Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

  * * *

  Cleo

  Damnit, but his voice is really sexy. It’s the kind of voice that pervert hypnotists use—right before they tell you to strip off all your clothes.

  Just a voice on the other end of the line. Not a person. That’s what I tell myself.

  “Where are you, Cleo?” it purrs. “Tell me, are you in your bed?”

  “Yes.” I’ve got a soft fleece blanket tucked around me, and I’m looking up at the glow stars on my ceiling.

  “Tell me what you’re wearing,” he instructs.

  I hesitate while my heart pounds, pumping blood to the growing heat between my legs.

  Should I lie?

  I open my mouth, and the truth tumbles out. “Just a t-shirt.”

  “Take it off for me, Cleo.”

  My hand, between my legs, pauses as I argue with myself. I would probably be masturbating even if I wasn’t on the phone with him, so I’m not doing this for him. I’m just...horny right now. Yeah. He might be crazy and a total ass, but I do think he’s hot. So what if I use his deep voice to get myself off?

  “Are you naked, Cleo?”

  “Yes,” I lie. “I’m naked.”

  “You’re not naked. Take your shirt off, Cleo. Take it off now, or I’ll come and do it for you.”

  My eyes widen, and I’m not sure if I should laugh or cream my panties. “You’re good, Walsh.”

  “That’s Master Walsh to you. Pull your shirt over your head and cup your breasts, Cleo.”

  I put the phone down, and yeah, I’m doing it. I pull my shirt over my head, and my hair falls around my shoulders. The cool stream of air from my box fan makes my nipples harden.

  I sink into the covers, holding the phone to my ear like a sixth grade girl talking past curfew on a school night.

  “What do the sheets feel like against your skin?” his voice rumbles.

  I stroke my hand down the inside of my thigh. “It’s not a sheet. It’s fleece.”

  He purrs, just like a tiger. “So it’s soft.”

  “It is.”

  “Is it cold in your room?”

  “Now that I’m naked it is.” Reality slices through my fantasy, sending a pulse of fear through me. Making me feel vulnerable, like tomorrow I’m going to find a recording of our conversation posted on the campus forums.

  “Are your nipples hard?”

  I bite my lip. “I’m not telling until I know something about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  My stomach twists a little. I still can’t believe I’m doing this with him. I could stop right now, but... I can’t seem to say the words. In fact, I hear myself ask, “What are you wearing?”

  “A robe.”

  “What color is it?” I whisper.

  “Black. And silk.”

  My cheeks burn as I imagine his glorious body draped in a black robe. How it would hang off his huge, ripped shoulders. If I was there, I could part it and see his six-pack...and his happy trail.

  “I’m sitting at the top of the stairs in a dark house, but I think I’ll get up and go back to your room now. Getting up...” I hear the sound of fabric swishing, followed by his deliciously low voice. “My cock is so hard, it’s bouncing as I walk. I’ve got my hand around the head of it. Put your hand between your legs, Cleo.”

  I imagine his perfect cock as I slide my hand back down between my thighs.

  “Touch yourself,” he orders. “Rub your fingertips over your clit—lightly—and then stroke down. Nudge your finger in between your lips so you can feel how soft you are. So warm and wet, aren’t you? Glide your fingers through your wetness.”

  My fingertip circles my clit, almost on its own.

  “Good girl. Don’t be shy. You’re fucking sexy, naked with your fingers in your pussy. My cock is aching for that tight, wet pussy. Slide one finger down and push a finger into yourself. It feels like velvet inside, doesn’t it Cleo? Push in—all the way. Do you like that?”

  God—for shame. I push my finger up inside myself, and it’s all I can do to swallow back a moan.

  “Tell me, Cleo—do you like to be finger-fucked?”

  Heat sweeps through me, and every inch of my skin tingles with sweat.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Clench around your finger. Clamp that pussy down on it. Are you doing that?”

  I nod.

  “Now drag your finger out. Not fast. Slowly.”

  Damn me, I’m doing what he says. My clit feels warm and swollen.

