Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (24 page)

And when my legs begin to tremble, when I’m clinging to his shoulders, drunk from his strange ravishment, his teeth pierce me so hard I gasp.

“Cleo.”

My own name thrums in my ears like an exaltation as he nips my neck. He drags it out. He makes it hurt. I clutch his shirt and lock my jaw to keep from crying out. I moan. He’s going to hurt me!

And then his silken mouth, his graceful tongue.

He moves so fast, his hair tickles my chin. He moves like he’s hungry: harsh, thorough—and yet the whole thing is so gentle, I’m moaning with bliss. He trails down my throat and over my collarbone: nipping and then licking, marking with his teeth and following with his tongue and lips, biting and then soothing, punishing and stroking.

He sucks my tender throat between his teeth, and a moan spills from my lips.

In between my legs, I’m throbbing.

I wrap my hands around the back of his head, clutching him to me as I moan again. I’ve lost my mind... I press my hips against his thighs, gulping back air and exhaling in a low sigh. One of my hands trails down his nape and grips his shoulder as his mouth continues its assault on my throat.

“Kellan...”

He moves away. At first I think I’ve wrecked this, but he doesn’t step back. Instead he tilts his forehead against mine, giving gives me a heavy-lidded smile, and plants a soft kiss on my lips.

When he lifts his mouth off mine, I press my lips against the base of his throat, pausing for a moment because at first, I’m sure that he will pull away.

He doesn’t move.

I can hardly breathe. As I gaze at his smooth, tanned skin, I find his throat is marred by a small, horizontal scar. It’s thin and pale, and looks like someone drew a dash over his jugular with a beige Sharpie. I roll my tongue over it and feel him shudder.
Yessss
.

His hands wrap around my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, then grasping my skull. I’ve never been a skilled lover, but this is different. My hunger leads me. I see his smooth throat as a canvas and I want to mark it. I kiss him softly at first, then so hard I hope it aches.

I’m rewarded by a hard catch of his breath, followed by a muttered, “fuck.” He clutches my head tighter and presses his erection against my hip. I wait for him to move, to grind against me—in fact, I hold my breath for it—but he doesn’t. He just juts against me, his throat still under my mouth, his chest frozen against mine. And then, after an exquisite second, he grabs my arms from around his neck and pulls them up over my head.

“What a little slut you are,” he growls. Clamping his hand around my wrists, he pushes me toward a row of shelves. With my arms bound and my upper back against one of the Tupperware containers, I’m helpless—and panting so hard I feel almost panicked.

I can feel my face burn as he looks down on me.

“You like this, don’t you?” His fingers tighten around my wrists. His head drops down. He kisses my mouth slow and hard, then bites the corner of my lips. “You like fucking around with me, don’t you, Cleo baby?” He murmurs it against my cheek. “You were waiting for this. You’re already wet for me.” It’s true, of course. I feel him hard against my lower belly, and I grit my teeth.

He takes my chin in his fingers, revealing my face. There’s no point in answering. I know he can see it in my eyes. I can see my lust reflected back at me in his.

His face is so intense, I almost expect him to pull my leggings down and take me as I lean against the shelves.

Instead, his strong fingers release my wrists, and he drops down to his knees. He puts my shawl out of the way and claims my pussy with his wide mouth.

“Ohmygod!”

He closes his jaw just slightly, mouthing at me, and then I feel his voice vibrate. “You smell like sex, Cleo.”

It takes everything I have to keep from rocking into his face. My legs quiver. My voice shakes so hard I can barely speak. “I haven’t had a shower.”

“You don’t need one.”

His mouth shifts against me, and there is his tongue. I know it by its lovely pressure; the feel of it is big and hot and damp. He settles it warmly over me—and then his lips are back, clamping on my throbbing sex as he blows into the fabric. I can feel the hot moisture against my skin.

“You want my mouth on your pussy. You want to feel my tongue between that slit, right where you’re wet and throbbing, don’t you, Cleo?”

Yes!

