Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

“It’s good,” I moan.

  “It hurts me good, too.”

  His arms around me squeeze a little, and he clasps his mouth down on my throat. His thrusts are hard—so hard and deep. I feel the frenzy of his breathing in my breasts.

  He thrusts harder, and I groan.

  He squeezes my hips as his cock plunders me, moving with strong, punishing strokes. I’m so aroused, I feel almost ill. Then he slides his hand down my flank, walks his fingers over my ass cheek, and pushes his palm hard against the end of the dildo.

  I see stars.

  He barks, low and loud, and I can feel his dick surge inside me, followed by the warm rush of his cum filling the condom.

  He lowers me onto the mattress and then frees me from the harness. He licks me up and down my swollen slit, and then he wipes me with a warm, damp cloth.

  He rubs my temples and my forehead. He kisses my hair, and whispers, “Thank you, Cleo. Sloth.”

  And when I’m half asleep, he leaves.

  He doesn’t know I’m awake when he comes back. He doesn’t know I feel him wrap his arms and legs around me.

  Chapter Six

  Cleo

  If that was no-attachments sex with an acquaintance, I don’t want to make love, ever.

  I wake up like a Georgia kid on a snow day: excited as hell, a little daunted—oh, and really sore everywhere below the belt from kinky sex and a big dildo.

  For a while I just lie there, looking at the canopy and wondering what it says about Mr. Perfect that he bothered to put the damn thing back up after harness time was over. When I finally get the energy to roll from my back onto my side, I realize I really have something to chew on.

  I’m not crazy. I swear. But... these sheets are not the same as they were. Right, like I’m saying they are not the same set of sheets I last saw on this bed. Those were cream. These are brown.

  No, like seriously.

  Oh my God, did he change them? Because of me? The thought makes my cheeks burn.

  I throw an arm over my head, and wonder if I can sneak out of his house and run away.

  Where is he now?

  I remember him slipping onto the bed with me and curling himself around me. I was almost asleep at the time, but I held off going totally under for a little while, just so I could feel him tucked around me. Brennan didn’t do that. He never wanted to touch me unless it was for sex.

  But... Kellan clearly did. He might have waited until I was asleep to do it, but he needed that. He needed to be close to me. He didn’t get the pleasure of my arms around him, making him feel held and sheltered, but he got whatever pleasure can be derived from sheltering another.

  Why did he do it?

  Was he feeling lonely? Sad? After our sexcapade, did he simply want to pay some kind of homage to my body?

  I slip out of bed and cool air wraps around my skin. I look around the bedroom, cast in shadows, and then walk over to the balcony and pull the brownish curtains open. Sunlight soaks the room in gold.

  Something about the sunlight jars my memory, and my mouth drops open as I remember what I learned about Kellan before going to sleep the first time last night. I inhale deeply, still shocked. Kellan was a quarterback. A freshman at the University of Southern California, an alumnus of some swanky Beverly Hills high school, and when the star QB got hurt after USC’s first game of the 2010 season, the Trojans’ coach let Kellan start. And he was crazy good. I read his stats. Once I started looking at his pictures, with that black hair, I even kind of remembered a beautiful, blue-eyed player with “DRAKE” across his back.

  I go over to the door, behind which I dumped my bags, and find them propped on luggage racks. Kellan played fabulously until January 2011, and that’s where his story takes a dark turn. Around four-thirty in the morning on a Saturday night, he got into an awful fight at a bar in downtown Los Angeles.

  He and the guy—who turned out to be a fellow Trojan: a lineman named Joshua Franks—got thrown out of the club, but the fight continued in a parking garage. By the time someone called the cops, Franks had a fractured cheek, a concussion, and so many punches to one side of his head, he later went deaf in that ear.

  Franks was shit-faced, and had allegedly been the one to start the fight. Kellan wasn’t drunk at all, and at the end of the night, he didn’t have a scratch on him.

