Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

Damn.

Maybe I’m ovulating today? Because I want him. Like... I totally, illogically, inappropriately want that asshole, Kellan Walsh, inside me. Right now.

I cross an arm over my chest to try to hold this feeling inside, where it’s safe. I feel so much the opposite today. As if something small and soft could break me. Maybe it’s the clouds. The puffy, dark gray clouds riding low over the campus’s stately brick buildings remind me of the instructions Robert sent me what feels like forever ago: not a sunny day, and not a cloudy one. I inhale deeply and feel the pressure in my chest again.

I’m worried—okay?

Anyone in my shoes would be.

Nothing will be right again until I get another note from “R.” Or until BTM returns my call or my letters. Until then, I’m waiting. I hate waiting.

I follow the curve of the wide, brick concourse, cutting a flat path beneath mossy oaks, between bike racks and pebble paths. I shift my thoughts to Kellan Walsh, where they’re safer.

It’s official: I’m bespelled, just like the others. On paper he screams “horrible idea,” but in experience... well, he screams horrible idea, but also “hot fuck.” I didn’t think of myself as someone extra susceptible to the whims of my pussy, but I guess with the right guy, anyone can be swayed.

Why is he the right guy? I don’t have a clue.

Right dick, I correct myself. I only want him for that gorgeous cock of his. And his sexy voice. And that body...

Fuck.

I arrive at the Braun Mathematics Building in a crap mood and stop in the doorway to pull my shoulder-length, brown-black hair into a pencil twist. Like everything today, it feels heavy.

I literally drag my feet the rest of the way to Room 120. I pull my iPhone out of my bag and check it before I step into the classroom.

Nothing. Yet. I have a feeling I’ll hear from Kellan sometime today. Or see him. And when I do... I shake my head. I have no idea how I will handle seeing him in person after last night.

I sigh, and actually relax a little as I open the door, because at least in here I can turn my thoughts to something concrete.

I push through the door with my right elbow, curling my fist toward my wrist to avoid picking up germs: my new worst fear. Then I step onto the bottom level of a stadium-style lecture hall and freeze like a burglar in a spotlight.

The room is quiet. Everyone is bent over, scribbling with pencils. As my eyes across desk after desk, all I see light blue paper on each. Scantrons. Because today is test day. SHIT.

I spot my hump-backed, seventy-year-old professor, Dr. Marx, behind the podium, and I walk slowly over to him. My hand feels numb as I take a test booklet and a scantron of my own.

How the hell did I forget this? I’ve act

ually been studying lately, and using my day planner.

I am screwed. So screwed. I’m a disaster at math on my best day, and this is not my best day. Not at all.

I take a seat on the fourth row up and try to remember how the grade for this class is calculated. I’m pretty sure it’s calculated by averaging four tests and an overall pop quiz average. This test is going to be one-fifth of my grade.

I slide into my seat with a hard knot in the back of my throat. I’m surprised to find I’m blinking against tears by the time I get my name bubbled in.

The moment I open the booklet, the classroom door creaks open. I look over then blink a few times, just to be sure I’m not hallucinating. But... nope. Standing there in the doorway, holding a manila folder, looking tall and broad and flawless in charcoal slacks and a dapper charcoal vest over a crisp-looking button-up, is Kellan Walsh.

What the fucking fuck?

My head pounds, and all of a sudden, I can’t seem to remember how to breathe or even be here in this room.

Awareness returns to me slowly, centered between my legs. My vag is pounding. Throbbing, really. It’s hot and eager, ignited by the sight of Kellan Walsh. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs. How totally humiliating.

Kellan steps fully into the classroom, like he wants to go ahead and get rid of any hope I have the he’s just a very Kellan-looking person. My eyes run from his golden blond hair down his heavy chest—which I have to admit, looks amazing in that vest—to the podium, where Dr. Marx is peering at Kellan curiously.

I look down at my scantron and bubble in a random “C” for question number one while Kellan and Dr. Marx talk with their heads leaned close together. I see some of my female classmates watching Kellan longingly, and I’m shocked to find I want to throat-punch them. Then Dr. Marx nods twice and looks in my direction. “Come,” he beckons.

I pick up all my things, including the test papers, and walk toward the podium in slow-motion. All I can think of is last night, in my bed. How wet and shaky I was when we finished. How I couldn’t fall asleep without using my LELO wand and replaying his dirty words in my head.