by James, Ella
Should I even allow myself to entertain the thought?
I manage to loosen up enough to tease him about being a Southern boy at heart—what with the cooking and the hospitality, the button-up Polos and the sweet tea addiction—and he gives me a small smile that almost looks a self-conscious.
He leans against the granite countertop while I sit on my bar stool, and somehow he starts asking me questions about myself. At first, I don’t realize there’s intent behind it. It’s easy to tell him about my pseudo-photograhic memory, about how well I do on standardized tests, about how I was good at math when I was little but fell miserably behind the year that Olive died; I never did recover. I blab about Mom and Grans’ reaction when I got accepted to this little private college on a full academic scholarship.
Kellan is a perfect listener, crunching on raw pecans and sipping on his iced tea with one elbow propped on the counter. He looks relaxed and interested, as if my history is somehow meaningful to him.
He draws stories out of me like silk from a spider, soliciting details about my high-school parties, prom, graduation (I was salutatorian), the mundane tasks I had to do while getting ‘rushed’ (AKA hazed) for Tri Gam...
I tell him crazy things I never tell anyone, like how I’ve always wanted to ride a horse at the beach because of that movie Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken, and how, if my sister gets a partial scholarship to CC, I’ll probably stick around in town for a few more years at least.
We discuss the merits of beets and the horror of goat milk in coffee, the necessity of quality in movies (we agree on a lot of the classics, like “The Godfather” and “Pulp Fiction”). I confess my desire for a slap-band watch and tell him about meeting Mark-Paul Gosselaar at the mall in Atlanta when I was shopping for my prom dress.
I’m nearly sick from what seems like dozens of baked cinnamon pecans when I start to ramble on about how many kids I want.
“Two, at least, so they can be best friends. Four if they turn out to be easier than I think, but definitely two.”
I can tell I’m losing him as I ramble about the virtues of young children, but when I ask how many siblings he has, I realize something else is going on.
He bites his cheek between his teeth, inhales so hard his nostrils flare, and says, “My parents had three kids.”
And that is all.
It’s plain to see this is a sore subject for my mysterious Mr. Drake.
I feel a pang of sympathy as he turns around and starts scrubbing the pan he used to bake the pecans.
I try to remember if I read anything about his parents or siblings in the brief news article about Kellan being suspended from the Trojans, but I don’t think anything was mentioned.
I’m irrationally irritated at myself for saying something that has led to a rough spot in our smooth and easy night—a night in which I almost felt like we were on a fun first date.
A few minutes later, he turns back around, wipes his damp hands on his pants, and with an unreadable look aimed not quite at my face, says, “I’m going for a run.”
I bite my lip, because it’s what I do when I’m not sure what to do.
“You want to go?” he asks.
My eyebrows jut up. I can’t help it. Sometimes they get away from me.
Kellan notices and smirk-smiles. “Not a runner?”
“No—I am a runner. Sometimes runner. I’m just... surprised you asked.” And embarrassed for admitting my surprise. Way to be obvious, Cleo. “Do you run downstairs?”
He shakes his head.
“Outside?” I smile, because he looks a little spaced out. (Too many pecans?)
He nods a beat too late, then gestures toward the front hall. “Down the road.”
Before I can give him an answer on whether I’d like to go, he looks in my direction—but not at me—nods a little, and says, looking at his cell phone, “I’ll be down in ten or fifteen. Gotta go get dressed.”
I wait a minute or two so I’m not climbing the stairs right on his heels. Then I go up to my windowed room, dig out a pair of hot pink running shorts, my white Under Armor running shirt, and my new-ish sneaks. I grab a rubber band and braid my hair in the bathroom.
I get down stairs after him, so I see him walk out a door beside the pantry pulling a gray t-shirt over his head. I smell a whiff of fabric softener, and then he walks around the island, and the sight of Kellan in his running gear takes my breath away.
My eyes cling to his incredible bare legs as he looks me up and down. “I like the hair.”
