Sloth: A Standalone Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  I let down the rail and tug his arm. He tugs back on me, pulling me atop his lap. “You need help dressing?” I tease him. He doesn’t—anymore—but honestly, the idea of helping him now is kind of sexy. Kellan has the perfect legs, all sinewy and still remarkably muscular, probably from the obsessive working out he’s been doing in the last week.

  “To protect my heart,” he always says.

  I always wink and tell him, “I don’t need protection.” And then I try to forget what he really means by that: his twin had heart issues from chemo, and Kellan’s had a lot of it at this point.

  He kisses my jaw, my throat... I push at him. “C’moooon.” I throw my arms around his shoulders. “This is gonna be amazing. For at least half of us. The other half that’s holding us up right now gets the rubber chicken for dinner.” I reach onto the bed side table and grab the actual rubber chicken I ordered a few days ago, as a representative of our favorite horrible hospital meal. Kellan squeezes its head, making it cluck.

  “Okay.” He drops it on the bed and sets me on the floor, then slides off the mattress. I touch his chest, parting the robe so I can see his lean, hard body. I stroke a finger down his ribcage, just over the broken ones, which are pretty close to being healed now. “I kind of want to dress you. Say yes?”

  He smiles smugly, tugging on my tight sweater. “Wear this next shower, and yeah, you’ve got a deal.”

  “Kay.”

  I tug his boxer-briefs down, and Kellan’s cock twitches. I pull them back up. “Okay... boxer-briefs, check.”

  Kellan chuckles as I pool the jeans at his feet, then stroke my palm up his calf. “Right foot first,” I tell him, smiling sweetly. It’s really weird, I know, but being down here at his feet, coaxing him into clothes, reminds me of how far he’s come and makes me happy.

  He complies, resting his hands lightly on my shoulders as he steps in. “I don’t know these jeans. Are they new?”

  “They’re very funny. Great to have at parties. Nickname Blue.” I run my fingers up his left thigh. “Left foot now.”

  When he’s standing in the jeans, I pull them slowly up his thighs... With one hand gripping them on each side of his hips, I tug a little harder over his boxer-briefs. I catch his now-hard dick in the zipper area on purpose and then reach into the jeans. “Pshh. I’m so uncoordinated.”

  I fondle his balls, and Kellan hisses. “Damn, woman. You sure you want to leave the room?”

  I push his dick down into the pants, then zip and button, giving his bulge a final pat before I grab the sweater. “Yep, I’m sure. And so do you.”

  I only fondle his chest for a minute before pulling the sweater onto him. When I’m finished, I present the moccasins and Kellan smirks at them. “I’m wearing these puppies outside?”

  “They’ve got real soles.”

  “If you say so.” He turns a slow circle, looking down at himself. “Not bad threads. Right size too.”

  “I know you inside out.” I wiggle my brows. Then I push the gray beanie onto his head.

  “You’re gonna need this, baldie.”

  “You know you like this smooth head rubbing on you. When my hair grows back, you’ll want it shaved.”

  I blush, because he’s kind of right. It does feel good against my pussy.

  We both mask and glove up. I take a moment just to look at his pretty blue eyes before we leave the room. We step into the hall and Kimmie, one of the nurses, grins at us. “You guys going somewhere?”

  “Somewhere,” I say. We pass Arethea at the nurse’s desk and she presses a button behind the counter that opens the doors for us. Kellan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hat.

  “Well, fuck.” It’s murmured, husky. I take his hand, and we walk slowly out into the lobby just outside the locked unit. We both stop and look around. It’s been weeks since either of us has left the locked unit. If I had left at any time, I’d have had to wear a gown, a mask, and gloves the whole time I was in his room. I couldn’t do that—so I stayed.

  The air out here feels cool. It smells... like food? Some kind of cleaner. Lemons.

  We walk slowly over fresh-waxed tile and into a shining, narrow hall. Kellan stops and grips my shoulder with his gloved hand. “Cleo baby...” He blinks, heavy lidded, his face unreadable. Then he bends down, pulls his mask off, pulls mine down, and kisses my lips. It’s gentle, sweet, and painfully brief.