  “You’re empty now. All wet with no dick to fill you up,” his low voice whispers. “Push your finger back into your cunt. Then slide it out. I want you to fuck yourself. Like I would do if I was there.”

  I close my eyes. I imagine my finger is his finger. I’m so wet.

  “My robe is coming off, Cleo. I hung it on the door, and I’m walking to my—to your bed. I’m on it now, Cleo. I’m naked. Can you see my chest and shoulders? Can you see my dick? I’m stroking it. Squeezing it. It’s hard. Getting harder.”

  I rub circles around my clit, tensing my legs. “Does it... hurt?”

  “I’m sore, but you didn’t break it, Cleo. It’s ready for that pussy.”

  I picture his hard length standing at attention, long and thick and striped with veins. His hand around it, stroking as his balls bounce underneath.

  “Can you stroke your clit with your thumb while you slide another finger inside? I want you to feel full, so when you close your eyes and imagine my cock, you can almost feel it. Almost.” He laughs, a low, throaty sound that turns me on even more. “Are your fingers in your pussy, Cleo?”

  I’ve been holding back, but now I spread my legs and push two fingers in. My clit throbs, and I can’t swallow my moan.

  “Your pretty lips are around my cock. Now you’re taking it down your soft throat. I’m thrusting in and out of your mouth, pushing myself down your throat, because I’m getting close. Do you have a vibrator?”

  I can’t speak, so I just swallow. I lie still for a minute, with my fingers in my pussy and my thumb stroking my swollen clit. Then I reach over to my nightstand drawer and pull my little bullet out.

  “I trust you’ve got your vibrator in hand. Blow on it a couple times. Get it nice and warm, and then position it right over your clit. You’re throbbing, aren’t you Cleo? I can smell how wet you are.”

  He’s right. I’m practically gushing.

  “I’m wet, too. I’m so fucking hard for you, I’m leaking. I’m so hard it almost hurts. My balls are drawing up and that does hurts, Cleo. That’s your fault. But it’s a good hurt.”

  I drag my finger through my pussy lips and swirl it over my clit. I’m starting to pant, so I angle the phone away from my mouth.

  “Turn on your vibrator. If you pulled your fingers out of your pussy, I want you to stuff them back in, nice and deep. Unless you have a dildo. Do you have a dildo?”

  “No,” I rasp.

  “Stuff yourself. Two fingers. Shove in as far as you can go and imagine my dick buried deep inside you. I’m thrusting in and out of you. Then I’m dragging my tongue over your clit. Rub the vibrator over yourself and feel my tongue. It’s soft and hot. I’m teasing you. I’m lapping down around your cunt. Licking back up to your clit, so everything is soft and slick.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Work my fingers in and out of myself. Hold the bullet to my clit.

  “I’m thrusting into you. Slamming my hips into yours straining to get deeper. You spread your legs as far as they can spread and I bury myself in you.”

  “Yes,” I pant. I don’t mean to. I just... can’t help myself.

  “I’m coming now, Cleo.”

  I hear a low, rough groan—and that’s all it takes for me. I roll over the edge with a little gasp, and I hear Kellan’s chuckle. “Did you come, Cleo?”

  I shut my eyes and breathe as he says, “I blew my load imagining that pussy. This is the last time I’m going to imagine it.”

  I shake my head and c
url over on my side, hugging myself as all the tingles work themselves out of me. “You’re wrong,” I say. “I didn’t come.”

  Another laugh. “I heard you panting. You’re lying.”

  “That’s not true.” I can’t believe I did that. Holy shit.

  “Tomorrow, Cleo. Pack your bags.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cleo

  R.-

  This is my school’s campus. See? We ARE known for our art program.

  I miss you…

  I’m surprised how much.

  -S.

  It’s 7:48 a.m. when I drop the post card in one of the campus mail bins and trudge toward my first class: calculus for business. I plan to start my own learn-to-paint shop, so I know I’ll need some business skills. I just don’t understand why calculus is necessary. And I definitely don’t understand why they put the sorority houses on the east side of campus when so many science and math buildings are on the far west side.

  That’s a lie. I do. Sexist bastards.

