Sloth

by James, Ella

  And…I think that’s all I have to say about that. ;) You should probably get a prize for reading to the end of my little sermon.

  I wrote Sloth during a tumultuous seven months—a long incubation time for an indie author. It was supposed to take no more than two or three months, and was formatted as a series of serials.

  Sloth threw me lots of curve balls—in large part because of its inspiration (my son’s issues) but also because of my personal experience with someone I loved who had leukemia, a more direct basis for this book. I missed Sloth’s original late February release date, struggled my way through a serious depressive episode, and spent more than a month truly (and more than a little frantically) wondering if I could ever finish the book, and if I couldn’t…what would I tell people? Writers write, right? What was wrong with me?

  During this difficult time, I was supported by many friends. Without these people talking me off a ledge (sometimes tethering me to the cliffs or loaning hang-gliders, mostly at the worst possible times and oddest hours), I truly don’t know where I would be. I talked to a number of readers online during the six or so weeks I was shying away from social media, and occasionally confided small details of my situation, which at the time felt shameful and humiliating. No one—no one—was ever anything but kind. If you were one of them, THANK YOU.

  To Jamie, Rebecca, Kiezha, Leah, Sharon, Kim, Arethea, Ashley, and definitely at least one or two other people who won’t be surprised to hear they slipped my mind: THANK YOU. I’m grateful to you for more than I could list here—and you each know why.

  To the amazing women of Ella’s Elite: Thank you for hanging in there with me. Your encouragement and enthusiasm means so much to me.

  To my author friends, who offered kind advice (Roxy Sloane, M. Pierce) and technical assistance (Alexia Purdy), blurb assistance (Roxy), web assistance (everyone), ARCs (K. Larsen, CD Reiss)…thank you. I appreciate each of you so much.

  Thank you to the incredible bloggers who have supported Sloth, and me. So many of you sign up for every blitz and tour—and I know your names. It means so much to me. Thank you. Thanks especially to Rockstars of Romance, The Literary Gossip, and Give Me Books, for helping with Sloth promotion.

  To Jessica and Beth, for dealing with Sloth in all its various incarnations, and waiting patiently for me at times and rushing at other times—thank you.

  Milasy and Lisa, Rachel, thank you for being kind in February.

  And to my family, for making many sacrifices in the name of Sloth. I love you.

  Sloth Bonus Scene

  Cleo

  It’s okay to put your baby in the sink, right? If it’s a bathroom sink, and the sink is super clean, and there’s a blanket in there padding the faucet?

  As if in answer, Lyon giggles, closing his fat, baby fingers around a claw-like extender piece that snaps onto my hair dryer.

  “That’s right, sweet boy…” I move the eye-liner pencil away from my lid and give him a bright grin, which he returns with a big, drooly one. My God, this babe is cute. He’s got a little flop of gold-blond hair, just like his daddy; huge, blue eyes; and squishy little rolls I love to gently pinch.

  When Olive was born five years ago, I thought that I could never love a little one as much as her. But I was wrong. Lyon arrived on a cloudy October afternoon, and the moment I stared into those round, blue eyes, I was a goner. Kellan even more so, if that’s possible. I remember the moment when he first beheld Ly’s tiny face—and realized that it looked just like his own. That man adores his little girl, but watching him sleep with his mini-me on his chest is something else.

  “You almost ready?” His deep voice drifts in through the half-cracked bathroom door. He must be just now getting home from picking Ol up from gymnastics.

  “Almost,” I call.

  I pause with my eyeliner pencil held a few inches from my eye, waiting for him to step into the bathroom. When he doesn’t show, I feel a burst of irritation that I quickly try to quash. It’s not Kell’s fault I had a rough day. Lyon cried the whole way to and from Ol’s kindergarten, and the whole way to gymnastics. (He’s basically allergic to the car). I felt guilty that I couldn’t stay and watch Ol tumble, but I had to get back to the house and shower. It’s been two days. Naturally, Mr. Smilie in the sink screamed his little lungs out while I washed my hair and quickly shaved my armpits.

