Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (29 page)

He disappears for years or minutes. I try to clench the dildo inside me, and all the while, I want to push against it, urging its width deeper.

When he comes back, I’m curled slightly on my side, losing the battle. Only the smooth, round tip is still inside me, pulling at my tender folds. The tiny wand over my clit has slipped away, so I have to thrust my hips to feel its vibrations. Every thrust works the thick wand a little farther out of me. I’m panting like an animal.

Kellan chuckles as he watches me squirm.

“Help me! Let me come!”

I try to reach for him. The knots stop me. He climbs onto the bed as I flail, watching from above me with a coy smirk.

“You’re ready?” he asks.

“Yes, please!”

I can’t see. Oh—right: tears. Fuck me!

“That’s a good girl.” He wraps his hand around the base of the wand and shoves it back inside me. I moan.

“Does it feel as good as I do?” He shifts his hips, and I notice the huge hose of his dick straining against his pants.

He rubs his big palm up and down it. “You want this, don’t you, Cleo?” He wraps his hand around his head and with his other hand, he pulls the dildo out of me.

My clit throbs so hard my legs fall open. I lift my hips and Kellan blurs.

He strokes my hair. “You want me to push inside your cunt. To fill you with my cock, give you every inch of me. Am I right, my little slut?”

My throat stings. “Yes...”

He leans down over me, and the ropes around my ankles tug as he adjusts the bar to spread my legs wider.

I watch him take his pants off. His dick is so huge, it has to curve to stay inside his charcoal boxer-briefs. My mouth waters as he frees it from the fabric. It springs up against his smooth, tanned six-pack. The girth makes me moan. The head of him is pearled with pre-cum.

“I can stuff you full of cock. My cock would love to stretch you open. I can see this cunt is hungry for me.”

He leans down and runs his fingers through my sopping slit. My hips come off the bed.

I’m dying as I watch him roll another condom on, too slow. He spreads my lips. He edges closer to me, as if my pussy and his dick are connected by an invisible fuck string. Then he takes his monster cock in hand and rubs the swollen head against my core.

I scream.

“What a filthy little whore.” His eyes burn mine. “Just aching for my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, please.
Please!
”

He rubs his thumb over my clit.

“Oh God!”

He feeds his cock into me inch by slow, sweet inch. I look down and watch myself impaled. I’m stuffed so tight my hips feel compelled to move.

I shift my ass. He grits his teeth.

“Yes!
Yes
...”

With one smooth stroke, he punches in. I moan.

“Cleo.” He thrusts. I groan. He presses my thighs apart, and it’s like he knows—I’ll have to spread more if I want to take him all.

“You’re full already,” he rasps. “I can feel you stretched around my cock. But that’s not all of me, Cleo. Are you ready for me again?”

With his eyes on mine, he pushes deeper, stretching me exquisitely. Each shift of his huge cock sends a sweet ache surging through me.

My legs sag open. My eyelids drift to half-mast as I lift my hips to feel him move within me. “Fuck...”

“I’m not even moving yet.”

“Please do,” I pant.

“What do you need to say?”

“Please, Master. Please fuck me.”

And he does. He fucks me twice in that position. When I’m sure my heart will burst—that I will die here, from another crashing orgasm—he repositions me. I’m on my stomach with my arms over my head. My nose and mouth press into the mattress. By the time he unbinds my wrists, the sun is setting.

OH, SHIT.

I’m in the windowed room’s en suite shower, and that’s seriously all my brain can muster.

Shit.

I’ve washed every inch of my body with the thick bar of French lavender soap I found in its bow-tied, burlap wrapping, but I can’t seem to turn the water off. I watch it slosh around my toes like mini rapids. Watch it all slide down the drain—until the steam starts fading. The water runs lukewarm, then cold.

I’m a card-carrying member of the Scorching Shower Lovers Club, so I turn the lever and grab my towel from the small tile bench built into the back of the shower.

I dry myself, then wrap my hair. I step over to a granite countertop and grab another fluffy towel for my body.

When I’m dry enough to touch my phone, I check for word from Kellan, but there’s no text or missed call. After he untied me, I remember him cleaning me off with a warm, damp cloth and rubbing some oil on my shoulders. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep, because when I awoke, my cell phone was beside me on the pillow, and on the screen was a text he’d sent:
I’m 1 in your phone now. Call if you need. Gone to sort out some shit. Back later tonight. Food in the oven. Make yourself at home.

That was around 6:30. It’s 8:50 now. I consider texting him—but why? To be sure he’s okay? Really?

Instead I unpack my toiletries, brush my teeth, smooth some olive oil lotion all over my body, and put on my favorite ragged gray sweatpants with a hot pink Greek Sing t-shirt. I drift around the windowed room, first averting my eyes from the bed, then staring at it from the safety of the balcony.

Shit.

That’s still all I have.

Shit, that was amazing. Shit, that was crazy. Shit, that was intense. Shit, that Kellan Walsh. Just... fucking shit.

What am I doing?

That wasn’t sex, I think as I descend the stairs. It was... ritual. Some kind of pleasure-pain ritual that blurred all my lines and took me somewhere new. Somewhere I can’t walk without a bite of pain between my legs.

As I step into the swanky living room, I imagine my old Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Elvira, with her short, gray hair and baby doll-round hazel eyes.

“Sex should be for husband and a wife.”

I know I don’t agree with that, but I’ve always thought before now that it should at least be mutually satisfying.

But I
am
satisfied, I argue as I sit on his white couch. I’m so satisfied, I’m almost floating. Because Kellan Walsh tied me up and did everything short of smacking me in the face with his dick.

Do I like to be degraded?

I liked being bound.

I’m weird.

Is it weird?

