by Ella James
“I’m wet, too. I’m so fucking hard for you, I’m leaking. I’m so hard it almost hurts. My balls are drawing up and that does hurts, Cleo. That’s your fault. But it’s a good hurt.”
I drag my finger through my pussy lips and swirl it over my clit. I’m starting to pant, so I angle the phone away from my mouth.
“Turn on your vibrator. If you pulled your fingers out of your pussy, I want you to stuff them back in, nice and deep. Unless you have a dildo. Do you have a dildo?”
“No,” I rasp.
“Stuff yourself. Two fingers. Shove in as far as you can go and imagine my dick buried deep inside you. I’m thrusting in and out of you. Then I’m dragging my tongue over your clit. Rub the vibrator over yourself and feel my tongue. It’s soft and hot. I’m teasing you. I’m lapping down around your cunt. Licking back up to your clit, so everything is soft and slick.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Work my fingers in and out of myself. Hold the bullet to my clit.
“I’m thrusting into you. Slamming my hips into yours straining to get deeper. You spread your legs as far as they can spread and I bury myself in you.”
“Yes,” I pant. I don’t mean to. I just... can’t help myself.
“I’m coming now, Cleo.”
I hear a low, rough groan—and that’s all it takes for me. I roll over the edge with a little gasp, and I hear Kellan’s chuckle. “Did you come, Cleo?”
I shut my eyes and breathe as he says, “I blew my load imagining that pussy. This is the last time I’m going to imagine it.”
I shake my head and curl over on my side, hugging myself as all the tingles work themselves out of me. “You’re wrong,” I say. “I didn’t come.”
Another laugh. “I heard you panting. You’re lying.”
“That’s not true.” I can’t believe I did that. Holy shit.
“Tomorrow, Cleo. Pack your bags.”
SEVEN
Cleo
R.-
This is my school’s campus. See? We ARE known for our art program.
I miss you…
I’m surprised how much.
-S.
It’s 7:48 a.m. when I drop the post card in one of the campus mail bins and trudge toward my first class: calculus for business. I plan to start my own learn-to-paint shop, so I know I’ll need some business skills. I just don’t understand why calculus is necessary. And I definitely don’t understand why they put the sorority houses on the east side of campus when so many science and math buildings are on the far west side.
That’s a lie. I do. Sexist bastards.
I look down at my feet as I walk—at my ankle-high leather boots and black leggings. I’m wearing a black shawl, too, with a black shirt underneath. All black today. Because it suits my mood.
I feel...weighted. As if there’s an itty-bitty black hole behind my sternum, collapsing me from the inside out. I just want to sink down to the ground. And spread my legs. And think of...
Damn.
Maybe I’m ovulating today? Because I want him. Like...I totally, illogically, inappropriately want that asshole, Kellan Walsh, inside me. Right now.
I cross an arm over my chest to try to hold this feeling inside, where it’s safe. I feel so much the opposite today. As if something small and soft could break me. Maybe it’s the clouds. The puffy, dark gray clouds riding low over the campus’s stately brick buildings remind me of the instructions Robert sent me what feels like forever ago: not a sunny day, and not a cloudy one. I inhale deeply and feel the pressure in my chest again.
I’m worried—okay?
Anyone in my shoes would be.
Nothing will be right again until I get another note from “R.” Or until BTM returns my call or my letters. Until then, I’m waiting. I hate waiting.
I follow the curve of the wide, brick concourse, cutting a flat path beneath mossy oaks, between bike racks and pebble paths. I shift my thoughts to Kellan Walsh, where they’re safer.
It’s official: I’m bespelled, just like the others. On paper he screams “horrible idea,” but in experience... well, he screams horrible idea, but also “hot fuck.” I didn’t think of myself as someone extra susceptible to the whims of my pussy, but I guess with the right guy, anyone can be swayed.
Why is he the right guy? I don’t have a clue.
Right dick, I correct myself. I only want him for that gorgeous cock of his. And his sexy voice. And that body...
Fuck.