  I try to see it all inside my head as I poke through my duffel, searching for my favorite sleeveless, purple nightgown. I can’t see Kellan being violent. Beating someone so... repeatedly? I can’t see him doing that. I pull the nightgown over my head and try to decide why. I think it’s because he seems so measured now. So in control of things. So in control of me...

  My gaze careens around the room, trying to reconcile this drug lord’s palace—and its prince—with a dark-haired college football quarterback, beating a teammate in a fit of rage in L.A.

  Kellan is a bad guy.

  That’s how it seems.

  If I told Lora everything I know about him, she would tell me to leave his house and stay away.

  Instead I put on my night gown, followed by my fluffy, hot pink bathrobe, which has been taking up approximately thirty percent of the space inside my duffel. I take a moment to relish the familiar feel of my clothes.

  Then I look around the room for what I had on last night, because I want to launder it. It’s nowhere in sight, and I notice while I search for it that the ceiling looks normal again. The ropes and pulleys must be tucked behind the indention at the center of the ceiling.

  Kellan Walsh... who the hell are you?

  My mind spins like the wheel of a bike, fast at first, then settling into a slow coast as I step into the bathroom, where I find my clothes in a brown wicker hamper. I brush and floss my teeth, smooth my hair down, and go back into the bedroom, squinting a little at the brilliant sunlight. I’m thinking of heading downstairs when I spot my Thomas on the wall over the bookshelf across the room.

  What the hell?

  I turn slowly around the room and notice Grans on an easel in the corner by the wing-backed chair.

  I let my breath out. The third painting, one I kept under my bed until I left the house, is called Olive, and it’s nowhere to be found. But these two...

  I walk over to Grans and marvel at the easel it’s on. Kellan just had an easel hanging around? This one is the one he asked about in my room, the one with lines from “Tintern Abbey”—which so happens to be one of my grandmother’s favorite poems.

  I walk over to the bookshelf with my eyes fixed on Thomas. My dad’s name was Thomas, and this painting truly is for him. Under the paint are slivers of a card he wrote to me, a love note he wrote my mother when they meet in high school, and a button from one of his shirts. Sprinkled over the paint, so sparsely it’s not noticeable, are the soft, soft hairs I got from his beard trimmer and hid in an oval locket that I stole from Grans after he died.

  I was only seven, but I had a sense that I should keep every fragment of my dad that I could find. When my mother decided to have him cremated, I stole some of the ashes, too. I stirred them into the paint for Thomas, and I don’t care who thinks it’s weird or gross. This is probably my favorite painting. I did it in high school. It was the first piece of art that ever really meant something to me.

  Kellan hung it on the wall for me while I slept.

  I’m still thinking about this as I pad downstairs in my pink robe.

  The living area is radiant with sunlight, drifting in from the skylights in the ceiling and flooding through the wall of windows that faces the river. Before my foot touches down on the dark hardwood, I hear the frenzied click of dogs’ nails, and Truman bounds across the rug, tail wagging, ears flouncing.

  “Hi, boy.” I crouch down and tug one of his ears into my hand. “What soft ears you have. How are you?”

  On a whim, I wrap my arms around him: thick and warm and soft and panting. I love dogs because they warm the soul without the baggage of another human.

  “C’mon boy... where’s your
daddy?”

  I find Kellan in the kitchen, making pancakes. At first I can’t see much of him because he’s standing behind an island, so I step around it. I find he’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him, in a pair of loose, charcoal lounge pants and a white undershirt that emphasizes his beautiful body—and his gold-blond hair.

  I smile a little, and he arches a brow at me. “Daddy?”

  I laugh. “You are kind of his dad. Unless you’re his brother?”

  He scowls. “No.”

  He pushes a plate of bacon at me as I walk back around the island and take a seat at the bar.

  His hair looks messy, and there’s some delicious scruff on his jaw. I can’t help noticing his eyes look tired. I feel a pang of guilt for not asking how his night went, although it’s not as if I actually could have. I was already in the harness when he woke me up.

