Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

  I feel a tremble move through my shoulders. “Let me in. Please let me in, man. I’m your brother. I just want to hug you.”

  I grip the screen door’s handle, feeling like the world is tilting under me.

  “I don’t want to see you.”

  My throat swells, until I feel like I can’t breathe. “Please?”

  Kellan looks down at his feet.

  I could break the door down. Easily.

  Then his pale blue eyes bore into mine. In a low voice—in a man’s voice—he says, “I don’t want to see you, asshole. I don’t even know you. You’re just some military robot. You’re not my brother.”

  I swallow—try to. “I’m sorry.” I want to tell him what happened that day—about the liver shot. How badly I wanted to be here. But there are no excuses. I inhale and exhale, filled with icy-cold regret.

  His face twists. “Lyon wondered why you didn’t come. I didn’t, but he did. Chew on that.”

  The door slams in my face, shaking snow loose from the roof.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gwenna

  November 6, 2015

  “Don’t be a quitter, motherfucker!”

  I push my face into my pillow, distantly troubled, eager to sink back into dreamland. Something claws at the door of my mind. I should know…or do something important. Too tired…

  Later.

  For now, I curl into a ball and pull the blankets up, and as I shut my eyes, I feel the bed shake slightly. Hmm? Somewhere nearby, I hear panting, and that pulls me upward into consciousness. I blink a few times, feeling…off. There’s something cold and heavy in my belly: dread. Alarm nips at its heels.

  What’s wrong? I roll from my side onto my back, and as my senses come online, I hear the panting clearly. Male. The sound is low and raspy, unmistakably a man… For half a second, I feel frozen in the center of the sound. Struggling. Winded. Someone running.

  …In my room?

  I roll onto my side and— Barrett.

  I blink, but I don’t see him. The only thing that stands out in the darkness is the gray light seeping around the blockade of the curtains on the other side of his bed.

  Then his weight rocks the mattress. I realize the shape blotting the bottom of the curtain is the wide plane of his back; the triangle at the top of the blob: one of his elbows. He’s lying on his side, facing away from me. He’s got his arm over his head.

  I hear a moan, the kind that people make when something’s hurting them. Then his breath catches.

  “Fuck you, Breck! FUCK YOU!” His voice breaks. Then he’s breathing hard again, like he’s been running for a long time.

  I scoot toward him, agonized by empathy. My hand freezes as his back shakes, and I hear a soft sob.

  Oh my God.

  I can’t move, can’t even seem to breathe as I watch one of his hands clutch the back of his head, and another low, strangled cry breaks from his throat.

  His big back jerks once more, and then he’s sobbing: low bellows that punch out of him like drum beats. Then his throat tightens, his body coils, and the dam breaks on his grief. It’s loud and unhinged, frantic in the way that anguish always is. He holds his head and tugs his hair and sobs so hard, the headboard bumps the wall. He sobs like a child, overwhelmed and helpless, desperate in his pain.

  Slowly—maybe seconds, though it feels like years—my mind regroups; my pulse steadies; the empathetic horror that’s gripping me lessens just enough to let me feel a heady swell of need—to comfort him.

  Cold sweat sweeps me as I reach for him again. My hand touches his shoulder, and his body stills for just a second. Then he’s sobbing brokenly again. He holds his head and shudders—I hear “Breck”—and something changes; he starts shaking harder, less like crying, more like shivering. His sobs soften. And every few seconds, I hear his breath catch on an inhalation, quivering a few times as if he’s almost hyperventilating.

  I rub his damp back. “Barrett?”

  I think he feels me, and I feel him try to get control—his shoulders clench, his body stills—but I know how it is: he’s on auto-pilot, somewhere else, someplace where a part of him remains. Still wracked with soft, pained sobs, he reaches out and fumbles with a pillow, pulls it to his face, wrapping both arms around it like he’s trying to anchor himself.

