by James, Ella
He tenses his tongue so it’s firmer than before and drags it through my swollen lips. Then he laps at my clit, so softly and slowly that my ass comes off the floor.
“Oh God!”
“I’m right here,” he says in muffled tones. He drags his tongue from my clit down to the clenching, sopping core of me and, with no warning, he thrusts his tongue inside.
I lock my legs around his neck, tightening my thighs as I rub myself against his face.
“Oh God...” I shudder, and he twirls his tongue, stretching me gently.
“Kellan.” I tug his hair, surprised to find, “I want you... inside.”
He stops licking and smirks up at me. “What’s the magic word, Cleo baby?”
“Please!”
He takes his t-shirt off and slides it under my hips. He tugs his jeans down, freeing his enormous cock. It’s such a beautiful sight: a reminder of virility and life... I reach out and touch it, and he shuts his eyes.
He pushes two fingers into me, stroking his erection as he stretches me. I hear him rip a condom open—with his teeth—and open my eyes to watch him roll it over himself. Then he slides his fingers out of me, rubs his plump head through my slickness, shuts his eyes, and pushes deep inside.
He fills me so thoroughly my legs fall open. I lift my hips on instinct but he’s so deep, there’s nowhere else for him to go. He shifts his hips and settles snugly into me. I let out a cry they probably hear inside the bookstore.
He leans over me and laces his fingers through mine. His hips pump, making me moan at the deliciousness of being filled.
“You like it when I fuck your pussy, don’t you, Cleo baby?”
I nod, tightening my inner muscles around him. He grinds against me, burying himself deeper, so I gasp and arch up toward him.
“You like to have your nipples sucked,” he says. I feel my nipple tighten, then his lips find it. His thumb comes over my clit, stroking gently, and my pussy pulses as I buck my hips.
“God—you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
He suckles my breast, then kisses up my chest, toward my neck. I nuzzle his head and find his mouth with mine. I slide my tongue in, taking charge of this one thing, even as he dominates the rest of me.
I nip at him and lick his lips. He’s so hungry, his kisses start to hurt. Our hips move in frenzied sync as he surges deeper. I tighten around him. I suck on his tongue and am rewarded with a sharp jerk of his hips. I feel his moan in my mouth... then inside me as he throbs with his release.
I tighten around him, coming in a violent rush. I’m still panting as he feathers kisses on my cheek. I peek up at him. His face is filled with soft intent; his big hand strokes my hair. And I feel cared for. Very cared for on this sad day.
“I think we might be soul mates,” I tell him as we drive toward the cemetery. It’s nestled in the middle of a well-off neighborhood, far from our family’s house, which is closer to the Flynt River.
His hand is in mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles. It goes still at the comment.
“What makes you think so?” he asks in a voice that’s too relaxed.
“Among other things, you just played a song I really like, one I usually play when I’m coming here. But other things too,” I add.
“What things?”
“Like you tucked my hair back up, and how you made me drink the Snow Queen. My friend used to always say to drink before I come here.”
“Anything else?” He gives me a strange smile.
“I don’t know. I just... feel weird about you. Good weird. Like I know you, even though I know I really don’t.”
“You know me better than most,” he says. His fingers resume stroking mine.
“I have a feeling that’s still not very well.”
“Can’t argue that,” he says quietly. And that’s the end of such talk.
I leave Olive a tube of my favorite lipstick and a shot glass full of Snow Queen. I ignore the bouquet of sixteen roses lying against her headstone, and I don’t look at the card.
Kellan strokes his thumb over the seashells I left here several years ago. I look around the cemetery, searching for some sign, but there’s nothing. The sun is shining, the sky is ordinary blue, the grass yields no secrets for me. It’s neither dead nor particularly verdant. The trees sway in a breeze that’s no different from any other day. The only thing significant about today is Olive’s absence.
I don’t stay too long before Kellan wraps his arm around me and guides me back to the Escalade.