I touch my hand to my French braid and try not to gawk at the muscles of his thighs in those navy running shorts. I think they’re actually basketball shorts, because they’re longer. Geez... that shirt, the way it outlines his pecs. He’s just—Shit, have I said anything back to him? Stupid Cleo. I feel the heat in my cheeks. “Thanks.”
He lifts his brows. “You ready?”
I nod. Truman shows up, flouncing happily beside us as we walk toward the front door. I follow Kellan onto the porch, where we stretch.
“Do you do this every night?” It’s not lost on me that while I told him my whole life story, he told me exactly nothing.
“Almost. Especially if I don’t do cardio downstairs.”
“And how long do you say you do it for? The whole work out?”
“An hour and a half, two hours.”
“Damn. Are you training for a marathon? Like, really?”
He smiles, just one corner of his mouth tugging up a little. “Something like that.”
“Trying to keep your body lady-ready,” I tease.
He laughs, which sounds like choking. “What?”
“You know—trying to be .gif-worthy Kellan baby.”
I wiggle my brows, and he gives a low laugh. “You fucking know it.” He rolls his shoulders. Jogs in place a little. “Ready?”
“As I’ll be. You’ll probably leave me in the dust.”
And as it turns out, that’s exactly what he does. I can see him trying to go slow for me, but we’re unmatched. Kellan is a Spartan, and I’m a couch potato. He’s also almost a foot taller than me, so his Spartan legs, in addition to being incredibly well-muscled, are a good bit longer.
I admire him from behind the entire time he runs. He even has good running form. He holds his shoulders square and straight without being too tense. Where I look like a Muppet let loose on the road, Kellan looks like the athlete he is.
I think, as we turn around by a row of mailboxes and point ourselves back toward his house, that today has been different than I thought it would be. What changed between yesterday and today? He took me out to eat. He put his arm around me. He roasted me pecans. He asked so many questions. And then he invited me to run with him. Am I crazy, or was the Kellan from yesterday mostly just an ass?
By the time we jog up onto his porch, I’ve got so many endorphins partying in my brain, I really don’t care. I’m just slap-happy—and exhausted. So I’m taken off guard when we get into the foyer and Kellan yanks my running pants down.
“Kneel on the stairs and push your ass into the air,” he orders.
I do, and he crouches behind me. I can feel his smooth pecs brush my backside as he parts my lips and starts to finger me.
He inhales deeply. “Fuck—you smell incredible.”
Then he spanks me—hard.
“Ack! What the hell’s that for?”
“One,” he says, spanking me again, “for every—” spank—“word—” spank—“you—” spank—“just—” spank—“said.”
Then he leans down, pushes his head between my legs, and eats my pussy from the back.
I’m so sweaty, so dirty, that at first I think I’m not going to enjoy it, but I’m surprised to find I come almost immediately. I come even harder the second time he pleasures me. Then he carries me up the front stairwell to the windowed room and lays me on my back atop the massive oak bed. He spreads my sore legs, pulls his pants off, and climbs atop me, revealing his long, stiff cock, and the nice, full balls hangin
g below.
He eases his head in, then pushes in so deep and hard, I gasp.
“I need to fuck this sweaty pussy.”
He pushes my arms above my head, and I rebel and wrap my hands around his forearms. We fuck with him clutching my shoulders, and me clutching his arms.
Something about the angle is delicious. My clit throbs with every thrust. Inside, I feel so sensitive and full.
I peek my eyes open at Kellan and find his eyes closed in peaceful concentration. His brows draw together, his lips part a little every time he thrusts. His eyes peek open as he pulls out.
“So... damn good, that pussy.”
My eyes drift shut as his thrusts grow harder. He moves one arm to the mattress to support the frenzied pace, while his other hand captures both my wrists. I relax and let him push my arms over my head and press them to the mattress.
I can feel his cock swell in me. His breathing has grown harder, faster. When he presses his face into the crook of my neck, I feel his cock pulse in me, and I come so hard my abs clench and I grunt.
