Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (19 page)

It’s not as if I’ll mind
that
. Sharing my body with him can be done without too much heartache, I think, if I can manage to remember the limitations of our arrangement.

A strand of hair falls into my eyes, and I swipe it off my face. In doing so, I get a glimpse of Kellan, striding a half foot in front of me. He’s got my backpack slung over one muscled shoulder and my overnight bag hanging from the other. I notice, as I pull ahead to walk beside him, that he’s still holding the sack.

My stomach rumbles at the sight of those grease stains. “What’s in there?” I ask.

He looks down, as if he’s only just remembered he’s carrying it. He gives me a small, lopsided smile—a smile that feels distracted, as if he’s only peeking out at me from wherever he is inside his head. “You’ll see.”

He holds his free hand out, and I stare down at his forearm. The skin on the inside of his arm is smooth and pale, softness stretched over taut muscle.

I glance at his eyes. They’re steely and blue. I keep waiting for them to start to seem less gorgeous—and I’m still waiting. He raises his brows disapprovingly, urging me with just that look to take his hand, and me being me, I fold after only a moment.

“Skittish,” he murmurs, closing his fingers around mine.

“What?”

“You’re skittish. Like a deer.”

With a tug of my hand, he steers me to the right, toward a wall of bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a deer. I’m a sloth. It’s my longstanding nick name, from back in middle school, when I was pudgy and took forever getting ready to go places, but I get the feeling he’d give me grief for it. Instead I tell him, “I’m not skittish. I’m suspicious.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

We walk through an opening in the wall of books and toward one of the library’s outer walls. Punched into it is a door I’ve never noticed before. We stop in front of it, and I look to Kellan, who is pressing some numbers into a keypad beside it. It opens with a soft click, and he ushers me into a tiny kitchen, with the same cinderblock walls as the rest of the library’s rooms. These are painted mauve and adorned with half a dozen of those cheesy inspirational posters that always seem like jokes to me.

I inhale the lingering scent of peanut butter and bananas as Kellan releases my hand, shifts my bags down onto the floor, and steps over to the microwave. I admire his broad back as he sets the paper bag inside. My eyes roll from his shoulders to his ass. I don’t want to stare, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve seen him at soccer games a few times, and I always noticed his golden god looks, as well as his model-hot mug shot in the school paper... but up close and personal like this—damn. He’s hot enough to take my breath away.

He punches a few buttons, then turns back around to me. I barely jerk my gaze away in time to avoid notice. He smirks a little, and I arch a cool eyebrow as my pulse skitters. “What? You have a sticker on your ass.”

His lips curve into that radiant smile. “A sticker?”

I nod placidly. “Want me to get it off?”

His eyes dance. “Oh—I do.”

“Okay, well turn around.”

He turns around, and... there’s no sticker, of course. When he asks to see it in a moment, I’ll be empty-handed. Before I can stop myself, I draw my hand away, then slap his ass as hard as I can.

I hear him suck his breath in, and he whirls around, his face a riot of intensity. He catches both my wrists in one of his big hands and steers me to the brick wall with his hips. “Cleo.” He sinks his teeth into my neck. He kisses me roughly down to my collar bone, and my body convulses in a shiver.

He bites me again near my throat, and I feel heat swell between my legs.

“I’m going to have to punish you for that,” he murmurs to my neck. He raises my arms above my head and pushes my wrists into the wall.

I giggle softly. “Just getting the sticker off.”

“I’m sure.” He rocks his hips into mine, and his thickness juts against my lower belly. I swallow a moan, unwilling to give him that satisfaction. I clamp down on my lower lip so hard it stings.

“Tonight,” he murmurs.

Then he releases my arms and turns back to the microwave. I’m thrilled to see his shoulders are heaving. I’m breathless and light-headed as I watch his back, trolling my gaze along his muscular arms as he pulls the bag out. So intently am I watching his body, I actually jump when the kitchen door opens and Laura Lancaster, the SGA secretary, breezes in.