The whole way home, I talk about an article I read in TIME Magazine about how, years from now, no one will die. I keep it technical, and again we talk of robots. When we get back to Kellan’s house, Helen is waiting by the door.
FIFTEEN
Cleo
Kellan carries me to the windowed room. I assume he plans to pull the covers back and peel my clothes off, but instead he tucks me into bed and disappears, returning a few minutes later with a mug in hand. Steam wafts off the top. He sets it on the nightstand and leans against the mattress.
“Sit up a little,” he whispers, smiling softly down at me. I’ve got my head propped in my hand and I’m lying on my side, just looking out the windows and thinking. I drag my tired self up, and he plants a kiss on my forehead.
“Thanks.” I wrap an arm around his back, and for a blissful moment, his forehead is against my neck—and I have him. The weight of him. The smell of him. All his wonderful intentions, and my fantasies, which have only just begun to simmer.
Then he leans back, hands me the mug, and winks. “Try that.”
“What is it?”
“What does it smell like?” He smiles and tilts his head, watching as I take a tentative sip.
“Ahh, that’s—whoa, that’s really good. It’s hot chocolate with...”
“Brandy and Frangelico.”
“What’s Frangelico?” I ask before taking another long, warm sip.
“Hazelnut liqueur. Italian.”
“God.” It pools in my belly, and with the next long sip, I feel a blanket of drowsiness cover me.
“You should get some sleep,” he says. He walks to the head of the bed and I feel his hands on my hair—pulling the rubber band off the bottom of my braid, then separating the wavy locks.
I sigh. “That feels amazing.”
“Good.” He smooths my hair down my back and kisses my temple.
I blink at him. Is this the same guy who disarmed and cajoled me.... what? Mere days ago? I feel like I’ve known him my entire life.
“What will you do while I sleep?” I ask, folding my hands around the mug. As much as I’d love to go to sleep, I think I want him near me more.
“I’ve got a dealer meeting, then a thing with Manning.”
“Oh, a thing?” I smile, teasing.
“We do it twice a week. I’ll bring you to the next one.” His mouth presses tight, then curves back up into a pensive half-smile. “It’s for the charitable distribution.”
“Oh, like for the ailing people?”
He nods.
“I’d love to go to one. I want to help.”
“That’s what I love about you,” he says quietly. Without another word, he turns and goes.
I’m asleep in minutes, dreaming of his arms... his blue eyes, crinkled with his smile. Around the corner somewhere, Olive dances with my lipstick in her hand.
* * *
I don’t know what time I wake up, roused by the strange and lovely sensation of something vibrating in my pussy. My legs are spread, my knees bent and the soles of my feet touching, drawn up under my bare ass. As the undulations grow stronger, I try to writhe toward the pleasure and I find I can’t. I’m bound at the ankles.
I test my arms, both spread, and find they’re tied as well.
I open my eyes and look around the room. The canopy is gone, so I can see the moonlight pouring through the wall of windows.
I see the shadows shift outside, and find Kellan outside on the balcony. He’
s leaning against the thick cement wearing nothing but an open robe, watching as I struggle with desire.
I roll my hips. I clench around the thing inside my cunt and feel my clit throb. Oh—I want to moan.
I tug against the binds around my wrists. I gasp as the vibrations change. Now the egg is throbbing, working itself deeper into me. So deep, I have to move my hips. I lift my backside off the bed and watch as Kellan glides across the balcony and pulls the door open.
The tempo of the throbbing increases. I pull against my binds because if I could just roll over, if I could get this egg thing closer to my clit, then maybe I could get off.
Kellan seems to drift onto the bed. In his black robe, he looks like the grim reaper as he leans his blond head down and licks my pussy. I’m reminded of a tiger’s tongue—and then I only know the trembling of my fists, the fierce throb deep inside me. I’m already so aroused, it only takes a few soft, hot licks before I’m pulsing. I gasp his name and let my pleasure take me under.
