Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

I catch another low, pissed off voice, and possibly an “idiot” from Pace’s mouth. Then Kellan leans closer, with his hand on Pace’s shoulder. I think they might be making nice when Kellan hauls his arm back and smashes the shorter man in the jaw.

Truman barks—a low, intimidating sound that has me shrinking against the cracked door before I realize his tail is still thumping against the back seat. I put my hand on the doorknob, clutching it as Pace shouts something.

He covers his face with one hand, and Kellan laughs—a bitter sound.

Pace says something loud and forceful. I see blood drip from his nose. Kellan shoves his shoulder, and he holds his hands out. I can’t hear his words, but they are loud and they sound pissed off.

Shit, did someone sell him out? My pulse is so frantic, I can barely breathe.

I slide into the driver’s seat and crack that window too.

“It’s up to me. Not Robert—ME,” he says, as Pace puts pressure on his bleeding nose. “You need to remember that shit.”

Something else is said. Pace looks sad. Kellan seethes. Pace opens his mouth, and Kellan seems to take that as his cue to go.

He stalks back toward the car, his hands in fists, his long strides closing the distance between us quickly. He’s within spitting range when Pace says something else. Kellan whirls around, stalks over to him, and slaps his shoulder.

“Fuck you then,” I hear him say. He sounds resigned.

Seconds later, he is at the driver’s door. When he sees me there, he walks around and gets into the passenger’s seat.

“Drive,” he snaps.

I do.

I’M SO FURIOUS I CAN’T SPEAK. I can barely breathe as Cleo drives us back toward my house. I train my gaze on the night outside the windshield. Pace’s words ping pong around my mind, and every echo brings on new fury. The rage I feel is thick enough to fill my chest, until I’m numb and heavy, curled around a fire deep in my gut.

After parking the car, Cleo shepherds Truman toward the porch, steers me up the stairs with her hand on my lower back, and uses my key to open the front door.

I feel ill as we walk toward the kitchen. All because of Pace—and Manning. Fucking Pace betrayed me. Fucking Manning. Clueless bastard. They took this shit I’ve been pushing out to sea and brought it crashing through me, crashing through my house. I can’t be here. I stop before I reach the living room and look down the hall, at the front door. I could go. A part of me just wants to go.

Cleo’s hand around my forearm brings me back. “Come on in here,” her soft voice says. “Your hand is scraped. I can clean it up for you.”

She leads me to the couch and I sit down, my eyes cast to my boots. I can’t look at the TV. I don’t want to see the sunset post cards on the end table. Even the sight of my own legs makes my throat tighten in impotent fury, but I can’t escape myself. Not yet, anyway.

Cleo disappears. I feel a pang. When she returns, she’s got my first aid kit. I don’t move as she cleans my knuckles, smooths a Band-Aid over one of them. I rest my head against the back of the couch and let sleep tug at me.

I could go to sleep.

I can’t go to sleep.

On every level possible, I have to rage against that bullshit Pace threw at me. I’m tired but I have to fight. I’m living on my own damn terms—but when I feel this desperate, I know of nothing that will help except to be between a woman’s legs.

I fuck Cleo on the rug. I make a cage of my arms, my palms pressed to the rug on each side of her shoulders. With her hands unbound for once, she strokes me, her warm hands tracing up and down my hips, then up a little higher, where she cups my pecs and teases my nipples.

I hold nothing back. Three years ago, with Gillian, I fucked without a single rule, but even that was nothing like this time with Cleo. Every time I plunge inside her warm body, a ragged groan tears from my throat. Every time she sighs or gasps, I curl down closer over her, until I’m propped up on my elbows and my hands are holding her cheeks.

My mouth devours hers—punishing, then worshipping, teasing, raging, needing. I’ve never tasted anything like Cleo’s breath as she moans between my lips. I come hard—so hard I nearly pass the fuck out with her ankles wrapped around my calves and her arms tucked over my shoulders. I fuck Cleo like a lover, and when I’m finished, I don’t even have the wherewithal to clean her up.

Her soft hands urge me onto the couch, and then my head is in her lap. Her fingers in my hair. I’m lying on my back between her soft thighs. Cleo curls them around my waist, and I feel... safe. So safe and so, so tired.

The demons in my mind are far away, and there is only her sweet voice, singing a song I’ve never heard...

We’re playing checkers. The pieces are big, and they’re all black. Lyon’s hair is black, too. At least I think it’s his hair.

I try to tickle him, under his ribs, so I can see him grin, but Lyon steps away. His face is solemn—more like mine.

“I didn’t think I’d go before you,” he says