“OH GOD!”
I watch his sweat-glossed back pump with his deep breaths as he hides his face in my neck. His hand around my wrist loosens just enough so I can free one arm and curl my hand around his warm, damp head.
“Kellan—that was so good,” I whisper.
He lifts his head and gives me a dazed smile. “This will be better.”
He looks exhausted, loose-limbed and satiated, but he moves quickly between my legs and drags his tongue between my swollen lips.
“Oh fuck!”
He blows his breath against my fevered skin. He traces the tip of his tongue around my clit, and I come off the bed.
“Kellan!” I grab his head. He licks me gently, so tenderly I’m almost sure I feel his tongue tremble. And then, when I’m thrusting against him, his tongue starts thrashing me. It’s so intense it’s almost painful. He shoves two fingers into me and I scream. “Ohhhh... ohh!” I suck back a huge breath as my orgasm steamrolls me.
I sag back to the mattress, and he draws his fingers out.
When I have the strength to open my eyes again, I find him standing by the bed, holding my robe.
“Come down.”
He holds an arm out, and I use it for balance as I slide off the big bed.
He takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. He runs some water into the sunken tub and when it’s almost filled, he helps me in. I sink up to my neck in bubbles. The heat seeps into my bones, and I moan. Kellan climbs in after me.
He seats me between his legs, and with his huge erection pressed against my backside, he washes my hair.
“I like your wavy hair,” he murmurs.
I stroke his thigh, tucked around mine. “Thanks.”
I sit still and patient as he wraps my dark locks in a towel. Then he rubs some soap between his palms and kneads my shoulders.
“Ohhhh.” I sag against him, giving in to bliss, but as soon as I do, I feel him twitch against me. I turn around and fold my hands around his cock.
“I want to suck it—please.” I look into his eyes and smile. “May I?”
He drags his thumb over my cheek and then eases himself out of the water, so he’s sitting on the tub’s stone ledge. His cock juts up and out. Bubbles drip down it, collecting on his balls. I wipe the bubbles off and suck the head of him into my mouth, teasing him with my cheeks and tongue while my hands caress his shaft.
One hand wanders down to his balls. They’re heavy and taut. I cup them and roll them gently, and take a little more of him into my throat: so deep now, I have to concentrate to breathe.
His hand rests gently on my hair. I look up and find his head is tilted back. His lips are slightly parted. His eyes are closed. I can feel the tension in his hips. The way his abs are clenched.
I suck my cheeks against him, and at the same time, I swallow him deeper into my throat.
He shifts his legs. His hand on my head curls into a fist.
I start to hum around him.
He groans. “Cleo... fuck.”
I hum a little more, and his hand on my hair trembles. He makes a low sound in his throat and closes his eyes.
He’s feeling good. I can tell because his dick swells in my mouth, and his balls, cradled in my palm, tighten a little more.
I brush the head of him against my throat and suck the rest of him tightly, with all the softest parts of my mouth. I tickle my fingertips gently over his balls, and then I tickle behind them, over the forbidden taint.
He jumps a little, and I suck him deeper.
“Christ. Oh shit...”
I bob my head a little faster. He pulls out a little. His breaths are coming louder, faster. His eyes are squeezed shut.
He strokes my cheek with his fingertips and pushes back in, moaning. His legs twitch. His balls draw up a little more.
I whirl my tongue around him.
“God you’re... fuck. Keep going... Cleo, fuck don’t stop.”
I flick my tongue against the tiny slit at the head of him. He jumps. “FUCK,” he groans.
He thrusts deeper down my throat, and his gusting breaths turn to tight moans. His fingers grasp the towel on my head. And then, just when I feel him start to really throb, just when every muscle in his body tenses and he breathes, “oh fuck,” he pulls out. He strokes himself just once, and blows all over my shoulder.
I rest my hands on his calves while he sits there with his eyes shut, panting.
When he opens his eyes, he looks dazed. Dazed but happy. Satisfied, despite the way he pulled out of my mouth. “Fucking hell, Cleo. That’s a gift.”