  “Okay, bro,” I tease. “Then dad it is.”

  “I’m not his dad.” He flips a pancake.

  “Adoptive dad?” I want him to smile, but he just gives me a blank look.

  “Things must not have gone very well last night on your... um, errand.”

  I see the muscle of his jaw clench. He doesn’t even lift his gaze to me.

  “Okayyy. Well cool beans.” I grab two pieces of bacon off the plate and get up to get myself a drink. If he’s going to be a moody butthead, maybe I’ll go have my breakfast somewhere else. I can sit on the balcony and continue reading news stories about Kellan Drake.

  I grab a Mason jar out of a cabinet and a glass pitcher out of the refrigerator. I set it on the countertop.

  “You should try some lemons in your water,” I advise. Just filling the silence, I guess. (Cleo Whatley: always awkward).

  He doesn’t reply, and my feelings war with each other. Part of me feels sorry for him, part of me is irritated that he’s still so moody—especially after our night last night. Part of me feels pessimistic, like I’ll never really get to know him, and still another part wants to erect a wall around myself.

  I pour some water into my glass and feel the warm weight of his hand around my wrist. I look down, then get the nerve to glance up at his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. His blue eyes hold mine.

  “What for?”

  “For being a dick.” He lets me go and runs his hands through his hair. He lets a little breath out, like he’s been holding it. “Bad night.”

  His voice sounds thick—emotional, even. His cuts his eyes away and then turns back around toward the skillet. The pancakes sizzle, but he doesn’t pick the spatula up. I can’t even see him breathing.

  Shit.

  I turn around and lean against the counter. “Anything you want to talk about? You have a roomie now, you know.”

  I look at his broad shoulders, imagining them in a jersey. Bare and goosebumped while he stands on a surfboard. I imagine them tucked around me last night... the way he pressed his face into my hair.

  I have the urge to wrap my arms around his waist again, but I think of his reaction last time at the grow house. And that’s how I know I should.

  Is this what he does with other girls, too? Just fucks them, and if they make him laugh or wrap their arms around him, they get pushed away?

  I put my hand on his back, then realize I want more and press my cheek against it.

  He goes very still. So still I can hear his heartbeat.

  I kiss him through his shirt, and then I wrap an arm around his waist.

  “Don’t be pissed,” I whisper. “You seem sad. I like hugging you... I’m a hugger.”

  I smell something burning, and I lean around him to find the pancake smoking.

  I slide my arm from around his waist and kiss his bicep. “I didn’t mean to make you burn the food.”

  “You didn’t,” he says gruffly.

  I walk around the bar and take a seat on the stool right in front of him. I find myself waiting for his eyes to meet mine. He looks everywhere but at me as he finishes the pancakes, smears butter on them, and brings out a small cup of hot syrup from the microwave.

  He puts three on a plate for me and sets it in front of me, still without looking in my eyes. Then he turns around to open the refrigerator. He takes out some fresh-looking strawberries and sets them in front of me as well.

  “Thank you,” I say, as he finally looks me in the face. “Are you going to have some too?”

  He shakes his head and mumbles something about working out.

  I puzzle over this as he walks slowly toward the living area. He opens a door that looks like a closet door, situated between the kitchen and the living room, and disappears into it.

  I eat slowly.

  Should I ask him about football? Should I tell him what I saw? And what I read? I want to know the answers to my questions, but do I really have to have them? He’s clearly in a shitty mood. I don’t want to make things worse. Although of course, I want to know.

  I finish eating, clean and wash my plate, and when he’s still not back, I can’t help myself. I follow him through the door, which leads down to a basement.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I find a nice home gym, and Kellan running on a treadmill, pouring sweat.

  He glances at me, then straight ahead. I’m not sure if I should feel irritated by how he’s acting, or sorry for him. I go with sorry. If I knew him even just a little better, I would ask what’s up. As it is, I stick my hands in the pockets of my robe and stand there feeling like some awkward stalker.