It’s a little weird.

I bite my lip and look down at the pale suede couch. A few inches away from me, there’s a small black ink stain. I rub it with my fingertip. I’m satisfied, okay? Alarmingly so. But is that incidental? Did he
care
if I was? He told me that, though, didn’t he? That he wanted to please me, but he was going to keep going until he got tired.

Is he some kind of sex addict?

I ponder this in the safety of his high-gloss kitchen. I’m pleased to find what’s in the oven is some kind of ham, potato, and pineapple casserole. I have no idea who made it, but it’s delicious. I pour myself a glass of lemonade and settle on the couch.

Should I call Lora? No. Calling Lora reminds me too much of yapping about Brennan. This thing with Kellan is... I don’t know what, but for now, it’s mine.

I find two remotes beside a stack of post cards on an end table. I tinker with them as I stuff my face.

“Damnit...” I’m a mess with technology. I manage to get the TV on, but it’s got a mysterious blue screen. I screw around with the remote as I nom nom. Then I drag my sore self up and walk to the enormous TV.

Fucked and chucked
... a little voice whispers.

Is that what he did? It’s true he’s gone now—but isn’t that a coincidence? He had to go, to deal with something. I inhale deeply, and I can smell the faintest whiff of the vanilla-ish oil he rubbed into my shoulders.

I don’t need to bother wondering what other people would think. The only thing I didn’t like about the crazy sex we had was how overwhelmed I felt. But isn’t that also what I
did
like? I feel like we rolled off a cliff together. Started falling. Maybe we don’t have an emotional relationship to serve as a kind of safety net, but if it’s only physical, do we even need one?

I bite my lip and turn on the DVD player. The screen remains blue. Because the DVD player is already on. Well okay, that explains things.

As I stare at the settings on the DVD player, something pops into my head: a memory from before I went into my post-sex sleep-haze thing.

“This body is mine. No one else’s. I’m gonna fuck you hard and use you up—and afterward, you’re gonna tell me why you want me so much you’ve got tears coming out of your eyes.”

He’s right. I want him so much it scares me. The worst part, I think as run my finger over the buttons: I know deep down that I don’t want him for his money, or because he’s hot, or because, in all his duality, he seems dangerous. There’s no clear reason I want Kellan Walsh enough to let him lick my asshole.

No reason at all.

I ponder this as I turn the DVD player off and look down at the TV. Now the screen is black. I turn the DVD player on again: blue screen.

“Ugh.”

Maybe I don’t even care about watching TV. Maybe I’ll call Lora after all.

I put my hands on my hips and let my eyes drift around the room. It’s the first time I’ve really looked since I’ve been here, and I’m impressed by its opulence.

The rear wall, facing the river, is pretty much just windows, with a few giant potted plants in front of them. There are windows in the ceiling, too, strips of glass between exposed beams. The hardwood floor is beautiful and glossy, the walls a mint so soft it’s almost white. But what really makes the room is the décor.

The white and brown suede chairs and sofas; the stained glass, Tiffany’s-style lamps; the enormous Oriental rug that’s dominated by brown and blue and beige, with the occasional dash of red. There’s a long, intricately carved cuckoo clock along that wall that leads to the kitchen. Adorning most of the space to the left of the clock is a huge... a reproduction of a famous Rousseau painting I happen to love. It’s called
Negro Attacked by Jaguar
.

If I remember correctly from my art classes, this was one Rousseau painted near the end of his life. It’s mostly jungle, with an orange-red sun, and in the center of the image is a shadow being pounced on by a tiger, which is standing on its hind legs, so it almost looks like it’s dancing with the man. It’s kind of hard to explain exactly what’s so great about it, but I think it’s all in the dimensions.

I wander over to it, because I want to see if I’m correct—that it’s an actual painting. I walk around a claw-footed end table, and behind the couch, bare feet smacking against the hardwood floor—and yeah. It’s definitely some kind of high-quality reprod.

I pick a spot at the edge of the painting and touch my finger to it. Then I stretch my arms out. The painting is at least three feet wider than my arm span. I tip my head up, because I just noticed a wall-mounted lamp above it—like the ones they have in museums—and as I do, the boom of a man’s voice makes me jump.

I whirl toward the TV.

“What the...” Okay. I blow my breath out, laughing. Holy shit, that scared me, but it’s just the TV coming on. Finally.

Football, I realize as I turn fully around.

The first thing I notice is, it’s grainy. As if the film is from a while back, before filming things in high-def was the norm.

The second thing I notice:
Kellan
.

My eyes snap to him as he raises his arm to throw the ball. I’m mesmerized as I walk around the TV. Trojans... I walk closer to it. Holy fucking shit, that’s USC? Kellan played for USC? He played football?

He turns as he completes the throw, and I blink at his number: 14. God, I can’t believe that’s Kellan. It
is
Kellan, playing fucking quarterback. So why is the name stretched across his shoulders DRAKE?

I walk closer to the TV. I figure out how to get the player open and I look at the DVD. I start to open drawers in the entertainment center, looking for the DVD’s case. And then I find it: TROJANS: VAULT—2012.

I sit on the couch for twenty more minutes, watching Kellan move around the field. Soaking in every detail. I listen to the announcer talk about Kellan Drake, and I know as soon as I turn the DVD player off, I’m going to search my phone for Kellan Drake, USC student.

Questions whirl through my mind—like how a USC quarterback could blend into the fabric of our student body here at CC without attracting anyone’s notice. Is it possible that I’m the only one who doesn’t know about his past?

I watch as he jogs to the bench. He takes his helmet off. His hair is black. My pulse thuds in my throat. His hair is black, but that’s his face. What the hell is going on? I pull my phone out and open up my browser window.