Sloth (Sinful Secrets #1) (52 page)

I BLINK, AND CLEO DRAGS
a warm cloth over my calves, and... it does feel good. I clench my fist, because I want to touch her.

Someone knocks, and Cleo leaves. Fuck. The water dries cool on my skin. My dick stirs.

She comes back into my plane of vision with an armful of... clothes. From the laundry. “I bought some things before I left Atlanta, then I ordered some other stuff from a 24-hour delivery service.” She’s smiling. I think I should smile, but I’m too tired.

She sets the clothes beside me and strokes my knee. It’s too much. I scurry off the bed before I realize that’s crazy. Then I look around, searching out an excuse for it. But I can’t think straight. I turn back toward the bed and right my IV lines.

Damnit...

She acts like she doesn’t notice I just freaked out. She lays a pair of boxer-briefs and long, dark gray pants over the bed’s rail. I manage the underwear, but my hips hurt. I feel my heartbeat in the bones. My hands can’t seem to hold onto the pants.

I get back on the bed and turn away from her. I cover my face with my arm.

“I can help you get your pants on,” she says in a voice that sounds like sunny clouds. “You helped me out of mine so many times, it’s only fair, right?”

“I don’t need them,” I rasp.

“Okay then. No pants. I’m going to untie this robe if that’s okay. Get your chest bare. If you don’t mind?”

I grunt, because that towel’s on my thigh—and I can feel my dick throb, somewhere...

She washes my hips and belly, gently. I can’t feel myself like normal, but I can pay attention to the rhythm of her movement. And it’s slow. I’m not embarrassed. I would be—if not for this.

My balls... They feel... full. I’m surprised to find I want to touch them.

I want her to touch them.

Can I ask her? Would she jack me off like this? Or is it too fucked up?

She drags the towel over my sore ribs. It feels nice.

Last time I was here, I tried so hard to forget my body. To pretend it wasn’t really there, and neither was the pain. But this... it’s good. Tears brim in my eyes as my dick stiffens. I love her. I just want to be inside her.

I would ask... I just... can’t.

She’s beside me now, leaned over me. She’s close to... fuck. The line. She can see my central line up close. It’s called a line, but it’s a tube. A little tube that goes into my chest.

She won’t want to touch me anymore. My dick forgets its gladness. I try to be still.

Cleo... steady. Soft. The cloth goes up my arms, my neck, my face. I want to cry. I want to ask her why she’s doing this. There’s... my robe off me. A towel. Then my hair is wet. She’s stroking... I can hear the bubbles by my ears. So nice and cool.

She tucks a towel around my hair, and I look up into her eyes.

Her gaze softens against mine. “Am I doing okay?”

She strokes my forehead.

I inhale slowly through my nose. “Why... are you still here?”

She sits down by me, takes my hand. “Because you’re here.”

“The water was cold.” Did I say that out loud?

Cleo’s breasts press against her shirt. She’s talking. Emory. Her hand is on my shoulder. The hurt one. I don’t know why... I feel my balls draw up.

Dilaudid. God... I’m fucking glowing. My dick’s hard. I need to fuck her. She’s talking... about papers. Signing papers.

She asks, “Is that okay?”

A nurse comes in. I think I get more Dilaudid, because Cleo goes away. I grab my dick. An anchor. It’s the only thing I feel. My hand or her hands... ?

His face is somber and his eyes are shut. I don’t think he’s touching himself the way I think he—oh. The blanket slips off him and I can see his hand definitely stroking his cock.

It sends a bolt of lightning through me.

I watch his chest move up and down. The motion makes his face go tighter, even as he pumps his long, thick shaft. My hands yearn to join in his rebellion. Would he like that? Would he like my help? It might just be a comfort thing. Something he can do to distract from the pain.

The more I watch his fingers curve around his cock, the more I see the strength of his hand moving in its practiced rhythm, the more I watch him pump his perfect cock—the more I understand why he needs this right now.

Heat begins to rise in my chest, gathering in a thick sting. I’m breathing deeply too, but he has no idea. I’m not sure he even knows I’m here. I watch his hand, the thickness of his shaft, the smoothness of that skin. His breaths come longer, louder and his balls draw up. And I can only stand here, feeling need unfurl between my legs.

Can I touch him? He would want it. I think he would.

I climb onto the bed. I trail my hand up his calf, then up his firm, hair-dusted thigh, so he can feel me coming. I hold my breath and stroke his balls. His hips jerk. He moans as I cover his hand with mine.

His eyelids lift. His eyes are glossy, but instead of vacancy, all I see are seas of need.

“Can I... ?” Shit. I can’t even say it.

“Please. I wanna feel... your hand.” His eyes slip shut. I feel his thighs tense as my hand replaces his hand on his cock. I tighten my grip. I try to keep his rhythm.

“Oh God, Kellan.” His legs spread out. His ass lifts off the bed.

I move up and down his thick shaft, pumping his base and gliding all the way up to his swollen head, where I find a bead of slick pre-cum. Kellan’s breaths are hoarse and shallow.

“It feels good?” I whisper.

