seals the deal for me. This place is fine. I’m going in. I park my car beside a charcoal Ford Explorer with our school’s sticker on the back and spend a moment finger-brushing my hair.

  Then I grab my bag, slowly step out onto the dirt ground, and walk up to the porch. I’ve got a little snub-nosed gun tucked into my jeans pocket. I’d hate to use it, but if Rob’s friends do turn out to be creepers, at least I’m safe.

  I’m holding my breath as I ring the doorbell, wondering what kind of people live so far out by the river. All my muscles are tense. My eyes are searching through the glass panes on the door, looking into a wide, hardwood hallway for Rob’s round, freckled face.

  As I’m watching for his plump form, something comes over my eyes. I whirl and feel the tug of hands over my face.

  “What the—”

  I hear low male laughter, but that only scares me more. I grab my gun and wriggle free, whirl and find my gun pointed at... “Kellan Walsh?”

  He grins, looking breathtaking as always in slacks and a white button up that accentuates his tanned neck and forearms. I point my gun at his face, and he holds his hands up. “Hey, now—”

  “Kellan Walsh? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. This is my house,” he says pointedly.

  “It’s yours?” I look around the porch, as if the giant ferns framing the door will betray his story.

  I scowl up at his handsome face. “You live here?”

  “When I’m not at the frat house.” When I don’t respond, one eyebrow quirks up. “That’s what people usually do with their houses, isn’t it? Live in them?”

  “But…”

  “Lower the gun, Whatley.”

  “No way. Not when I don’t feel safe.”

  “I’ll throw you a bone, Whatley. Rob’s with me.”

  I blink quickly. Somehow, this makes even less sense than me accidentally getting lost and ending up at Kellan Walsh’s house. “He’s…? Rob’s…he works for you? Are you kidding me?”

  His mouth is pressed into a line, but his blue eyes sparkle, as if he’s in on a joke I have no idea about. Because he is!

  “This is a joke.” It has to be.

  His lips rub together in a smug, knowing expression. “Why don’t you come inside, Cleo.”

  I blink a few times at him, then lower my gun because seriously, that little thing is heavy. “You’re a drug dealer?”

  “No, I’m not a drug dealer. Rob is.”

  “Are you a supplier? A grower? The money man?”

  He pushes open the front door, exposing a beautiful foyer. He steps inside and waves, beckoning me in. “Come sit down and we can talk.”

  I hover in the doorway. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Where’s Rob?”

  “Something came up. Rob’s not here right now. He’ll be back later.” When I still hang in the doorway, he scoffs. “C’mon, Cleo. Do you really think I present a danger to you?” He waves at his nice clothes.

  “I don’t know,” I retort. “I don’t know shit about you.”

  Another smirk, this one more gentle, as if he understands why I’m upset and only wants to alleviate my worry. “I’m your SGA president, Cleo. I wouldn’t lead you astray.”

  I scoff. “You threatened me the other night.”

  He takes another step back and nods behind him, at the house. “Come on inside. There’s nothing dangerous in here.” I’m thinking of leaving when, behind him, I see gray hair. A little old lady in a short black dress is dusting a portrait on the wall.

  “Who’s that?” I whisper. Maybe I’m seeing a ghost.

  “This is my housekeeper, Maureen.”

  Maureen gives me a friendly little smile, and I step into the foyer.

  “Come with me. We’ll go into the living room.”

  I can’t believe this. Kellan Walsh! I trail behind him, trying not to look at his tight ass as he leads me down a hall beside the stairs, and into a large living room with vaulted ceilings and skylights. Windows line the back wall, providing a sunny view of the creek.

  This looks like something out of Southern Living. The exact sort of house I’d expect a guy like Kellan to live in. I look around, noting the built-in bookshelves, the art on the walls. Everything is perfect.

  He waves to a small, leather armchair and takes a seat on the couch across from it. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans over, looking at me like he might start laughing at any moment.

  He taps his fingers on his jaw. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Miss Whatley.”

  His low voice permeates my chest, making me feel kind of warm inside.

  I look around the large, nicely decorated room and tell myself I don’t care how good he looks. “About what?” My gaze bores into his. “You scared the shit out of me the other night at school and you’re a drug dealer—”

  He shakes his head. “Rob is a drug dealer. I’m his friend.”

  “You’re not a grower?”

  He shakes his head. “Too rocky out here by the river.”

  “Then you’re a buyer?”

  “What do you think, Cleo?”

  “I wish you would quit saying that. It’s creeping me out.”

  The smile disappears from his face. I clench my hands in my lap. I try to keep my eyes on his face, but they flit down his body, over his widely spread legs, lingering for a second at the spot between his muscular thighs where I found his boner the other night.

  I on
ly look for a moment, but I can tell he catches me. His lips twitch at the corners. “Miss Whatley… I think you want me.”

  I snort. “Are you kidding me? I definitely do not.”

  His mouth spreads into a full-on grin, complete with squinty, smiling eyes. “I think you’re lying. You did invite me to feel you up the other night. Is that an offer that’s still standing?”

  His words affect me so much, I shoot out of my chair and walk across the room. God, I guess I am attracted to him. I fold my arms over my chest and act like I meant to do this. Standing up was part of my plan. Finally, I find my voice and tell him, “No, it’s not. It never was an offer. It was a strategy. What do you want, Walsh? I didn’t come here to play games with you.”

  He stands up, too, and there it is again—that body. I’m such a liar. I do want him. I just don’t want to.

  I watch him bring his big, strong hands together, lining up his fingertips as his face takes on a thoughtful slant. “I’ll make it straightforward, Cleo. On the condition that, if you ever tell anyone about our encounter, you’ll come to regret it.”

  “That’s so creepy.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m protecting my interests. You might try to do the same in this business.”

  “So you are in the weed business!”

  He raises his brows. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s really more a demand.” He takes a long stride closer to me, stopping at about reaching distance. He meets my eyes. I hold his gaze. I can see his shoulders rise and fall as he tugs a deep breath in and says, “Stop dealing, Cleo. Stop dealing, or start working for me.”

  Chapter 4

  KELLAN

  I don’t know why I’m doing this. Is it desperation? Loneliness? It’s not true, what I told her. I never live at the frat house. I have a room there, but I’ve never stayed. I live here, alone, like I have since I bought this place last year. It’s the only time I’ve ever lived alone, and I’ll admit, I’m not a fan.

  I look at Miss Whatley’s pretty face. The skepticism. Anger. Almost hurt.

  I’m not an asshole. It affects me, the way she stands there with her arms folded, looking at me like I just ran over her kitten. It also draws my eyes to her nice bust.