Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

I walk slowly toward the door, and when I’m almost there, my face bounces off of something hard.

The lights flick on, shocking my eyes so I can’t see at first. I blink a few times—and find myself staring at a wide, male chest.

ONE STEP BACK, AND the chest becomes a full-fledged male. Not just any male, but Kellan fucking Walsh.

Motherfucker.

Fuck shit.

Shit fuck.

This is bad, like really, really bad.

Kellan Walsh is the Lex Luthor of Cleoland—as well as the golden boy of Chattahoochee College.

He drives a jet black Escalade. He has a Crest-white smile. He dyes his hair with gold dust. Okay, maybe not really, but it looks that way, especially in the sun. When he walks, he swaggers. When he touches a girl’s arm at a party or a bar, he puts a spell on her. I’ve seen it happen with my own two eyes.

Take Katy, for example. First weekend back-to-school, at a party, she was being her normal self—in Katy’s case, this meant guzzling her second “goldfish bowl” martini, swinging her hips around like Elvis, swaying her wide, swimmer’s shoulders to a Lady Gaga dance remix, and singing off-key. Then Kellan Walsh showed up.

He was dressed to the nines, because that’s the only way Kellan Walsh dresses. I think that night he was wearing slacks and an expensive-looking button-up, with the sleeves rolled up to show off his muscular forearms. He looked like some kind of... lion, or tiger. Maybe a rare yellow leopard. He tipped his head at Katy, and in five minutes—FIVE MINUTES FLAT, I’m telling you—she’d climbed into the Sexcalade with him.

He took her to a hotel. Not to his room at the frat house, but a hotel, as if she was a hooker.

That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern, just revulsion. But, in addition to being campus playboy and soccer player extraordinaire, Kellan Walsh is also our school’s SGA president. Which means he has a lot of influence over my fate as a student here.

Sound like a tough spot? He’s also a champion of our campus’ zero tolerance drug policy.

Yeahhhh.

As my eyes adjust to the light he’s just flipped on, I take another small step back and run my gaze up and down him. Perfectly put together. Of course. Navy slacks and a pale pink Polo hug his body like... clothes draped over the world’s most flawless body. I’m a back and shoulders girl, and shit, he’s wide. I usually don’t get this close to him but... gawd. His soft cotton shirt is stretching to fit across the width of him. My eyes trail down his ripped chest and gawk at the width difference between his shoulders and his hips. His hips are... square and sharp and delectable. I know from seeing him in soccer shorts that behind them, there’s a nice, taut ass. Underneath his slacks are muscled thighs. And in between his legs... At games, when he runs...

I swallow and tug my gaze up to his face. His blue eyes demand my attention first. They’re gorgeous—the color of deep ocean water. Looking at me, they seem to see everything; they’re the eyes of a demigod, peering into my soul. I take in the rest of his face: the faintly feline shape of his high cheekbones; his heavenly lips, which beg to be bitten; the smooth line of his jaw; his healthy tan. He definitely looks angelic. Like an angel who would rip your panties with the strength of his immortal hands.

Oh, God.

My eyes flit up again, needing to get away from that face of his, and run into his wavy-messy blond hair.

I grit my teeth and step away.

His eyes, on mine, are shrewd. They track me as I move. My pulse quickens—and quickens more, and What the hell is wrong with you Cleo!?

I lift my bag up my shoulder and try to make my face

like Mandy, a sophomore Tri Gam who is the most cliché sorority girl I’ve ever known: wide-eyed and wondering, just an innocent girl startled by Kellan’s male antics. He sneaked into the room when I wasn’t paying attention! He flipped the light switch and I was like OMGz!

But did he sneak in? I didn’t hear the door open or close. Was he in here the whole time?

My pulse kicks up a notch.

He seems too close. I take another step back. Then I glare at him for good measure.

You’re doing nothing wrong, Cleo! You’re a liberator. Fight big pharma... Weed is medicine! A more relaxed student population is good for everyone! Rah rah rah!

I wrap my fingers around the thin straps of my bag and give him skeptical frown. What the hell is he doing in here?

“Were you spying on me?” I look him over once more, this time focusing more on his clothes than his delectable body. The slacks look tailor-made. The pink dress shirt is definitely straining across his shoulders.

As if he can read my lustful thoughts and wants to taunt me, he steps closer. His gaze hardens. Another step, and I can see the sexy stubble on his face. A third step, and he’s close enough for me to smell his cinnamony breath. He folds his arms over his chest and breaks the silence with a voice like low thunder. “I think a better question is, what are you doing in here, Miss Whatley?”