  I sigh, then get back to work on my makeup. The babysitter, a cute redhead who lives two doors down, will be here in a few minutes. I give Lyon another smile, which he returns with adoration.

  “You’re going to be good for Clara, aren’t you, baby?”

  He makes a noise I take for “yes,” and my stomach flip-flops. He’s almost six months old, but I’ve never left him, not once. Yes, he takes a bottle. Kellan gives him one during the night most nights. But he needs his mommy. Or his daddy. Clara is a nice girl, but she’s not family. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I don’t know. I like to keep him with me. I like both my babies close.

  I hear the doorbell ring, and—shit—that’s all she wrote. I glance down at myself. My breasts are huge under my silky blouse. My black skirt fits a little snug around the waist; it’s been a few months, but I’m nowhere close to losing the damn baby weight. I’ve been running on the beach most mornings before K leaves for work, but I’ve still got a ways to go.

  I push my hair around a little, wanting it to have more body than it does, and give myself a wink, but I’m not feeling it. I scoop Lyon up and squeeze him close before I step into our bedroom. I rub my chin over his velvety-soft hair, then kiss his sweet, soft, baby forehead.

  “I’m sorry, little man. You’ll be okay, though… We’ll be right back. Just a little dinner.”

  It wasn’t my idea, but Kell says we need a break. I look around our beachfront bedroom, but Kellan isn’t anywhere in sight. I slip my feet into my sandals and grab Lyon’s favorite elephant blanket from the bedpost.

  I hold Lyon tightly as we walk down the hall, smiling at Clara and Olive as we reach the kitchen/living space. Ol is upside down with her feet against the kitchen wall, showing off her hand-stand.

  “Ooohh, Lyon’s awake!” She rushes over, and I spend the next few minutes going over everything with Clara, and watching with pride as my big girl loves on her little brother.

  I hear her tell him, “It’s just us and Clara. Big sister and little brother,” as I glance around again for K.

  “He’s outside,” Clara offers.

  “Okay.” I inhale deeply, blow it out, as I grab my purse and run back over the checklist in my head. “So milk is in the fridge, just warm it in the coffee cup. That’s in the microwave.”

  Clara’s smile is kind. “For sure.”

  “We’ll be back soon. We’re headed to High Tide. You’ve got both our numbers.”

  “I’ll call if I have any questions.”

  “Thank you, Clara.”

  I hug Olive and kiss Lyon and give Clara another halting smile. “You guys have fun.”

  I’m almost to the front door when it opens and Helen The Cat appears—she jets off toward the bedroom—followed by my husband’s face. He’s got his eyebrows raised at Ol, but he’s not mad. He’s smirking.

  “Careful with that door,” he warns her. “I won’t be young enough to chase a cat across the yard forever.”

  “Yes you will, Daddy.”

  She smiles. He smiles. Magic.

  Then he steps fully inside, giving me my first view since this morning of my favorite person in the world. I can’t help it. Clara is watching, but I wrap my arms around him, and he hugs me, too.

  I inhale the smell of him and squeeze his big, hard chest against mine. “Kell.” He wraps an arm around me, and we step onto the porch together. It’s just getting to be dusk. The sky is fuzzy blue, casting a blue-gray blanket over our front lawn and the quiet street where we live.

  Kell’s hand closes around mine, and we start toward our SUV. I can’t help a glance back at the house.

  “They�
�ll be fine.” He smiles, and there is understanding in his eyes. Patience. Indulgence, even. Tolerance of my every mood is one of my man’s best selling points.

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  He opens my door, running a hand over my hip as I climb inside. It’s not until he walks around the front of the car that I really stop and look at him: the light blue button-up, with sleeves rolled up; the khaki shorts and loafers. My man lives and works along this beach, and you can tell. His skin is tanned, his golden hair brightened by the California sun.

  I promise myself, as he gets into the driver’s seat, that I will give him my attention—as he almost always gives me his.

  He backs out of our drive, pointing the car in the direction of our favorite haunt, and looks me over as he takes my hand.

  “Long day.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. I text and talk to him throughout the day, so he knows this one was hard.