  “Barrett… Bear.” My voice sounds small and hesitant amidst his solid sounds. I get him by his shoulders, try to turn him on his back so I can wrap myself around him. Fail. His skin is soaked, his body coiled and rigid. Shudders start to wrack him, and every few seconds, I hear a ghost sound seep around the muffler of the pillow.

  I crawl over his bent legs and come around in front of him. I look at his long fingers, dug into the pillow, pressing it against his face.

  After a breath of hesitation, I reach out and stroke a light hand down his forearm.

  “Hey, Barrett…”

  His chest and shoulders move more rhythmically, and when I try to gently pull the pillow down, I hear his hollow-sounding breaths, realize he’s right there on the edge of hyperventilating.

  Fuck. What do I do?

  I stretch out on the bed beside him, scoot in close, and wrap my arm around his upper back. He’s so much wider than I am, my arm can’t reach too far; I clutch his shoulder and hold on.

  I curl my body close to his and rub his cool, damp skin. Chills spread underneath my hand. He gives no other clue he knows I’m here.

  I remember something from my own dark time. When I dissociated once at Helga’s office…

  I tap him on the arm—a steady tap, tap, tap—and with my right hand, the arm I’m lying on, I reach out and touch his chest. I tap both places.

  “Barrett—it’s Gwenna.”

  I scoot closer still, and stop my left hand’s tapping, wrapping my arm a little more tightly around him, trying to hold him to me. He’s still coiled in pain, still shaking.

  “Barrett…baby.” I press my lips against his throat and run my hand up from his back into his hair. The curls are sweaty. Everywhere our skin touches, I feel his chills. I spread my fingers through his damp curls, stroking softly.

  “Hey…you’re safe. I’ve got you.” To my own ears, I sound scared and stupid.

  He drags in a deep breath, and his shoulders twitch. I shift positions just a little, so the pillow in front of his face is right under my neck. Then I wrap my hand around his head and pull him up against my chest.

  “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.” I hold him and I whisper and I stroke him and it hurts. To see someone so strong and capable— To see anyone in so much pain…

  I feel the pillow pulled away and feel him bow his head. I want to look down at him, check on him. Instead I kiss his hair, offering him privacy. A second later, his face presses against my chest. His face is hot and wet, his breaths warm and still fast. My heart aches as I smooth his curls.

  Jesus, if he does this every night…

  Breath quivers through his chest and throat, ragged breaths like aftershocks.

  When I finally glance down, I see his eyelids cracked, but can’t tell where he’s looking.

  “You awake?” I whisper.

  “I don’t know.” The words are raspy, almost whimpered.

  I hold him tighter.

  “Sorry,” he says roughly.

  “No, sweetheart.”

  He starts to shake a little harder.

  I lift my arm from his back. “Just a second. Let me get…”

  I pull the duvet up over his shoulders, leaning up so I can tuck it around his back and underneath his side. I pull it over him, and over me, and then behind my own back, where I tuck it so it’s tight around us both.

  Then I wrap an arm around his waist. He bows his head a little, his hair tickling my throat and chin. I feel him swallow.

  “You’re okay…”

  I snuggle closer to him.

  God, he’s warm. And still. I can feel him breathing, but that’s all. Then I feel him raise his arm. His hand touches my sho
ulder: just a brief caress.

  Then he lifts the duvet off him, turns away from me, and gets down off the bed. I see his gorgeous body glisten in the dim light as he walks into the bathroom. He doesn’t shut the door, just cracks it, so I hear the faucet running, followed by a slurping sound that makes me think he’s drinking.

  A minute later, he comes out and walks over to the bed. He stops beside it, looking at me for a long moment. His blue eyes are tired but clear.

  “That’s why,” he whispers.

  “Why what?”

  He shakes his head. “I fell asleep with you but…” He shakes his head again, purses his lips, and lifts his fingers to his forehead.

  “What?” I whisper, as he rasps, “I can’t sleep.”

  I see his Adam’s apple bob as his brows draw together. “I…can’t.”

  When his stark eyes meet my own, I feel my throat tighten.

  “Does that happen every time?” I whisper.