“Kellan!” She smiles. Her perfume permeates the room as her eyes widen. “Kellan’s
friend
.” I’ve seen Laura around—she’s a Phi Mu who always smells like she bathed in Coco Chanel—and I remember her being friendly. At this moment, she looks excited enough to launch herself into the stratosphere.

I look to Kellan for a clue to how to behave. He’s leaning casually against the counter where the microwave sits, the hand that just bound both my wrists hanging loosely from his pants pocket. “Laura, this is Cleo.” He waves at me. “Cleo, I think you probably know Laura.” He tilts his head toward her.

I nod. “Hey, Laura.”

“Hi.” She gives me a warm smile and then she sniffs the air. “Something smells delish.”

Kellan reaches into the bag and draws out the biggest croissant I’ve ever seen. It’s fluffy and greasy, and it looks like it’s been rolled in sand. Brown sugar, I realize as my mouth waters.

“Want one?” he asks Laura.

She shakes her head and smacks her curvy hip. “My next class is intermediate tennis. My ass does
so
not need a yummy. But thanks anyway.”

“More for us.” Kellan winks. “See ya later.” He’s flawlessly cool as he grabs my bags, then presses his hand against my lower back and guides me toward the door.

The scent of the buttery croissant makes my mouth water as we step out of the room, back into the bookshelf forest. “Is that cinnamon?” I sigh. “Oh God, I can smell the butter. Gimme!”

He rips off a piece, and we both stop walking as his fingers bring it to my mouth. Taking it from him is surprisingly erotic. Sweat pops out all over my body, so I make a big show of falling sideways, almost into a bookshelf, to distract from my reaction.

“Swoon! Oh holy God, this is the best shit I’ve ever put into my mouth. Where did it come from?”

His lips curve, into a smile or smirk; I can’t tell which, but he’s handsome as hell, and I’m alarmed to find that I’m pleased the smile or smirk is all for me.

“You’ve never been to the Fifth Street Bakery?” he asks as we start moving toward the side door of the library.

“I’ve heard of it,” I say defensively.

We pass a long row of copy machines and printers, and now I know he’s smirking. His blue eyes seem to twinkle at me. “You don’t leave campus much, do you, Cleo?”

“I do sometimes.” I wave my booted foot. “For pedicures and stuff like that.”

His smirk turns into an amused little smile. Almost as soon as it plays across his lips, he presses them together, going serious in the span of half a second. His eyes are unreadable as he holds out his hand.

I feel lit up all over, like a light bulb. Despite the dynamic we started with—me, kicking him in the balls—now I’m writhing under his gaze. The last thing on earth I want is for him to know this, so I force myself to scoff as if he’s lost his mind. “I’m supposed to hold your hand again?”

“It
is
the hand that feeds you, Cleo.” Definitely a smirk this time.

“Pshhh. I can feed myself.”

I snatch the bag from him and open it, finding four more butter-coated croissants inside, plus the other half of the one I already sampled. I take that one and shove it in my mouth, then grin at him around the flaky bread.

Kellan pushes a finger in between my lips, shoving the rest of it into my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to laugh.

“Good look for you—the foie gras.” I open my eyes in time to see him smiling at me like we’re old friends. The moment I smile back, he rubs his lips together, making his frown-dimples show; shutting it down.

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s skittish.

I’M HYPER-AWARE OF HIS
long strides as we move past the media center, toward a row of glass exit doors. He pushes one open, and I step into a little entryway corridor, lined with newspaper machines.

I toss my gaze back at him as I push the next door open, this one leading to the cement breezeway.

“Aren’t you supposed to let me get that for you?” he asks.

I hold the door for him and fall in step beside him as we walk down the breezeway, toward the parking deck. All around the cement walkway, flowers, trees, and bushes sway in a gentle breeze.

“It’s a shame that you’re both bad and from not the South,” I say. “I think if those two factors were removed, you could be a Southern gentleman.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Cleo, Cleo...” He grabs my hand and folds his fingers around mine. “What makes me so bad?”