I laugh. He wraps an arm around my head and pulls me in between his legs. I rest my cheek against his thigh.
“That felt so good,” he says hoarsely.
“I’m glad.” I kiss his inner thigh. Chills spread out from where my lips meet his warm skin. I smile up at him. “This has been a great night.”
“You’re what’s good.” His damp hand cups my cheek.
“I guess I kinda like being your slut.”
Something about my comment makes his eyes look unhappy. As I’m wondering what bothered him, he climbs out of the tub and grabs hold of a towel rack.
“You okay?”
He laughs. “All the blood’s gone down here,” he says, nodding at his cock. It’s still half-hard.
I watch him as he towels off. Once, as he turns, I think I see a small tat on his back, just over his left hip. I’m about to ask about it when he helps me from the tub, wraps me in a towel, and hugs me close while walking me toward the bed.
He settles me on it with my legs spread. “I need to eat you one more time before you to go sleep.”
TEN
September 11, 2014
Cleo-
Fucking hell, I know it’s wrong. It’s dangerous—for you, for sure, but maybe me as well.
And yet…
The taste of your pussy is my drug. I wake up for the chance to be between your thighs. Your body feels so warm and soft when I hold you.
I’m surprised. My Sloth—I never would have known.
I need you now. Because of you? Because of me? I’m afraid I know the answer. I’m in a desperate state—that’s true. But not just anyone would do. Maybe it had to be you.
I should send you home. I should push you far away before you learn more.
I can’t. I can’t!
My brother Lyon used to scold me for my lack of moral compass. I guess he was right. Don’t worry, Cleo baby. I can keep my secret locked down. I won’t break your heart. I fucking swear. I’ll be sure you never, ever know.
I hope you’re not too worried for your friend “R.” Don’t spend your time worrying for me.
Seventeen more days of you in my house. If I can hold out that long, I’m going to cherish all of them.
-R.
(It’s his name. He was Robert Lyon. We both owe you.)
ELEVEN
Cleo
“Cle
o?” Smooth fingers stroke my face. His voice is soft and smoky in my ear. “Do you want to go with me? To the pick-up?”
I drag my heavy eyelids open. I blink at his handsome face. “What time is it?” I rasp.
“It’s four-thirty.”
I open my eyes wider and find Kellan standing over me, looking tired and distinctly soft around the edges. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that hugs his muscles, and...
“My God.” I flex my legs. “Ohhhh.”
“Sore?” He smirks.
“Oh... very. Ow.” I sit up, groaning as I do.
Kellan helps me down from the big bed and I dress quickly in jeans and a black Tom Petty t-shirt, because I assume there’s a certain time we have to be there.
As I sit in the wing-backed chair and tie my sneakers, looking out at the pitch black night through the window wall, he comes and crouches at my feet. He rests a hand on the shoe I’ve already laced and looks up into my eyes. “There’s a risk here. I want to be sure you know that. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah, sure.” I finish tying my other shoe and straighten up. He takes my hand and rubs the top of it, so gentle that, for a second, my eyes drift shut again. I pull them open, finding him somber. “Isn’t there a risk with dealing too?”
He nods, covering my hand fully with his. “But this is different. I’m not getting that much imported anymore, but this is a lot more than you’ve ever had on hand. I don’t think anything will go wrong, but we could get busted. It’s always a possibility.”
I shrug. “Optimist, remember?” I push my hair back. Little strands of it have escaped my French braid and are hanging in my eyes, but I’m not going to take the time to re-braid it. Not here, anyway. Maybe in the car. “Hey, that reminds me. Where’s that stray cat you were telling me about?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t seen her lately.” He stands up and pulls me with him. When I’ve gotten to my feet, he laces his fingers through mine, and as we walk through his room, I think how strange it is to just be holding hands. In a way it’s even stranger than our casual-not-casual sex has been. He bends his wrist, bringing my arm a little closer to his body, and it feels so nice.