  I look down at my feet as I walk—at my ankle-high leather boots and black leggings. I’m wearing a black shawl, too, with a black shirt underneath. All black today. Because it suits my mood.

  I feel...weighted. As if there’s an itty-bitty black hole behind my sternum, collapsing me from the inside out. I just want to sink down to the ground. And spread my legs. And think of...

  Damn.

  Maybe I’m ovulating today? Because I want him. Like...I totally, illogically, inappropriately want that asshole, Kellan Walsh, inside me. Right now.

  I cross an arm over my chest to try to hold this feeling inside, where it’s safe. I feel so much the opposite today. As if something small and soft could break me. Maybe it’s the clouds. The puffy, dark gray clouds riding low over the campus’s stately brick buildings remind me of the instructions Robert sent me what feels like forever ago: not a sunny day, and not a cloudy one. I inhale deeply and feel the pressure in my chest again.

  I’m worried—okay?

  Anyone in my shoes would be.

  Nothing will be right again until I get another note from “R.” Or until BTM returns my call or my letters. Until then, I’m waiting. I hate waiting.

  I follow the curve of the wide, brick concourse, cutting a flat path beneath mossy oaks, between bike racks and pebble paths. I shift my thoughts to Kellan Walsh, where they’re safer.

  It’s official: I’m bespelled, just like the others. On paper he screams “horrible idea,” but in experience... well, he screams horrible idea, but also “hot fuck.” I didn’t think of myself as someone extra susceptible to the whims of my pussy, but I guess with the right guy, anyone can be swayed.

  Why is he the right guy? I don’t have a clue.

  Right dick, I correct myself. I only want him for that gorgeous cock of his. And his sexy voice. And that body...

  Fuck.

  I arrive at the Braun Mathematics Building in a crap mood and stop in the doorway to pull my shoulder-length, brown-black hair into a pencil twist. Like everything today, it feels heavy.

  I literally drag my feet the rest of the way to Room 120. I pull my iPhone out of my bag and check it before I step into the classroom.

  Nothing. Yet. I have a feeling I’ll hear from Kellan sometime today. Or see him. And when I do... I shake my head. I have no idea how I will handle seeing him in person after last night.

  I sigh, and actually relax a little as I open the door, because at least in here I can turn my thoughts to something concrete.

  I push through the door with my right elbow, curling my fist toward my wrist to avoid picking up germs: my new worst fear. Then I step onto the bottom level of a stadium-style lecture hall and freeze like a burglar in a spotlight.

  The room is quiet. Everyone is bent over, scribbling with pencils. As my eyes across desk after desk, all I see light blue paper on each. Scantrons. Because today is test day. SHIT.

  I spot my hump-backed, seventy-year-old professor, Dr. Marx, behind the podium, and I walk slowly over to him. My hand feels numb as I take a test booklet and a Scantron of my own.

  How the hell did I forget this? I’ve actually been studying lately, and using my day planner.

  I am screwed. So screwed. I’m a disaster at math on my best day, and this is not my best day. Not at all.

  I take a seat on the fourth row up and try to remember how the grade for this class is calculated. I’m pretty sure it’s calculated by averaging four tests and an overall pop quiz average. This test is going to be one-fifth of my grade.

  I slide into my seat with a hard knot in the back of my throat. I’m surprised to find I’m blinking against tears by the time I get my name bubbled in.

  The moment I open the booklet, the classroom door creaks open. I look over then blink a few times, just to be sure I’m not hallucinating. But...nope. Standing there in the doorway, holding a manila folder, looking tall and broad and flawless in charcoal slacks and a dapper charcoal vest over a crisp-looking button-up, is Kellan Walsh.

  What the fucking fuck?

  My head pounds, and all of a sudden, I can’t seem to remember how to breathe or even be here in this room.

  Awareness returns to me slowly, centered between my legs. My vag is pounding. Throbbing, really. It’s hot and eager, ignited by the sight of Kellan Walsh. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs. How totally humiliating.