When I open my eyes, I find Kellan sitting near my hips. He’s cross-legged, his dark robe pooled in his lap.
I start to laugh at how hard I came, laugh out my embarrassment, when my gaze finds his face.
“... Kellan?”
His eyes are fixed somewhere out ahead of him, on the wall beside the door. He doesn’t look down at me as I say his name, nor in the seconds after.
“Hey,” I say more gently. “You okay?”
He blinks, and my gut clenches. There’s something strange about his eyes. About his whole face.
My hand flinches in its knot. “Kell—can you untie me?”
He blinks.
“Please?”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Anxiety streaks through me. What’s going on? I’m tied up—totally defenseless. How much do I trust him? Those are fear’s questions.
Then I see his mouth move—just a tremble—and everything falls away except a thick swell of concern.
I try to turn my body toward him, try to reach him with my hand. I can’t, of course.
“Kellan? Hey... what’s wrong?”
His eyes shift to my body; not my face. He blinks again, doll-like. In a low voice, he says, “You should go.”
“What?”
His eyes shut. As he opens them, he moves onto his knees and starts to untie me. I watch the gorgeous ripple of his shoulders, the column of his throat. His face is pained. His gaze is everywhere except my face.
As soon as I can sit up, I grab his arms and tug him toward me. “Kellan. Look at me.”
He does, and I can see his eyes are red.
“Did you smoke?” Maybe that’s it. I discard that almost as quickly as I think of it. He’s not high. He’s upset. Something. “What happened?” He rests his gaze on mine, then slowly tugs it away. He’s looking over at my painting on the wall: Thomas.
I open my mouth to ask if I did something wrong, but I have a gut feeling it’s not that.
I reach up and frame his face with my hands, tilting his head down gently. His eyes fall to my chin, to my throat. “Talk to me—please.”
I watch his jaw clench. I watch his lips as they move uncertainly around whatever they will say.
I don’t know what happened, but I can feel him wrestling with something.
I stroke up and down his back and press my cheek against his warm, hard chest. It rises with a long breath. His chin comes down atop my head, settling there slowly, like he isn’t sure, he doesn’t want to... but he does. He wraps his arms around me too and we are intertwined.
I can feel his heart beat—fast.
“There was a wreck... My Uncle Pace.” He draws away from me, and finally, he gives me his gaze. I can see the pain in it. My throat knots.
“I’ve gotta go to Atlanta,” he says thickly. “It’s going to be a big thing... for my family.”
Questions rise in me like bubbles, simmering and popping. I push them down and stroke his arm. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.” He stares at something over my shoulder. He looks anesthetized.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.” His voice sounds ragged. His skin is so, so pale.
I wrap my arms around him. “Kellan, I’m not going home. For one, I can’t. Remember? I’m sort of banned from the Tri Gam house for now. I want to drive up with you. Please let me.” I look up at him. “I’ll do anything you ask.”
His eyes find mine. “You can’t. I can’t...” He shakes his head. “My family.”
“I’ll wait in the car. I’ve got homework I can do. I just want to ride with you—so you don’t have to be by yourself. Pretty please?”
He nods, the movement so subtle I almost miss it. “Okay.” I stroke his hair. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “What can I do to help get ready?”
“Just get dressed,” he says.
He’s off the bed and out the door without another glance at me. I quickly check my phone: 3:38 AM.
I find him in the kitchen twenty minutes later, looking red-eyed, looking pale, and mostly looking lost.
I pack some food for us as he leans on the counter, hovering over his phone. I take his hand, and we walk to the door. When Truman pitches a dog fit, I look at Kellan and he nods. “Whatever.”
He lets go of my hand to lock the door, and after that, he props an arm against the outside wall.
“Are you okay?”
“Worried,” he murmurs, tilting his head to the side so he can see me. His mouth is vulnerable and soft. I think of kissing it, but decide he may not want that, so I just take his hand in mine again.