I look him over, hair to low-top boots. “Um, everything? I mean, sure you
look
like a rule-following golden boy, but that’s clearly a ruse.”

He runs his free hand through his hair and laughs, maybe self-consciously. “I look like everyone else here.”

I shake my head as we walk into the gum-pocked stairwell that leads down into the deck. “That’s where you’re wrong. You dress like everyone else here, yeah. But unlike them you look perfect.”

Ugh. I want to swallow “perfect” back down as soon as the word somersaults from my mouth. My eyes fly to his face, waiting for him to laugh at me or tease me. I’m surprised, because he looks... wounded. His mouth is soft and uncertain, curved downward just slightly. His brows are drawn down low over his eyes, which look darker than usual in the shadow of the stairwell.

“Perfect?” The corner of his mouth tugs up a little, and I’m positive: My ‘perfect’ comment made him sad. What the hell? I take a deep breath, trying to guess at
why
s, and trying to keep things casual, so he doesn’t know I’m analyzing him.

“Yeah, Kell.” I tighten my grip on his hand a little. “You’re pretty. I assume that’s not news to you.”

“Cleo Whatley thinks I’m pretty?” We walk into the second level of the parking deck, and I can feel him regain his equilibrium as his fingers play with mine. “That’s news.”

“Yeah, right.” I snort.

“You think your opinion doesn’t matter to me?”

I hear a beeping sound, and a few cars ahead of us, his Escalade’s lights flash. “I think you’re a whore, so right, you probably don’t care.”

He walks me to the passenger’s side, opening it for me while still shouldering my bags. I slide my fingers out of his, or try to. He catches them again and nuzzles my shoulder with his forehead, urging me back against the passenger’s seat. I feel his chest brush mine, and then his lips are on mine, warm and soft.

“Cleo—even whores have feelings,” he breathes against my cheek.

He pulls away just enough so I can see his smirk. He leans down to kiss me in between my brows, and then he’s disentangling from me. I give him what I pray looks like a cool-headed, doubtful smirk of my own before climbing up into my seat. He shuts the door behind me, quickly deposits my bags in the back seat, then strides to the driver’s side.

I watch him walking, and I can’t help but admire the utility of his movements. He’s so graceful.

Half the campus calls him the golden god, so at least it’s not just me. And still—how embarrassing. I told him I thought he was perfect. I have a few heartbeats to wonder at his strange reaction before he opens the driver’s door and slides in. He fills the space so thoroughly, I find myself shrinking in my seat. I wrap my hand around the top of the croissant bag in my lap.

He buckles his seat belt, then his eyes flick over me. “Buckle up for safety, Cleo.”

“Right,” I murmur. I pull the belt across my lap, feeling self-conscious as I snap it into place. What’s wrong with me? I need to screw my head on straight.

Kellan shifts the car into reverse, and as he looks over his shoulder, his gaze flickers down to a to-go coffee cup between us.

“For you.” His blue eyes find my own. “A café mocha.”

My pulse picks up, ridiculously, and again I struggle to exude a calm, cool vibe. “Good call.” I smile. “Chocolate is a win with me.” I pick it up and take a long swallow as the car glides backward out of the space. “Damn.” I exhale slowly. “There was whipped cream in here, wasn’t there? It must have melted, but I can totally taste it.”

His mouth curves a little, and I thump his muscular forearm. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

He doesn’t reply, and I notice we’re driving up the ramp instead of down.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Your car.”

I rifle in the croissant bag as we drive out of the shadows and onto the top story of the deck. “You know where I’m parked? Wait a minute... how’d you find me here in the first place?”

“I went to the Tri Gam house, and one of the girls—Steph, I think—told me you weren’t there. I checked around and saw your car here.”

“Why were you looking for me?”

He brakes behind my Miata, and his eyes meet mine head-on. “Why do you think, Cleo?”