I arrive at the Braun Mathematics Building in a crap mood and stop in the doorway to pull my shoulder-length, brown-black hair into a pencil twist. Like everything today, it feels heavy.
I literally drag my feet the rest of the way to Room 120. I pull my iPhone out of my bag and check it before I step into the classroom.
Nothing. Yet. I have a feeling I’ll hear from Kellan sometime today. Or see him. And when I do... I shake my head. I have no idea how I will handle seeing him in person after last night.
I sigh, and actually relax a little as I open the door, because at least in here I can turn my thoughts to something concrete.
I push through the door with my right elbow, curling my fist toward my wrist to avoid picking up germs: my new worst fear. Then I step onto the bottom level of a stadium-style lecture hall and freeze like a burglar in a spotlight.
The room is quiet. Everyone is bent over, scribbling with pencils. As my eyes across desk after desk, all I see light blue paper on each. Scantrons. Because today is test day. SHIT.
I spot my hump-backed, seventy-year-old professor, Dr. Marx, behind the podium, and I walk slowly over to him. My hand feels numb as I take a test booklet and a Scantron of my own.
How the hell did I forget this? I’ve actually been studying lately, and using my day planner.
I am screwed. So screwed. I’m a disaster at math on my best day, and this is not my best day. Not at all.
I take a seat on the fourth row up and try to remember how the grade for this class is calculated. I’m pretty sure it’s calculated by averaging four tests and an overall pop quiz average. This test is going to be one-fifth of my grade.
I slide into my seat with a hard knot in the back of my throat. I’m surprised to find I’m blinking against tears by the time I get my name bubbled in.
The moment I open the booklet, the classroom door creaks open. I look over then blink a few times, just to be sure I’m not hallucinating. But...nope. Standing there in the doorway, holding a manila folder, looking tall and broad and flawless in charcoal slacks and a dapper charcoal vest over a crisp-looking button-up, is Kellan Walsh.
What the fucking fuck?
My head pounds, and all of a sudden, I can’t seem to remember how to breathe or even be here in this room.
Awareness returns to me slowly, centered between my legs. My vag is pounding. Throbbing, really. It’s hot and eager, ignited by the sight of Kellan Walsh. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs. How totally humiliating.
Kellan steps fully into the classroom, like he wants to go ahead and get rid of any hope I have the he’s just a very Kellan-looking person. My eyes run from his golden blond hair down his heavy chest—which I have to admit, looks amazing in that vest—to the podium, where Dr. Marx is peering at Kellan curiously.
I look down at my Scantron and bubble in a random “C” for question number one while Kellan and Dr. Marx talk with their heads leaned close together. I see some of my female classmates watching Kellan longingly, and I’m shocked to find I want to throat-punch them. Then Dr. Marx nods twice and looks in my direction. “Come,” he beckons.
I pick up all my things, including the test papers, and walk toward the podium in slow-motion. All I can think of is last night, in my bed. How wet and shaky I was when we finished. How I couldn’t fall asleep without using my LELO wand and replaying his dirty words in my head.
Kellan folds his arms over his broad chest and keeps his eyes on the rows of desks directly in front of him as I close the distance between us. Then he shifts his gaze to
me the way a man might look from his bowl of cereal to the text of a newspaper article. His face is completely apathetic.
“Miss Whatley,” he murmurs, when I’m close enough that only I, and maybe Dr. Marx, can hear. His gaze rolls up and down me, casually assessing.
“What are you doing here?” I choke.
The corners of his mouth quirk. His lips press together and twist slightly up, a sly expression that shows he’s enjoying my ruffled feathers. His blue eyes tug at mine. “Can you step into the hall, please, Miss Whatley?”
My heart hammers like a drum as we move toward the door. I feel his fingers on my lower back—pressuring or guiding me?
He reaches around me to push the door open, and I can feel the gentle sensation of him shadowing me as we move into the hall. It’s empty now that class has started—fliers on a nearby bulletin board no longer flapping in the breeze that busy bodies make; the shiny, gray and maroon checkered floor tiles glinting beneath shoe scuffs.