He puffs on me again, and I can feel the damp heat seep between my lips. I can’t help it—I thrust myself at him.

“Cleo...” The pressure of his mouth is gone. I want to scream as he wraps an arm around my ass and looks down at my feet. “You’re on your toes. So hungry...” His eyes find mine. His grin is arrogant; unhampered. “I bet you want my cock. It’s okay.” His fingers, pressed into the back of my thigh, loosen their grip. Begin to stroke. “There’s no harm in wanting a big cock in your pussy. I think a good, plump pussy deserves a thick cock. I bet you do too...”

He rubs his lips against me through the fabric. I grip his shoulder.

“Say my name,” he purrs.

“Kellan.”

“What do you want, Cleo?” As he looks up at me, he blows another long, hot breath through my leggings.

I moan. “
Please
!”

He pushes his tongue against me. Moves away. “Please what, Cleo? Please
who
?”

“Take off my leggings!”

His fingers pluck at the elastic. “And?”

Eat me out
. I can’t say it. “Put your mouth...”

He lowers his mouth to my pussy and hovers there, just breathing. “Put it where?” he rumbles.

“There! Please...” I’m swaying, almost falling over.

“You want me to eat your pussy? Say it, Cleo. I want to hear you say, ‘Kellan, I need you to eat my pussy.’”

His mouth gathers over me again, and he puffs one breath after another into the fabric, like he’s doing CPR on my cunt. One time... two times... three. I’m so wet, I could die. His eyes flick up to mine, stern and expectant. I dig my nails into his shoulders.

When the fabric over me is soaked and sweat is beaded on my pussy, and the slickness in my slit is dripping like the icing off a cake, he stops and gazes up at me. “Last chance, Cleo. Tell me what you need, or I’ll assume I’m doing this all wrong.”

I grab his hair and yank hard. “Eat me out, Kellan. Eat my fucking pussy. Just do it right now!”

He laughs, pressing his mouth against me so I feel every vibration. Pleasure slices through me. I can feel it pulse deep in me, like I’ve magicked his cock right where I need it. Then he leans away, grins like a predator, and grabs my leggings at the seam that runs from the waist down to my crotch. With a quick jerk, he rips them open.

I can feel his warm, smooth forehead stroke down my lower belly, the bridge of his nose over my mound... Then his tongue parts my damp folds, delves inside, and—

“OH FUCK!”

That is all it takes.

I REPOSSESS MYSELF SLOWLY
, as if I’m waking from a long sleep. I flinch at first blink—at the stock room, with its glaring light and stark aesthetic. But I’m more shocked at where my face is: nestled in the crook of Kellan’s chest and bicep. I blink a few times at the plaid of his shirt before my awareness shifts to the rest of my body. The first thing I feel is the hardness of his chest and thighs against me. The second: a cool sensation between my legs. It’s as if—

Kellan ripped my leggings open.

Kellan. Ripped. My. Leggings. Open.

I lift my head off him. I want some distance, but his face is right in front of me. I’m about to take a big step back when his hands, tucked around my lower back, drift up my shoulders.

“Cleo?” He smiles at me. It’s a small smile, but it’s real. Instead of falling off his face the way they seem to do so often, it kind of sticks there. “Hi.”

And even though we’ve probably only been standing here, tucked into each other, for a minute or two, it feels like something between us has shifted. I watch his face. He looks attentive. Interested. And, as a few more milliseconds tick by, kind of smug. Yes, definitely smug.

He smirks at me, and I feel the vibe between us settling back near our baseline. “How you feeling?”

I blush big time. And curse my father’s name. (My mother doesn’t blush; she says I got it from my dad). And feel ten times more awkward thinking of my dad right now.

“Damnit,” I mumble.

The smirk turns smile-ish, complete with a crinkling at the corner of his eyes. “What’s the matter? Tired?” He drawls the word, as if he’s proud he wore me out, then briefly grins. My stomach lurches.

He rubs his hair back off his forehead, then looks at me for a long, heady second before the world starts turning again. He clasps my hand, lacing our fingers together.