He unlocks the Escalade and opens my door. After I’ve climbed into the passenger’s seat, I look down at him and see his eyes are closed.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Nothing.” His eyes open to slits.
I slide down and take the keys from his pocket.
“Let me drive you, okay? You just ride.” I open the back door. Truman bounds up. When I climb behind the wheel, I find Kellan is leaned back in his seat.
SIXTEEN
Cleo
He sits his chair up after a while and bends over his phone. He’s got his shoulders hunched, his forearms drawn in close against his hips. His big hands curve around the phone. He looks ill—as if it was he who had the wreck.
I ask him where I’m going.
“Emory,” he murmurs.
I drive for what feels like years, setting my attention on the traffic. When I look over at him, I find his eyes on me. His face is grim.
A few minutes later, he plugs his phone into the iPhone cord and the car fills with... The Beatles. “Helter Skelter.”
I sneak a peek at Kellan and find him looking at the road. His lips are drawn into a line. His brows are tense. He doesn’t move at all to the music. I don’t even see him blink.
I weave in and out of traffic, which is starting to thicken with commuters, northbound toward Atlanta.
“Kell?”
He shifts his eyes to me. They’re slightly wide in thought, but as soon as they touch mine, they turn wary. He looks down at his phone. A few seconds later, “Helter Skelter” stops abruptly, leaving only road noise in my ears.
I’m at a loss for what to say. I wish I could help him, but I don’t know how. I don’t want to pry, though at the same time, I want details. I force myself to swallow.
He shuts his eyes, even as I see his knee vibrate from the bouncing of his foot. He peeks down at his phone again. As I move from the left lane to the middle, a different tune fills the car. The music is redolent and rich, beautiful and simple. The lyrics swell in my throat.
As I try to decipher their meaning, Kellan says, “Can you drive faster?”
He clutches his phone and I glance down at the screen. I expect a text. Instead I see the song title. “Your Protector’s Coming Home.” I can’t see who sings it, but I’m going to Google the lyrics while I wait for him.
* * *
>
Kellan
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
I shake my head. My gaze is hung between my knees.
“I’ll just park as close as I can, then,” she says in her soothing voice. “I can call and tell you where. Or you can call me and I can pick you up at the entrance when you’re done?”
I nod.
“Okay. Is here okay to drop you off?” I don’t even look out the window, just nod and push my door open. I take a step and—“Fuck.” I turn around—the parking lot careens around me—and grab onto the side of my car. It’s still here. Because Cleo has the window down and is holding my phone out for me.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I snatch it from her hand.
“Kellan—”
I turn and walk quickly toward the front of Emory University Hospital at Midtown, my eyes on the row of doors along the front of the tall, brick building. The morning light offers no warmth. I’m fucking freezing. I shove my hands into my pockets and fix my gaze on the grass under my feet. A few more steps, and I’m walking across a narrow throughway—the drop-off area for patients.
I shoulder through the door and stand in the lobby with my arms folded over my chest.
I watch a clock on the wall until fifteen long minutes have passed. Then I go back outside and start walking, across the throughway, across the small lawn, across a wider street and past the parking deck where Cleo will be, toward a smaller building as I murmur, “Glenn” repeatedly.
I reach the door and push it open with my forearm. As soon as I’m in the lobby, a pretty blonde woman appears at the mouth of a hall.
“Right this way, Mr. Walsh.”
I follow her into a dimly lit room where piano music drifts through ceiling speakers. I’m offered a seat in a plush armchair, near an oversized house plant.
I give the woman a hard look. “How long should it be until Marlowe gives the okay to get things moving?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes,” the blonde says, in a pleasant tone. “She’s expecting you of course.”
I’m there for almost five hours. The entire time, I wish I had sent Cleo home. Thinking she could comfort me was stupid. Wishful thinking of the worst kind.
