Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

He’s got his right ankle resting atop his left knee, and my calculus textbook spread over his muscular calf and thigh. He’s only been at it for about thirty minutes, and most of the time I’ve been distracted by his huge shoulders edging into my space as he gestures to the pages. But just now, something clicked inside my head.

“So... to find an antiderivatives for a function f, just reverse the process for differentiation?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. He nods slowly as his eyes twinkle.

“So you can usually find an antiderivatives by reversing the power rule. And the indefinite integral is like... a reference to all the different antiderivatives of a single continuous function. Because there isn’t just one. There’s a bunch of different ones. Even an infinite number?”

His grins smugly. “I told you.”

“I can’t believe it. I mean... Cannot. Believe. It.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “Kellan, you should be a math teacher. A professor!”

He snorts.

“Seriously! How did you know how to explain it to me? I’m an idiot with this stuff. I wasn’t even good at algebra.”

He looks down at me through his long lashes, and I feel my body temperature spike. With his deep blue eyes, his high cheekbones, and those sculpted lips, he’s just so... striking. His skin is smooth and tanned, with just a little stubble on his jaw and cheeks—more than most college guys have, I can’t help noting. His hair is short and soft-looking, and just a little wavy: the just-rolled-out-of-bed look, which contrasts nicely with his dressy clothes.

He lifts a shoulder, and I swear that simple motion makes sweat pop out on my forehead. “You caught on fast,” he says.

“Yeah, cause you have serious skills.”

He shakes his head.

“Too cool for school?” I tease. I’m getting better at hiding my awkwardness from him, I think.

And immediately I think maybe not, because he’s just... staring at me. My cheeks and neck are red now. I can feel them burning.

“I won,” he says softly. His eyes are steady on my face.

A shiver runs across my shoulders, the kind of chill I felt once when someone was looking at me through my bedroom window back at home. I feel breathless. Helpless. Like a rabbit in the eyes of a coyote, I can only pant here, frozen.

I lick my lips, trying to think of what to say. When nothing comes to mind—because I can’t decide what I want and my heart is beating too loud for me to think anyway—I shrug and, in a strange, high voice, say, “I don’t understand it all...”

“I won, Cleo.”

I watch his jaw tighten as he casts his eyes away from my face and down to the space between us. I study his hair as he reaches out and grabs a strand of fringe hanging from my shawl. He rubs it gently in his fingertips. When he looks back into my eyes, his luscious mouth is frowning.

“I really make you nervous.”

“You really do.”

I can’t help noticing he briefly looks away. His eyes are on the brown carpet below our feet as his fingers travel smoothly up my forearm, caressing the inside of my elbow before running up my shoulder. His thumb strokes the hot skin of my neck, and then his gaze is back on mine.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, rough but soft. My heart pounds as he finds my throat with his mouth. “I’ll be careful with you.”

This is a bad idea. It’s all I can think, but the words stick in my throat as his mouth moves softly, gently, warmly over my jaw.

“Give me a few weeks.” Hot breath tingles over my throat. “Three.”

I’m panting now. I feel his thumb over my nipple, making it harden through my bra.

“Why?” I rasp.

“Because I need you.” His tongue traces my ear. “I’ve got you in me, Cleo. Now I need to get you out.”

He squeezes my breast, and I feel a burst of warmth between my legs. “That’s what I’m scared of.”

“What?” He nibbles my earlobe.