  “This is really nice down here. I guess this is how you stay in shape for soccer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you guys have a game in a few days?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze flicks to mine, and I see effort on his face. He’s trying to be... not an ass. Which I appreciate, even as I wonder why he has to try so hard. “You a fan?” he asks. His voice is rough, the words slightly panted.

  My throat tightens with the secret I’m keeping—about his past. “I’m a fan of how you look in your uniform,” I say slyly.

  “Is that right?” He slows his pace.

  I nod as the air around us starts to prickle. “I used to appreciate you as eye candy even though I thought you were a jerk.”

  “And now?” He steps off the treadmill and closes the distance between us with three steps. He seems so tall. He looks very serious, considering we’re teasing.

  “Now I don’t know.” My heart gives a long, unsteady beat. “You seem... really hard to read. I don’t know what I think of you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says, folding his arms. Any emotions I might have seen on his face are locked away now. “Tonight, we’ll be going somewhere. It will be a chance for me to show you another aspect of our business.”

  “Are you getting a shipment or something?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I nod, and when silence spreads between us, I can’t stop myself from prying. “So what about last night? What did you have to do?”

  “It was nothing,” he says softly.

  Sweat rolls down his temple. I put my finger on his shirt, where it’s stuck to the middle of his chest. “Do you do this every day?” I step slightly closer as I ask.

  He nods.

  I stroke his chest, then ease my hand away. “How long do you run?”

  “I try to do aerobic shit for at least ninety minutes.”

  “Holy hell. Ninety minutes? You’re like, training,” I say, stepping a little bit away.

  He raises his brows.

  I take another small step back, establishing a safe distance between the two of us. Then I take a deep breath. “Can I ask you a question?”

  He plucks a towel off a weight machine and wipes his forehead, not quite meeting my eyes as he says, “You have that ability.”

  “Will you promise not to be growly about it?”

  “Growly?” He smirks—but it’s a ridiculing smirk. Like he thinks I’m crazy. Like he isn’t close enough with me to tease.

 
; I plunge right on ahead, keeping things casual even as my pulse picks up. “Yep, growly.”

  He stares at me. “Is something wrong, Cleo?”

  “No,” I hedge. “But I... last night, I saw a DVD of you playing football.” I search his handsome face. “You had black hair, and you were playing for USC. Your last name wasn’t Walsh. Your jersey said Drake.”

  I know I’ve hit on something, because his face stays absolutely neutral and his jaw tightens. He doesn’t move, just stares right through me.

  “Kellan?”

  Chapter Seven

  Kellan

  It almost feels right—that Cleo found it. Sloth. I let her in my house, of course she finds the DVD of me playing.

  This girl has got some fucking link to me. I’ve heard of it before: a soul tie, that’s what Whitney used to call it. When people’s souls just know each other. Maybe that’s Cleo and me. Sloth and “R.”

  As I cooked her breakfast this morning, I wished I knew more about her than chicken pizza. Tonight before we meet Pace to look over the stuff, I thought about taking her for pizza. I can’t let her stay the full three weeks now that I know who she is—but I’m not sending her away quite yet.

  Call it selfish. You’d be right.

  I look down at her, and I try to imagine Cleo writing me the letters.

  I didn’t really go to sleep last night. After I slipped into the windowed room and held her for a little while, I re-read every one of them. Before the sun rose, I went and got Truman. Got her some strawberries from the farmers’ market. Stared at her art.

  Cleo.

  Sloth.

  I’m not in a good place, but having her here... it eases me a little.

  “You watched my DVD?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “What did you think of it?”

  “Your name was Kellan Drake. You had black hair.”

  I smirk and run a hand back through my sweaty locks. “Which do you prefer?”

  “I think the blond is really your hair. Is that right?”

  I nod. I have a memory of Lyon snickering at the black dye stains all over my neck the day I did it—to disguise myself at a game of flag football with the senior dudes from our rival high school. I can hear his laughter.