  He looks down at the mattress, rests his fingers on its edge. Then his gaze sears mine. “No more sleepovers.”

  I look down at my hands, then back up at his vacant face. His beautiful face. “I think we should do sleep overs. For this reason. And others.” My face burns.

  He’s looking at me, but I can’t read his face.

  “I can wake you up from square one next time, right when you first start dreaming.”

  He looks away, toward the fireplace. His jaw tightens.

  “This is why I said I can’t,” he says flatly. Then, without looking back at me, he stalks across the room to a dresser by the fireplace and pulls a drawer open. He plucks a pair of boxer-briefs out, and as I watch him pull them up his long legs and over his flawless ass, I try to process what just happened.

  He ignored me.

  Insecurity wells within me, but I push it down. Don’t be an idiot.

  I scoot closer to the foot of the bed, closing a little distance between us.

  “Are you embarrassed?” I ask, soft but clear.

  His back stiffens, then he turns fully away from me and pulls another drawer open.

  I feel a jolt of surprise, but then I realize: I shouldn’t. He’s a man—a man who had sex with me for the first time tonight—and he just lost his shit in front of me for not the first time. He might seem unaffected by a lot of things, but this isn’t going to be one of them. Of course he’s embarrassed. He shouldn’t be. But I get it.

  “I used to have nightmares too. Every night, for almost a year. I have a weighted blanket at my house. I took all kinds of pills. I saw three therapists. I cried every night. One time I woke up with my hand around this Diet Coke can. I had squeezed it…and it had cut my fingers.” Remembering that makes me look down at my hand.

  Silence blankets us. Then he turns to me, his face unreadable. “And now?”

  “It’s a lot better. I don’t even take anything. Not that that matters. I just haven’t needed to. I can tell you a few things you could try to maybe help. You have to write the dreams out—like, in detail. Then you go back and edit them and change things so it’s more the way you would want it.”

  Skepticism flashes through his features: there, then gone.

  “But I can be with you. I can show you how to start. There’s sleeping together and there’s sleeping together, you know?”

  I sit up a little straighter, giving him my pleasant wide-eyed face, the one I use around people I’m scared to snarile for. Then I realize what I did and give Barrett a tiny smile. “We can do both if you wanted to.”

  “Why?” he asks tonelessly.

  “Why do I want to?”

  He blinks. Yes, that’s what he means. Why do I care? My chest squeezes. “Because I care.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gwenna

  “Why?” This time, the word is thick with feeling.

  I feel a knot form in my throat as I look into his beautiful, sad eyes. “I would do anything to stop someone else from feeling like that. But you especially,” I say softly.

  “Especially.” He blinks, then looks away.

  “Especially.”

  His face softens as he looks back at me, but it’s a sad kind of soft—a little vulnerable, a little shy. Before he can turn back to the drawers, I slide down off the bed. I don’t even know what I’m going to do at first; I just know I want to see him smile.

  His eyes follow me as I move, rolling up and down me once before he sets his gaze on my face. As soon as it’s trained there, I want to pull it down again. I turn around, bringing my hand up to my mouth and tapping. As I do, I jut my hip out slightly.

  “I had an idea, but I forgot it. Oh yeah—” I turn around to face him, wickedly satisfied when his gaze drops to my boobs for half a second. His eyes return to mine; more blue than normal, slightly widened in wait. I put my hand on my hip, casual, as if I’m wearing clothes, and give him what I know is a slightly silly look. “I was hoping you might get a bath with me.”

  He frowns like I’m a few cards shy of a full deck, but his lips twitch, and I know my mission is accomplished. “You want to get a bath right now?”

  I bob my head. “A bath with you.”

  His eyes narrow in confusion. “Why?”

  I grab his wrist, tugging him gently closer to me. “Because baths are relaxing. And they’re fun.”

  He frowns, looking somber with his thick scruff and his wild, dark curls.

  “C’mon.” I stroke his wrist and look into his pretty eyes. “You know you want to. How long has it been?”

  His eyebrows arch. “Since I took a bath?” His mouth twitches again, but this time, he can’t hide a funny little smile.