  Then we’re walking hand and hand again, Hansel and Gretel following bread crumbs. To the elevator. We get in it and he pushes me against the wall. He leans against me, his face in my hair—and I remember. I remember what he told me about the day Lyon died: how he got in an elevator without shoes and fled the hospital.

  I wrap my arms around his back and murmur sweetness in his ear. And then the doors tremble open. We shuffle out into a vast lobby.

  Once we get a few feet from the elevator shaft, we stop and look around. It smells like car exhaust. People walk past us—real people in real people clothes. They look sad, tired, bored, irritable. They have long hair, no hair, dread locks. One pulls a wagon stacked with luggage. Another carries a small child.

  My eyes travel up the columns, toward the glass ceiling several stories up. I look back down to find his blue eyes on me. They look wet maybe. I can’t tell. I squeeze his hand.

  “Want to keep going?” I whisper.

  He nods, and we slowly walk toward the row of glass doors. I get all the doors for us, and when we get outside, I have to resist the urge to throw myself on him and shelter him from all the dangers here. Viruses... bacteria... fungi. For right now, he has no immune system and could catch anything.

  For right now, he tips his head up to the sky. His eyes shut. I wrap arms around his waist and press my cheek against his sweater.

  I feel him inhale. He murmurs, “Fuck.”

  When we look into each other’s eyes again, I can see his are a little red. Mine probably are too.

  I can him smile, despite the mask. “Where you wanna go?” his low voice asks.

  I smile back. “The hot dog stand?”

  His arm bumps mine, our hands still joined. “Gotta have a chili dog.”

  “Is that okay?” I feel a little bad, because he can’t have one. Because of germs.

  His fingers squeeze mine. “I’d say you earned a chili dog.”

  I giggle. “Maybe just a little.”

  “I’ve got one I know you’ll like. Tastes best with a little soap and water.” I look up, and find a dark spark of arousal in his eyes.

  “I’ll save room for seconds then.”

  We get my chili dog. I eat it from the little baggie it comes in, keeping my germy, gloved hands far from my mouth, and then we walk back inside the hospital. Kellan stops inside the doors and looks around.

  “I guess you’ve seen this place a bunch of times.”

  “Not this last time,” he says, almost absently.

  “Where did you come in?”

  “Around in back. The ambulance entrance.”

  “So it was plane, then ambulance?” I can’t believe I’ve never asked.

  He nods. “Want to see?”

  I look up at his face and find it curiously soft. I nod and toss my chili dog trash and Kellan takes my hand.

  We walk down a long, white and gray hall that seems to skirt the outside of the building, and Kellan’s breathing is more audible. I stop us. I tug at his sweater.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  I smile up at him. “Just brushing off some white lint.”

  “Are you?” He smirks, because he knows I stopped us so he could catch his breath.

  I wink. “Yep. We can resume now.”

  The walk is long, so I can tell he must really want to go here. And then we reach the “ambulatory transfer” area, and I blink. It looks a little like the warehouse where we met Pace and Manning that night. I see some nurses at a nurse’s station, and a door to an ER, but otherwise it’s empty.

  “Nice place. Lively.”

  He smil
es down at me. I wish I could see his mouth, because based on his eyes alone, the smile looks sad.

  “It was lively that day. Lots of people.” I can’t help wrapping an arm around him. Standing extra close to him. I look up at his face. “People for you?”

  He nods.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, because I really don’t want to make this about me and my guilt.

  His gloved hand rubs my arm through my sweater. It’s an absent gesture, showing how in tune we are with each other’s unspoken thoughts; he doesn’t know I feel sick with guilt, but he can tell I need his touch. I watch his eyes circle the room. And I realize with a jolt: I think he wants me to ask.

  So I put on my big-girl panties. “What was it like?” I ask softly.

  He pulls me under his arm, up against him, then he wraps an arm around my back.

  “I don’t remember that much,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Lots of Dil.” That’s what the nurses call Dilaudid.