  Kellan steps fully into the classroom, like he wants to go ahead and get rid of any hope I have the he’s just a very Kellan-looking person. My eyes run from his golden blond hair down his heavy chest—which I have to admit, looks amazing in that vest—to the podium, where Dr. Marx is peering at Kellan curiously.

  I look down at my Scantron and bubble in a random “C” for question number one while Kellan and Dr. Marx talk with their heads leaned close together. I see some of my female classmates watching Kellan longingly, and I’m shocked to find I want to throat-punch them. Then Dr. Marx nods twice and looks in my direction. “Come,” he beckons.

  I pick up all my things, including the test papers, and walk toward the podium in slow-motion. All I can think of is last night, in my bed. How wet and shaky I was when we finished. How I couldn’t fall asleep without using my LELO wand and replaying his dirty words in my head.

  Kellan folds his arms over his broad chest and keeps his eyes on the rows of desks directly in front of him as I close the distance between us. Then he shifts his gaze to me the way a man might look from his bowl of cereal to the text of a newspaper article. His face is completely apathetic.

  “Miss Whatley,” he murmurs, when I’m close enough that only I, and maybe Dr. Marx, can hear. His gaze rolls up and down me, casually assessing.

  “What are you doing here?” I choke.

  The corners of his mouth quirk. His lips press together and twist slightly up, a sly expression that shows he’s enjoying my ruffled feathers. His blue eyes tug at mine. “Can you step into the hall, please, Miss Whatley?”

  My heart hammers like a drum as we move toward the door. I feel his fingers on my lower back—pressuring or guiding me?

  He reaches around me to push the door open, and I can feel the gentle sensation of him shadowing me as we move into the hall. It’s empty now that class has started—fliers on a nearby bulletin board no longer flapping in the breeze that busy bodies make; the shiny, gray and maroon checkered floor tiles glinting beneath shoe scuffs.

  I tell myself that despite his ridiculous plan, and no matter what he says, I will hold strong and keep my panties on. I turn slowly to face him, wearing my best poker face. “What are you doing here?” I ask curtly.

  It’s such a lie, the ‘hold strong’ bit. His eyes are so, so blue. They’re like the ocean. His lips curve up a little, and I want to bite them. Lick them. I can feel my nipples harden. I thought that was just a line from romance novels, but for real, they actually harden at the sight of this bastard.

  “What do you think?” he practically purrs. Something deep in my belly tucks into a little bow
for him.

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” I say flatly.

  He offers a gentle smile I’m not expecting, then reaches out to touch a loose strand of my hair. “Cleo... Don’t worry. I’m not the asshole today. I’m the prince.” A satisfied grin breaks over his lips, and his face goes from beautiful to breathtaking.

  Deep breaths, bitch.

  I arch one eyebrow and hug my books closer to my pounding chest. “Why are you really here?”

  “I’ve got an independent study this period. I’m helping the provost film a commercial. I need students.” His greedy eyes rake up and down me. He takes some of my shawl between his fingers as his flirty mouth curves up again. “You look good in black, Cleo.”

  “I’m sure that’s what the provost wants.” I roll my eyes. “A girl in a shitty mood, dressed in all black.”

  “It’s what I want,” he says in a low voice.

  My heart trips, then starts beating off-beat.

  I laugh, ridiculously awkward. “No charming me,” I warn. Except that isn’t true, is it? He made me come last night—on the frickin’ phone!

  He catches my hand, his long, strong fingers weaving through mine before I have the chance to pull away. “Walk with me, Cleo. No strings.”

  I want to pry my fingers from his, but our hands are locked together, palm to palm. His hand is warm and strong. The close contact reminds me of how lonely I’ve been since Brennan. Just for the basic things, like hugs and hands. That’s the only reason I let him tug me gently down the hall, toward the front entrance of the building. That, and I want to confirm for myself in the light of day that he’s really not an FBI agent. If he doesn’t bust me now, I can believe he’s actually a drug overlord.

  Our forearms brush as we move. The curve of my hip touches his thigh. I try not to sweat. He seems calm—completely unaffected. FBI-like... ?

  “You can re-take your test,” he tells me. “I’ll get your excuse.”