He groans. I see the mottled bruising underneath his jaw as his head tips back, his blond hair pressed into the pillow.

“Good,” he moans. “It’s good.”

I bring my other hand under the blanket tossed over his thighs, cupping his warm balls. I knead them as I pump him hard and fast, with steady, knowing strokes. He groans. My hand slows, tugging his thick shaft toward me.

“Faster. Pull... harder.” He reaches down toward me, his fingers spread. He banks his hand over his lower abs. The fingers quiver, but he doesn’t touch me.

I pick up the pace again. His cock is swollen, huge and hard and hot. He lifts his hips and groans, a ragged, mindless sound. I cup my palm around his head. He’s slick there. I trace the rim of him with delicate precision.

“Squeeze,” he growls. “My balls. Squeeze hard.”

He thrusts his hips. “Harder,” he begs. “Please... fuck, Cleo.”

With one hand wrapped around his sac, I take his cock between the base of my thumb and the inside of forefinger. Then I jack his rigid shaft. Up and down. I pump as my hand fists his balls with measured force.

He writhes. “Cleo—fuck... oh fucking shit.” The words are low and hard. He thrusts his hips. “Oh God...”

I want to take him further. Take him away. I struggle with my idea for a moment, then decide to take a risk. I lean under the blanket and lick up and down his thigh, my hand still holding his firm sac, my fingers grasping the base of his cock.

I pick up the pumping on his dick and guide one swollen testicle into my mouth. Good move. His hoarse voice fills my ears. “Oh fuck... Cleo... Ohhhh... I’m gonna blow... inside your mouth...”

Kellan groans. His legs tremble. I leave him like that, panting. I race over to my bag and grab a flavored condom I bought for this purpose.

I can’t suck him bare; one of the rules. He twists his hips, moaning, as I roll the condom on.

“Oh fuck... God. Cleo... please...”

I roll the condom down to his thick base and he thrusts against my jaw. I open up. He slams into my mouth, his hand grabbing my hair. I take him deeper than I ever have and roll his balls and lick the underside of him.

He bucks. “Ah—my
hips
.” My heart hammers. Is he in pain? “That motherfucking mouth... motherfuck...” I squeeze his balls again, and suck his head. I twirl my tongue around him. His thighs grip my body.

“Squeeze my dick. Right now, squeeze hard.” He’s panting. “Harder. Press... down under. The underside... press... aaaah... ahhhh.”

When my fingers press down underneath his cock, he moans and twists his hips. “Pull... on my balls. Harder...”

When I’m squeezing his sac so hard it has to hurt, his hand comes over mine, working from his head down to the base of him, smoothing like he’s trying to keep his load inside. He growls. “Suck... me. My cock... in your mouth. Right... now.”

I start to worry someone will come in—but I don’t have much choice. He’s got me by the hair. I feel his balls tighten, but then he stops me, urging me to rub my fingers down the underside of his cock and squeeze his balls again.

Each time he makes me do this, he seems lifted further from here. My mouth and hands make him forget the world and finally, the third time I drag my thumb along the underside of his cock, I realize: I’m prolonging this.

I do it one more time—until his monitors have started beeping and my heart is pounding hard, and then instead of stopping me, he plants his palms on each side of my head and fucks my mouth like it’s a sport.

He comes with a sharp cry, his cock twitching hard before his cum fills the condom. By the time I pull it off, his eyes are closed.

I cover him back up and rush into the bathroom to take care of myself. As soon as I see the blue tiles and the rail by the toilet, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it... but I sit inside the shower, stuff two fingers inside myself, and focus on the memory of Kellan’s hand around his cock.

“IF ALL ELSE PERISHED,
and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn into a mighty stranger.”

–Catherine, from
Wuthering Heights
, by Emily Bronte

I’ve taken to dramatic quotes. So sue me. When I placed an order at that 24-hour random shit delivery service, I came across an origami kit, and of course, I had to have it. I remember mentioning an origami sparrow in one of my first letters to R.

R.

Kellan.

I still can’t wrap my head around it. Kellan Walsh—Drake, it legally is—is R. And he has cancer. My sweet, dirty lover, with the .gif body and non-stop boner, has cancer. Not only that, he has relapsed AML that he was just... ignoring. What the actual fuck?

I want to ask about it. When it’s dark and quiet in the room and he’s curled on his side with IVs running to his chest, and I’m folded behind him with my cheek pressed against his back, I want to whisper, “Tell me why.” I need a reason.

He overdosed this summer, tried to take his own life before the relapse could. God knows I can’t judge. I haven’t been there. But I need to understand. I just need to hear about it from his mouth. Because I love him. I love him. And I want him to live.

Unfortunately, I haven’t asked about it. Because he isn’t talking.

I fold the slip of paper with my quote on it into a sparrow and then thread string through one of the wings. I wrap the other end of the string around a piece of that special double-sided tape stuff, which pops off when you tug it for removal.

As I stand in a desk chair to press it to the ceiling, I look over at him, lying in the bed. I can tell he’s awake because the gray box on the bed side table—the one with the red numbers showing his pulse and blood oxygen saturation—shows a pulse too high for him to be asleep.