  I don’t mean to—not at all. But my eyes fill up with tears, and they spill down my cheeks. His eyes widen. He grabs my shoulders. “Hey—what’s wrong?” His voice is low and hoarse, and warm... and loving. “Cleo baby...” His arm comes around me. “You want to go back upstairs?”

  “No.” I press my face into his sweater. I can feel him urge me down the hall. “I’m sorry, Cle. Those lights up on the ceiling? Flashing now. That means they’re bringing someone in, in just a second.” I open my eyes to see flashing lights over the hall.

  “Oh shit. I’m sorry.”

  We move quickly down the hall, and then we spot an elevator. His hands touch my chest. “Cleo—look at me.”

  I do.

  “Tell me you don’t feel... sorry? That you didn’t fly with me that day?”

  Tears drip down my cheeks. “Of course I do. I hate it that I didn’t come. I didn’t know what to do, so I did the wrong thing,” I whispered. “I took a taxi to my car. Rambled around and figured out the R. connection. And then I got here and…” I shake my head.

  “That bad, was I?” I see his cheeks under the face mask. He’s smiling. Trying to make me feel better.

  “It was that bad. You didn’t even look at me.”

  Kellan pulls me to him, wrapping me tight against his chest. He leans against the elevator’s corner and tightens his grip on me, squeezing me so tight it almost hurts. His face presses into my hair. I feel his chest rise with a deep breath...

  I hold onto him as we ride up up and then back down... and up again... and down. No one gets into the elevator, so we sink down to the floor and I sit tucked under his arm.

  I can barely breathe. My heart is vibrating. My throat is so so full. I can feel it in him too. The things he wants to say are living in the air around us. Tap tap tapping. They are waiting to be heard.

  So I’m surprised when he lifts his arm off me and pulls me to my feet. He tucks my hand in his, and we get off on our floor.

  We walk to our room with no fanfare, and when we get there, Arethea connects two IV bags and Kellan lies on his side holding his phone, and I snuggle in behind him like I always do.

  But when she leaves the room, he cuts the lights and turns toward me and grips my face so hard his fingers maybe bruise me and he whispers: “It was always you. That’s what I think. Ask me when my mother died, Cleo.”

  “When did your mom die?” Chills sweep my skin.

  “The day that Olive did.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I swallow, and they fall.

  “Have you ever heard about string theory? Everything is tied together, works together, shrinks, expands, and breathes together. Maybe we’re on the same string, baby. We’re right beside each other. We’re the same thing.” His mouth takes mine. He pulls away. “My blood, your blood...” Another kiss... his voice hot on my cheek. “One day I tried to calculate the odds of how we met. The odds of February 14. There are no odds. For us, there are no odds because it isn’t chance.”

  He’s inside me mere seconds later. No one pushes the chair under the doorknob. There’s no need to. Arethea skips the 2 AM IV—the only time she ever does.

  When I wake up in the morning, I’m so hot. Like I’m living on the sun. I turn toward Kellan and my heart sinks.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Cleo

  The house of cards falls so, so fast. I can tell by just one glance that something’s very wrong. He’s lying on his side, behind me, his right cheek against the pillow. His skin looks slightly gray, his lips a little pale—maybe a tinge of blue. His eyelids sag. His blue eyes almost seem to glow. I don’t have to ask what’s wrong because I feel him up against me.

  He’s hot. Really hot.

  I turn around to face him. “Kellan?”

  I’m so alarmed, I grasp his face. He winces, and I move my fingers off his bruised cheek.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. What’s the matter?” The fever isn’t triggering alarm bells for me. It’s the way his face looks. His coloring is off.

  He blinks at me, and his eyes have that glazed quality, which makes more bells peel for me.

  He reaches for a strand of my hair. “Nothing,” he says.

  But he sounds weird and raspy. Breathless.

  My eyes fly to the little box that keeps track of his pulse and the amount of oxygen in his blood.

  Pulse is 130, blood oxygen is 81 percent. I lay my hand on his jaw, just below the bruising. I stroke the stubble. “You’re not fine. What do you think is wrong?”

  He reaches out for me and pulls me closer. “Just come here...” He tries to tuck me up against him.

  “Kell—we need to call someone.”