  “Yeah. I feel bad,” I confess. “I snapped at Ol when I dropped her off at gymnastics. Lyon had just screamed himself to sleep, and she let out this insane, high-pitched squeal—which woke him up of course.” I sigh, and Kellan’s hand squeezes mine.

  “Don’t worry about it, Cle. You almost never lose your patience with her. Sometimes, you’re going to be human.”

  “Never,” I tease.

  “Perk up, buttercup. They’re in good hands now, and you are too.”

  I smile. Perk up, buttercup is one of the cheesiest things ever. I used to tease him about it.

  “Yeah—I said it.” He arches his brows.

  I giggle.

  Kellan slows and turns onto a small street, and I frown.

  His gaze meets mine. His face is blank…but I can see it in his eyes: the secret—and the heat.

  “This is not the way to High Tide,” I murmur.

  “No.” He holds my eyes as he pulls over to a curb, beside a small, white house. “It’s not.”

  * * *

  Kellan

  I bought this house—three weeks ago. It wasn’t difficult to orchestrate. We own four rental homes, and have flipped three others. Buying and renovating houses started as hobby after Olive was born: me restoring the bones, Cleo redecorating after. We have an LLC with funds earmarked for this, so when I saw the “for sale” sign in the yard of this cottage, it seemed perfect.

  I’ve been wanting this since Lyon was born. Somewhere we can get away. Something more than the little beach-side shack on the edge of our property. A place where I can take my wife and suspend her everyday anxieties. Quite literally.

  Having babies changed Cle. Good in most ways, but not all. Our kids bring out my wife’s compassion—which she possesses in abundance. They give meaning to her life, just as they do to mine. But motherhood exhausts her. She works and worries herself beyond the point of good health sometimes. Unlike me, she doesn’t leave the house for work, so it’s more difficult for her to unplug.

  I watch her face as she peers at the house through her car window.

  “Are we going to see someone?”

  “Someone.” I get out of the car and walk around to open her door for her. I help her down and lead her up the walk from curb to porch. It’s a source of pride for me that Cleo doesn’t ask questions. She trusts me explicitly—because I’ve earned her trust.

  I slide my key into the lock and push the front door open. Inside, the place smells like lemon-scented mopping oil. I had a whole team of housekeepers here three days ago, after I brought the furniture inside.

  I see the moment her gaze reaches the chaise longue in the living room. After we got engaged, we did some couples counseling together—necessary for us both, after what we’d been through. Our therapist had a chaise longue, or as Cleo called it, a “couch chair.” I always wanted to fuck her on it.

  “Oh.” It’s barely a sound. I watch her eyes widen slightly, then swing mine. “Kellan…” She laughs, and it’s a joyous sound. “You didn’t— Is this—”

  “This is our house.” I run my hand over her blouse and up her throat, so I’m holding her under her chin, my palm around her throat. “Yours and mine,” I say before I kiss her mouth. “And no one else’s.”

  She lets out a squeal and rushes over to the longue. “Is this velvet? It’s beautiful!”

  She leans over, posing for me, and I smack her ass so hard she yelps. Then I throw her over my shoulder and head down the small, hardwood hallway. The walls are beige with a hint of gray and trim around the top and bottom. This little house is just right for a young couple, far more quaint than where we live. It’s furnished lavishly, and comfortably, with quirky touches that I know she likes: an air plant garden in the hall bathroom, a row of flowering cacti along a the window in the guest room, a rug with a Mason jar pattern.

  The master bedroom is all bed. I can’t help grinning as I push the door open, surveying my work: the king-sized bed is thick mahogany, with a carved headboard depicting obscene things. I ordered it from a small dealer in South America and paid three times the normal shipping rate to get it here. There’s an armchair in the corner, and a whirlpool in the en suite.

  The bed is draped in crimson silk. And in the ceiling above it…

  I set Cleo down on the soft mattress, and I watch her gaze lift to the ceiling. I’ve been hard since we stepped inside, but seeing where her eyes went…seeing what she wants… Goddamn, I’m like fucking marble now.

  “Rope,” she whispers.

