Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

She shakes her head and smacks her curvy hip. “My next class is intermediate tennis. My ass does so not need a yummy. But thanks anyway.”

“More for us.” Kellan winks. “See ya later.” He’s flawlessly cool as he grabs my bags, then presses his hand against my lower back and guides me toward the door.

The scent of the buttery croissant makes my mouth water as we step out of the room, back into the bookshelf forest. “Is that cinnamon?” I sigh. “Oh God, I can smell the butter. Gimme!”

He rips off a piece, and we both stop walking as his fingers bring it to my mouth. Taking it from him is surprisingly erotic. Sweat pops out all over my body, so I make a big show of falling sideways, almost into a bookshelf, to distract from my reaction.

“Swoon! Oh holy God, this is the best shit I’ve ever put into my mouth. Where did it come from?”

His lips curve, into a smile or smirk; I can’t tell which, but he’s handsome as hell, and I’m alarmed to find that I’m pleased the smile or smirk is all for me.

“You’ve never been to the Fifth Street Bakery?” he asks as we start moving toward the side door of the library.

“I’ve heard of it,” I say defensively.

We pass a long row of copy machines and printers, and now I know he’s smirking. His blue eyes seem to twinkle at me. “You don’t leave campus much, do you, Cleo?”

“I do sometimes.” I wave my booted foot. “For pedicures and stuff like that.”

His smirk turns into an amused little smile. Almost as soon as it plays across his lips, he presses them together, going serious in the span of half a second. His eyes are unreadable as he holds out his hand.

I feel lit up all over, like a light bulb. Despite the dynamic we started with—me, kicking him in the balls—now I’m writhing under his gaze. The last thing on earth I want is for him to know this, so I force myself to scoff as if he’s lost his mind. “I’m supposed to hold your hand again?”

“It is the hand that feeds you, Cleo.” Definitely a smirk this time.

“Pshhh. I can feed myself.”

I snatch the bag from him and open it, finding four more butter-coated croissants inside, plus the other half of the one I already sampled. I take that one and shove it in my mouth, then grin at him around the flaky bread.

Kellan pushes a finger in between my lips, shoving the rest of it into my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to laugh.

“Good look for you—the foie gras.” I open my eyes in time to see him smiling at me like we’re old friends. The moment I smile back, he rubs his lips together, making his frown-dimples show; shutting it down.

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s skittish.

I’M HYPER-AWARE OF HIS long strides as we move past the media center, toward a row of glass exit doors. He pushes one open, and I step into a little entryway corridor, lined with newspaper machines.

I toss my gaze back at him as I push the next door open, this one leading to the cement breezeway.

“Aren’t you supposed to let me get that for you?” he asks.

I hold the door for him and fall in step beside him as we walk down the breezeway, toward the parking deck. All around the cement walkway, flowers, trees, and bushes sway in a gentle breeze.

“It’s a shame that you’re both bad and from not the South,” I say. “I think if those two factors were removed, you could be a Southern gentleman.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Cleo, Cleo...” He grabs my hand and folds his fingers around mine. “What makes me so bad?”

I look him over, hair to low-top boots. “Um, everything? I mean, sure you look like a rule-following golden boy, but that’s clearly a ruse.”

He runs his free hand through his hair and laughs, maybe self-consciously. “I look like everyone else here.”

I shake my head as we walk into the gum-pocked stairwell that leads down into the deck. “That’s where you’re wrong. You dress like everyone else here, yeah. But unlike them you look perfect.”

Ugh. I want to swallow “perfect” back down as soon as the word somersaults from my mouth. My eyes fly to his face, waiting for him to laugh at me or tease me. I’m surprised, because he looks... wounded. His mouth is soft and uncertain, curved downward just slightly. His brows are drawn down low over his eyes, which look darker than usual in the shadow of the stairwell.

“Perfect?” The corner of his mouth tugs up a little, and I’m positive: My ‘perfect’ comment made him sad. What the hell? I take a deep breath, trying to guess at whys, and trying to keep things casual, so he doesn’t know I’m analyzing him.

“Yeah, Kell.” I tighten my grip on his hand a little. “You’re pretty. I assume that’s not news to you.”