I tell myself that despite his ridiculous plan, and no matter what he says, I will hold strong and keep my panties on. I turn slowly to face him, wearing my best poker face. “What are you doing here?” I ask curtly.
It’s such a lie, the ‘hold strong’ bit. His eyes are so, so blue. They’re like the ocean. His lips curve up a little, and I want to bite them. Lick them. I can feel my nipples harden. I thought that was just a line from romance novels, but for real, they actually harden at the sight of this bastard.
“What do you think?” he practically purrs. Something deep in my belly tucks into a little bow for him.
“I’m not sure I want to know,” I say flatly.
He offers a gentle smile I’m not expecting, then reaches out to touch a loose strand of my hair. “Cleo... Don’t worry. I’m not the asshole today. I’m the prince.” A satisfied grin breaks over his lips, and his face goes from beautiful to breathtaking.
Deep breaths, bitch.
I arch one eyebrow and hug my books closer to my pounding chest. “Why are you really here?”
“I’ve got an independent study this period. I’m helping the provost film a commercial. I need students.” His greedy eyes rake up and down me. He takes some of my shawl between his fingers as his flirty mouth curves up again. “You look good in black, Cleo.”
“I’m sure that’s what the provost wants.” I roll my eyes. “A girl in a shitty mood, dressed in all black.”
“It’s what I want,” he says in a low voice.
My heart trips, then starts beating off-beat.
I laugh, ridiculously awkward. “No charming me,” I warn. Except that isn’t true, is it? He made me come last night—on the frickin’ phone!
He catches my hand, his long, strong fingers weaving through mine before I have the chance to pull away. “Walk with me, Cleo. No strings.”
I want to pry my fingers from his, but our hands are locked together, palm to palm. His hand is warm and strong. The close contact reminds me of how lonely I’ve been since Brennan. Just for the basic things, like hugs and hands. That’s the only reason I let him tug me gently down the hall, toward the front entrance of the building. That, and I want to confirm for myself in the light of day that he’s really not an FBI agent. If he doesn’t bust me now, I can believe he’s actually a drug overlord.
Our forearms brush as we move. The curve of my hip touches his thigh. I try not to sweat. He seems calm—completely unaffected. FBI-like... ?
“You can re-take your test,” he tells me. “I’ll get your excuse.”
He looks down at me out of the corner of his eye, a smug smile curving his lips. At least, I imagine he’s smug.
I feel the word “thanks” form on my tongue, but I clamp my mouth shut before it can roll out.
I glance down at our joined hands. His wrist is bent a little. His fingers grip mine, light but firm—an easy cradle. They’re long and elegant. The angles of his wrist and forearm are the same. He’s just... well-hewn. Andddd, I’m lusting after a forearm. I’m in such big fucking trouble.
“You got Marx for cal?” Kellan asks as we pass closed classroom doors. My boots and his black leather shoes echo around us.
I’m hyper-aware of my damp fingers in his, so it takes me a moment to remember he asked me a question. I nod. “Business calculus.”
“You’re going into business?”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds high and forced.
It’s his damn hand.
His fingers shift in mine, tickling my palm, and heat shoots up my arm. We reach the building’s front corridor, where a stairwell leads up to two more levels of classrooms and a row of glass doors leads outside. His thumb strokes the back of my hand.
“What sort of business?” He leans forward to push one of the doors open with his free hand. He flattens his broad back against it, and I squeeze through beside him while my pulse pounds in my head.
Outside, sunlight is streaming through the clouds: a soft, cool, filmy light that seems to set the scene for something serious. The pearly glow flickers through the trees, making a shadowy kaleidoscope of leaf-shapes that flickers across Kellan’s face and shoulders.
“Psychology,” I fudge. I don’t want to get into my real ambitions with him. I have a feeling he wouldn’t get it.
I look around at the wide, brick concourse out ahead, empty because everyone is in class; at the impeccably manicured lawns that spread out underneath giant, mossy oaks. The lawns and flower beds are striped by pebble walking paths.
He leads me toward the nearest trail, curling between rows of massive azalea bushes. Despite all my reservations, I follow.