  His eyes squeeze shut. “Nothing…to…say.”

  “I can hear how breathless you are.” I stroke his burning brow and feel a sheen of sweat. I look into his eyes in time to see them swim with tears.

  “I’m so sorry. Just let me call Arethea and we’ll figure out what’s up.”

  He shakes his head, and one tear spills down toward his nose.

  I brush it off and lean to touch his temple with my lips. I smooth my palm over his hot forehead and Kellan grabs my forearm. “Cleo—please. Don’t call... please. Not yet.” He grasps at me. He wraps an arm around me, pulling me to him. Pushing my backside against his dick.

  “I want to be inside you. Cleo, please.” His voice cracks, and I know I have to call Arethea. “K., we have to call. We have to let them know something is wrong.”

  His hand comes up to his face, and my chest aches. “Kell...you’re so strong. You’re doing so well. I love you.” I reach for the bed’s remote, with the call button.

  His hand grips my elbow. “Cleo—no.” He pushes up, half sitting. He looks pale and dazed. “Don’t call. Please. Hold me. I need you. Cleo, trust me—please.”

  I scoot back toward him, wrapping my arm around him even as I press the nurse call button.

  “Yes?” It’s Arethea’s voice, thank God.

  “Hey, could you come here, please?”

  “Of course.”

  I look down at Kellan. He’s wrapped both arms around me and his head is on my thigh. I’m sitting cross-legged but I shift us so we’re lying face-to-face on our sides. I wrap an arm around him, kiss his fingers.

  “You’re okay. Don’t be scared. I’m here. I’ll be with you.” I smooth my palm over his hair, behind his neck. Good God, he’s warm. I feel his back shake on a sob and my heart stops.

  “Baby...hey...” I try to lift his face but he won’t move. Arethea bursts in at that second and I’m so confused. She’s flanked by several doctors from our team: the pulmonologist, the infectious disease expert, the trial coordinator, and finally, a few seconds later, Dr. Willard. Their faces are grim.

  My eyes fly to Arethea’s. Her face is careful.

  “Oxygen?” I manage.

  She nods, then looks at Willard.

  I kiss Kellan’s forehead.

  Dr. Willard steps over to the bed as Kell curls up to me.

  “Cleo—I spoke with Kellan yesterday,
while you were meeting with Arethea about the outing.”

  “What?”

  “You ever heard of CMV pneumonia?” he drawls.

  I look with wide eyes at the crew at the foot of our bed. “No… What is it?”

  They explain: it’s something a lot of people have been infected with at one point or another. In people with healthy immune systems, it doesn’t cause any problems. He caught it from my blood. My blood was positive for CMV when he received the transplant.

  “We’ve been monitoring him since then. It came up on his blood work recently, and now he’s started showing symptoms. We’ll need to do some imaging to really know, but—”

  “If it is, what will you do for it?”

  “We’ve already started treating it with antivirals,” Willard tells me.

  “And?”

  “It all depends on Kellan.” He looks over at Arethea, then at Kellan’s blood oxygen saturation. He’s wearing oxygen now; his pulse is 112 and his blood oxygen level is only up to 88.

  Dr. Willard looks into my eyes. “What he’s got is serious. But I think he could beat it. Might have to spend some time on ventilation, but—”

  That’s all I hear.

  A ventilator. Kellan on a ventilator.

  Arethea rubs my shoulder as the doctor shakes his head. “I’ll be honest, I’ll be real surprised if we don’t need to try the vent with him, we’re on full-blast here and we can’t pull a 97, 98... It’s not what I’d prefer to see. But Kellan’s strong. He can come through this.”

  I look down at him but I can’t see his face. His arm clutches around my middle.

  I take a few deep breaths and start my questions. Forty minutes later, all the doctors leave.

  Kellan kisses me. His eyes are tired. “I want to be inside you.”

  “You’ve got a CT scan in thirty minutes.”

  He shakes his head, his grip on my shoulder surprisingly strong. “I need it. I need you.”

  I wrap my arms around him. “You have me.”

  His hands rub mine. “I love you. You remember what I said last night?”

  I shake my head.