  I nod.

  “A while.”

  “So it’s a must.”

  He rubs his forehead, looking tired and unconvinced, and also like he thinks I may be crazy. “If you insist.”

  I feel a sharp sense of relief, like I’ve just pulled us five steps in the right direction. Like I’ve diffused things.

  “I’m a great bath companion,” I tell him as I lead him toward the door. “You have no way to vouch for this. In fact, no one does. I’ve never shared a bath with anyone since I was like, a toddler. But trust me, I have all the right qualities.”

  “What are those?” His voice, behind me, sounds a little lighter.

  I sway my hips. “This.” I barely manage to stifle a giggle.

  Barrett smacks my ass, groaning as I gasp. I whirl and push against his chest. He thumbs my nipple.

  “What else?” he asks. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and for a small moment, I think he may kiss me—but he holds himself back. I can feel it. His mouth curves upward on one side, and it’s enough for me to see that I’m amusing him.

  I step into the bathroom, a palatial space done in rich earth tones. I step onto a fluffy rug and glimpse myself in the mirror. My stomach flip-flops; no, I tell myself.

  I look over my shoulder at him and continue. “I can make bubbles from any…” My eyes land on his dick. Holy gorgeous boner.

  Barrett blinks his hooded eyes. “What were you saying? Bubbles?” His hand wraps around the base of his cock. I force myself to look up at his face. I nod.

  “Bubbles from any shampoo.” My voice is raspy.

  I turn around toward the tub and lean over the side to turn the faucet on. My backside tingles in anticipation of his hand.

  “I give good backrubs too,” I go on. Water pours out of the faucet. I grab a bottle of shampoo and squeeze it over the stream.

  Then I turn back to him. I don’t notice my nipples are sticking out until his eyes move over them. I cover them with my hands, blushing.

  Barrett’s dick is long and hard and pointed upward, toward his navel. My God, it’s huge—and perfectly proportioned. Right in line with the rest of him, I guess.

  He blinks down at himself, then locks his gaze on mine. “You sure you want a bath?” He lifts an eyebrow.

  I smile sweetly. “Yep. I love a good, long bubble bath. You’re going to love it t
oo. If you’re still horny when we get out, I’ll blow you.”

  His eyes widen. He groans. “Goddamn, Gwenna.”

  I beam as I grab two towels off a shelf and set them on the side of the garden tub. “My Myers-Briggs shadow personality is decisive and authoritative. I tend to go shadow when it’s sex time.”

  Barrett screws his face up like he thinks I’m nuts, but a smile blooms a second later, complete with dimples. He lets out a hoarse laugh. “What the fuck?”

  I wiggle my brows. “You laugh now, but you’ll respect it. I can guess your type, too—easy.”

  I really think a bath will do us good, so I climb into the garden tub and scoot back, giving him the front seat, where it’s warmer and he can be ogled. Barrett leans over, slides his hands under my arms, and shifts me gently forward. I watch over my shoulder as he eases his big body behind mine. There’s nowhere for his legs to go except around my hips and over mine. As he settles, I feel a warm throb in between my legs. I hope my momentary abstinence makes him feel cared for. In fact, I vow to make it happen.

  I look down at his legs, warm and heavy around mine. They’re bent slightly at the knee, his soles pressed up against the front wall of the tub. The garden tub is big, but Barrett’s bigger. His legs are beautiful: muscular and thick, but also elegantly hewn. I take some soap and run it down his strong, hair-dusted calves. Barrett groans.

  “I told you I was good at baths.”

  His toes curl as I massage his calves. He lifts one leg and makes a choking sound. “That tickles.”

  I can’t see his face, but I can hear the smile in his voice. My chest loosens just a little more.

  “Does it?” I look behind me, sporting a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. I run the soap over his knee and up this thigh, and like a man, he lets me move on up as his eyes darken and the bubbles gather around his still-hard dick. When I can tell he thinks he knows my next move, I dig my hand into his thigh and tickle.