My forearm brushes his, and suddenly I just can’t keep touching him. Not without bursting into flames. I wriggle my fingers impatiently, and his hand relaxes to free mine. He stops moving, and we stand there on the shaded trail, watching each other. He looks like a real prince in his vest-suit thing.
I feel like a pumpkin.
He trails a finger lightly down my forearm. “Relax, Cleo.” His voice is stern and soft. “I won’t bite—this time.” He winks, and I roll my eyes, despite the increase in my heart rate.
He walks, and my traitorous feet follow.
“You’re a senior?” he asks, glancing back at me.
My stomach writhes under his blue gaze. “Yeah.”
“So, grad school after this?”
The azaleas on each side of the path rise up around us, fluffy green bushes taller even than Kellan. The feeling of privacy makes my head buzz. Makes me sound breathless when I say, “It’s one of the reasons I need money.”
I search his face for hidden motives, but he’s looking at me the same way he was before: with sincere interest, as if he’s interviewing me for an important job. “What will you do with your degree?” he asks, in his resonant voice.
“Help kids.” Kids like my sister and me. After our youngest sister, Olive, died, Mary Claire and I both struggled. We had a hard time in school, and an even harder time at home. Our house was so gloomy. Both my grandmother and my mom cried all the time. My mom closed her sewing shop and took a factory job. Grans started cleaning houses when she could. Mary Claire and I were on our own. To understand why Olive was taken and we weren’t. To make sense of the knowledge that we’d never, ever see her freckled face again. For years, I would go to the cemetery on the fourteenth of every month, because she died on the fourteenth. Mary Claire has never been. She just can’t go.
Neither of us ever got “therapy,” because we couldn’t afford it. At our elementary school, there was one counselor, and she was busy helping with the kids who acted out.
My business will target kids like us. I’ll do private art classes, and I’ll charge my patrons... aggressively. I’ll make the classes really fun. I’ll make my clients feel like artists, and ensure they’re able to take home a nice canvas. Then I’ll use some of the money to offer free art classes to kids who’ve experienced tragedy. I talked to the local school superintendent here in Chattahoochee, and she said a p
lan like mine would definitely work in most school districts.
I look up at perfect Kellan, and I know I can’t tell him all that. He’d never understand.
I give him an easy little shrug. “Kids with troubles,” I say. “I’m going to help them.”
“That’s a noble calling.”
“I should warn you, I have a sensitive bullshit-o-meter.” I lift my eyes from the ground and find him staring at me earnestly. He’s all blue eyes, cheekbones, and lips. Anger wars with desire inside me, tightening my chest. “It’s got to be better than your criminal plans.”
He slants his gaze down at me. “You’re probably right.”
Curiosity seeps through me. I only fight it for a minute before loosening my tight shoulders and asking, “What are your plans, seriously? More of what you do right now? And you really do...what you said yesterday?”
He places a finger over my lips and looks into my eyes. His are so...intense. Almost hungry. I do this weird, mini-shiver thing, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he draws his hand away from my mouth and turns back to the path ahead. “Yes, Cleo. I really do. And...I don’t have plans,” he says, walking. His eyes are on the pebbles. His hands have disappeared into his pockets.
“Nothing?”
“Just keep thumbing through my wads,” he says. One corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not a smile.
“Investing,” he adds, like it’s an afterthought. Our little path turns east, toward Taylor Hall, the tall, brick pre-Civil War administrative building.
I’m aware of his body, just a foot or so from mine. How quiet he suddenly is. How big—and also graceful. Like an athlete. Which makes sense, because he is. I keep forgetting Mr. Perfect plays soccer. I glance at his legs. I can see thick muscle through his slacks.
My eyes move back up him, over his lean waist and his muscular chest and shoulders. My throat is dry. I swallow. What were we talking about?
Our future plans.
I wonder what his really are. I wonder why he’s so intent on doing business with me. Could it really be as simple as it seems on the surface? Eliminate the competition—which just happens to be me? I should probably ask more questions.