  “Yes.” I take her chin in my fingers. “What could be more fitting than a rope swing? For the woman who is always too tied up with obligations…” I kiss her mouth and throat, and then I’m on her, straddling her curvy legs and ripping off her skirt and panties.

  It’s been too long—so fucking long since I’ve been able to have my way with her. Here, there is no sleeping baby in the corner, no animals or children or The Wiggles too loud on the den TV.

  Here I hear her gasp against the silence when I bury my fingers in her and I eat her pussy.

  Goddamn, she tastes perfect. After this long, I know just what she likes, and what she hates. What she will protest—“that takes too long”; “you’re teasing me!”—and so of course I do those things. I drag my tongue through her delicious slit, lapping at her clit, too soft to make her come, just hard enough to make her fingers tighten in my hair.

  “Kellan!”

  I answer with my lips and tongue and teeth. I like to nip her just a bit sometimes, to hurt where it feels best. I like to stuff her with my hand, so it’s nearly too much, fuck her hard with my fingers while my mouth is dancing carefully over her swollen clit.

  Pretty soon my wife is gasping. And then cursing. I can hear it, when she’s near the edge. That’s when I still my mouth and fingers, pull her so she’s sitting upright, and start to tie her. Cleo slaps at me. I bind her wrists. She fights. I stuff a LELO in her cunt and turn it on.

  I watch her writhe, suspended by her chest and shoulders from the ropes I mounted from the ceiling. Then I push the LELO deeper, tie her hips, and press a button on the remote that lifts her slightly higher—so her feet can’t touch the mattress. This is when my work really begins.

  I clamp her nipples, nip her swollen pussy lips. I fill her cunt with two round beads, each of them the size of a half-dollar, and I smack her ass until it’s red and she is begging. Maybe louder than I’ve ever heard her…

  “What do you want, wife?”

  “I need you…”

  “You have me.”

  “No,” she gasps. “I need your cock.”

  There is nothing like the sound of my wife’s voice groaning the word “cock.”

  I remove the vibrating beads and trail my fingertip over her lips…around her clit.

  “Where do you need it? In your ass?”

  “No…in my pussy.”

  I look up at her, and there are tears on her cheeks. “Kellan—please!”

  “You want to fuck me.”

  “Yes!”

  “You n
eed to.”

  “Please!”

  I remove the nipple clamps and lower her onto to the bed, then switch the setup, so she’s on her back, her legs spread and suspended over the mattress, so when I fuck her, she won’t be able to lift her hips or push against me. The pace of our lovemaking is mine to set. I plan to take my time.

  I rub her clit as I pull down my pants and boxer-briefs, freeing my aching cock.

  She gives me a weepy smile. “You’re as miserable as I am.”

  “I wouldn’t call it misery.”

  “Can I…” she whispers.

  “Can you what?” I ask. “Say it.”

  “I want to suck your cock.”

  I straddle her, taking care with her position in the ropes. She opens for me, and I am welcomed by her lips and cheeks and rolling tongue. She takes as much of me as she can into her throat, swallowing around me.

  “Fuck…”

  She makes an “mm” sound, and I can feel her move her shoulder. Ahh—she wants a hand. I release one of them, and Cleo’s fingers wrap around my taut balls. I’m so fucking hard, even the light brush of her fingertips makes me jerk. She trails over me lightly, then wraps her hand around them, and I grunt.

  I tug her hair it as she sucks my cock and rolls my balls, and then it’s too much and I’m fucking her mouth—not too hard, but hard enough so that I know she’s tired and strained and so focused on me, she’s not as close to her own edge. The way I need her, so I can draw this out…

  Sometimes I relax and lose myself, but this night is for her. I enjoy her tongue and make my home deep in her throat, but I pull out before I come, so now it’s me who’s ravenous and Cleo who is cooled.

  I kiss her breasts and shut my eyes so I can’t see her. If I see her swollen breasts and hard nipples, I think I’ll come. I kiss her there until she’s gasping. I can feel her swinging in the rope below my spread legs, wanting to lift her hips, wanting to fuck.