“You want to try a new strain?”

I laugh as he pulls me toward the door. “I don’t smoke.”

He opens his mouth. “Of course not,” he says richly. He smiles, fast and fleeting. “I don’t either.”

“Really?”

He pushes the door open, squeezing my hand as we walk back into the hall. “Rarely.”

“Why not?”

His eyes fix on my face. “Why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It makes me sleepy. I blab secrets and eat up all the donuts. It’s not exactly conducive to doing good business—or making the grades I need to make.”

“Are you on a scholarship?” he asks as he locks the stock room door behind us.

“How’d you know?”

He winks. “You just told me.”

He unlocks the grow room again, and we step back into the warm, sweet-smelling air. “I kind of have to be. I make money from the dealing, but that pays my sorority dues and trips and t-shirts, and—” I wiggle my boot—“the pursuit of high fashion. Haircuts, electric toothbrushes, books and music. You know... the basics.”

He nods. “You don’t pay your tuition.”

“Thankfully. It would be a big drain if I was.”

With a stroke of his thumb over my knuckles, he releases my hand. I watch as he opens a cabinet under the countertop and pulls out a small, plastic box. From another cabinet, he grabs a few towels. He spreads them on the floor at the mouth of one of the aisles. Then he runs his hand along a panel of switches on the counter, and music comes on.

Classical music.

I smile. “Is this for the plants or us?”

His brows lift. “Are you mocking Chopin?”

“I wouldn’t say mocking so much as... noting.” I smile again, and sit down on the towels. “You’re surprisingly geeky.”

“I’ll have you know the Nocturnes are a strain favorite.” He sinks down beside me and opens the box. He takes out a blue and green, glass-blown pipe about the length of my hand. Then he pulls out a lighter and a bottle of water.

“Damn. The bud.” He laughs a little, but he’s gritting his teeth. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks down at it. Without looking back up at me, he says, “Can you grab something from that bin beside the Silent Stalker?”

There was a bin somewhere? “Sure,” I say. “What am I looking for?”

Still looking down at his phone, he points toward the end of our aisle. “It’s a bin with dried out stuff.”

I bring back a bud that’s about as long as my palm, and Kellan laughs.

I shrug, smiling. “I didn’t know how much to get.”

I sit down beside him, and his dancing blue eyes move over my face. “You know how to pack a pipe, right?”

“I’m not very good at it.” I laugh lamely.

“Cleo, Cleo. How can you call yourself a dealer?” He shakes his head, then pats the space across from him. “I’ll show you.”

He sets the bud down on the towel and starts to pluck eraser-sized kernels off it, his expert fingertips stacking the little tufts inside the pipe’s bowl with amazing speed. I think I maybe see his hands shaking, but I can’t be sure. Still, it sets my mind in motion.

“Who was on the phone just now?” I ask.

“One of my guys.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “It’s nothing, trust me.”

He sets one more tuft of weed into the bowl, then taps the side of it, knocking the little kernels of marijuana into the bottom.

“You’re good at this.”

“I used to smoke.” He holds it out to me.

I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut. “Please don’t laugh, but I don’t know how to light it. One of my friends... My friend from home, he used to light it for me and cover up the hole on the side of the pipe for me. I would just suck in.”

“Cleo—” his brows arch—“you can’t be serious.” His mouth pulls into a sort-of smile. “How do you vouch for your product?”

“I don’t know. No one ever asks me to sample it or anything. And Lora tells me how it is. It’s been like, years. Two summers ago I think is when I last smoked. And that was a few hits off a blunt, not from a pipe.”

“Tell me more,” he says, moving the lighter over the bowl. He looks at me over the pipe. “Why did you stop?”

I watch him flick the lighter and hold the flame over the bowl. The tiny pieces crinkle and snap, flaring red as he presses his thumb over the small hole on the side of the bowl and closes his lips around the business end of the pipe. His shoulders rise as he drags in. The bud in the small bowl pulses red and orange. I watch his chest expand as he pulls the smoke deep into his lungs.