Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

Kellan folds his arms over his broad chest and keeps his eyes on the rows of desks directly in front of him as I close the distance between us. Then he shifts his gaze to me the way a man might look from his bowl of cereal to the text of a newspaper article. His face is completely apathetic.

“Miss Whatley,” he murmurs, when I’m close enough that only I, and maybe Dr. Marx, can hear. His gaze rolls up and down me, casually assessing.

“What are you doing here?” I choke.

The corners of his mouth quirk. His lips press together and twist slightly up, a sly expression that shows he’s enjoying my ruffled feathers. His blue eyes tug at mine. “Can you step into the hall, please, Miss Whatley?”

My heart hammers like a drum as we move toward the door. I feel his fingers on my lower back—pressuring or guiding me?

He reaches around me to push the door open, and I can feel the gentle sensation of him shadowing me as we move into the hall. It’s empty now that class has started—fliers on a nearby bulletin board no longer flapping in the breeze that busy bodies make; the shiny, gray and maroon checkered floor tiles glinting beneath shoe scuffs.

I tell myself that despite his ridiculous plan, and no matter what he says, I will hold strong and keep my panties on. I turn slowly to face him, wearing my best poker face. “What are you doing here?” I ask curtly.

It’s such a lie, the ‘hold strong’ bit. His eyes are so, so blue. They’re like the ocean. His lips curve up a little, and I want to bite them. Lick them. I can feel my nipples harden. I thought that was just a line from romance novels, but for real, they actually harden at the sight of this bastard.

“What do you think?” he practically purrs. Something deep in my belly tucks into a little bow for him.

“I’m not sure I want to know,” I say flatly.

He offers a gentle smile I’m not expecting, then reaches out to touch a loose strand of my hair. “Cleo... Don’t worry. I’m not the asshole today. I’m the prince.” A satisfied grin breaks over his lips, and his face goes from beautiful to breathtaking.

Deep breaths, bitch.

I arch one eyebrow and hug my books closer to my pounding chest. “Why are you really here?”

“I’ve got an independent study this period. I’m helping the provost film a commercial. I need students.” His greedy eyes rake up and down me. He takes some of my shawl between his fingers as his flirty mouth curves up again. “You look good in black, Cleo.”

“I’m sure that’s what the provost wants.” I roll my eyes. “A girl in a shitty mood, dressed in all black.”

“It’s what I want,” he says in a low voice.

My heart trips, then starts beating off-beat.

I laugh, ridiculously awkward. “No charming me,” I warn. Except that isn’t true, is it? He made me come last night—on the frickin’ phone!

He catches my hand, his long, strong fingers weaving through mine before I have the chance to pull away. “Walk with me, Cleo. No strings.”

I want to pry my fingers from his, but our hands are locked together, palm to palm. His hand is warm and strong. The close contact reminds me of how lonely I’ve been since Brennan. Just for the basic things, like hugs and hands. That’s the only reason I let him tug me gently down the hall, toward the front entrance of the building. That, and I want to confirm for myself in the light of day that he’s really not an FBI agent. If he doesn’t bust me now, I can believe he’s actually a drug overlord.

Our forearms brush as we move. The curve of my hip touches his thigh. I try not to sweat. He seems calm—completely unaffected. FBI-like... ?

“You can re-take your test,” he tells me. “I’ll get your excuse.”

He looks down at me out of the corner of his eye, a smug smile curving his lips. At least, I imagine he’s smug.

I feel the word “thanks” form on my tongue, but I clamp my mouth shut before it can roll out.

I glance down at our joined hands. His wrist is bent a little. His fingers grip mine, light but firm—an easy cradle. They’re long and elegant. The angles of his wrist and forearm are the same. He’s just... well-hewn. Andddd, I’m lusting after a forearm. I’m in such big fucking trouble.

“You got Marx for cal?” Kellan asks as we pass closed classroom doors. My boots and his black leather shoes echo around us.

I’m hyper-aware of my damp fingers in his, so it takes me a moment to remember he asked me a question. I nod. “Business calculus.”

“You’re going into business?”

“Yeah.” My voice sounds high and forced.

It’s his damn hand.