Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

He traces a finger over my cheek. “What’s up with this?”

“With what?” I feign surprise.

“You’ve got these little red splotches—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I shove at him, but his arm tightens around me.

“It’s cute.”

“You think I’m cute?”

He rubs his face against my hair, but doesn’t answer. And I wonder why. Does he think I’m ugly? I’m not ugly. No one thinks so. I’m not a model, but I’m cute at least.

I lean my head down, forcing his cheek off my hair, and turn to him so I can stick my tongue out. “I am cute. Everybody thinks so.”

He pulls me back against the booth and presses his lips against my hair once more. “You are cute,” he murmurs. “And your hair smells like flowers.”

“I’m a fan of this gardenia-scented hair stuff.”

And that’s how dinner goes. Kellan leaves his arm around me until our pizza arrives. We both chow down on chicken pizza while we talk about a bunch of random things, like what was Sting thinking with the rhyming on the song “Walking on the Moon,” and why killers whales have their name, and whether the animals at Sea World should be taking antidepressants anyway. And when I think we’re leaving, Kellan orders cinnamon rolls.

While we wait for them, he slides his hand into my jeans, spreads a menu out in front of me, and rubs me off in the back booth of Mama McCalister’s.

AFTER I PROVE MY INABILITY to walk straight on my way out of the restaurant, Kellan scoops me up and carries me to his Escalade. He buckles me in, surprises me by leaning down to plant a quick kiss my nose, and shuts my door without a word. I’m still feeling all tingly and warm when he gets behind the wheel and gives me a long look.

“What?” I smile self-consciously—somewhat deliriously. This pizza outing has been kind of awesome.

He leans across the console between our seats, pressing his ribs against my arm rest to get close to me, and kisses my mouth so fast and hard it almost hurts. His hand wraps around my head, holding me upright as he devours my mouth.

His lips are soft but forceful, his tongue gliding against mine like hot velvet. I feel the firm warmth of his face on mine as we taste each other. I feel the puff of his breath on my cheeks and smell his cinnamon breath. Then he’s got his arms around me; he’s clutching my shoulders. He kisses my throat like a man starving. His hand runs down my ribs and lifts my shirt.

We’re both panting when he pulls his mouth off mine.

All that warmth, and all that weight—gone in one heartbeat. And, shit, I’m lonely for him. I want more.

“Fuck,” he pants. He throws the car in reverse, pulls out of the lot, and doesn’t look at me again until we’re out of the city, getting closer to his house.

“That was nice,” he says. “The dinner.” His voice is low, a little gruff.

I laugh, because honestly, I can’t seem to stop the random laughing when I’m near him. “Yeah, it was.”

“You like pecans?” he asks. The question is accompanied by an intense look that makes me laugh again.

“I love them.” I tell him about how I used to pick them up with this handy dandy pecan-picker-upper and sell them for three dollars a gallon when I was younger and we needed money. He has a hearty laugh at the picture I paint, and then he quickly sobers. “I’m sorry that you... had to do that.”

“Pssh. Don’t be sorry. You can bet your ass I value them a lot more now.”

“I want to make you something when we get home.”

Mr. Perfect surprises me again when we get to his kitchen—by tugging my pants down, lifting me onto the granite island, and eating my pussy while I lie on my back, my fingers twined tightly in his.

After that, he binds my wrists with the ties of a black Dr. Who apron, lays me on my belly on the living room rug, and slides inside me from behind. He fucks me long and slow, wrapping a strand of my wavy hair around one of his hands and tugging gently as he pushes in and out.

Unlike other times, where there’s usually a little dirty talk, he says almost nothing, except, once: “You’re beautiful...”

When we’re finished, he unties me and goes into the kitchen for a warm, damp towel. He helps me back into my pants—I remember he wanted to do this in the library that time—and then takes my hand and leads me to the bar stool where I had my breakfast.

He pours me a glass of water, plucks an uncut lemon from the refrigerator, and slices it into half-moon-shaped pieces, one of which he perches on the rim of my glass.