PLEASE CHOOSE ONE EXCERPT
PER DAY!
Excerpt #1
He looks down at me, and his face is so stern, so
solemn…so hungry that I almost flee right then.
Instead, I ride it out. I tell myself I can handle
whatever happens, and I stand my ground as he turns the knob and pushes it
open.
His eyes cling to my face as he waves me inside first.
I step inside expecting something grand. Elaborate. Even
magical. And that’s exactly what I find.
The wall in front of me is nothing but a sheet of glass,
giving me a stunning view of the tops of pines, and the river rushing over
rocks below them. Above the treetops, the pale sky stretches on and on, marred
only by another crow or hawk or raven.
I could get lost in that view, but I don’t let myself. I
roll my gaze around the room, taking in its deep plum walls, high ceilings.
There’s even a fancy indention at the center of the ceiling, something that
looks right out of a home and garden magazine. And to my left is the bed. A
huge, imposing, mahogany canopy with a pale green duvet and curtains that drop
down around it.
A bed for sex.
My hunch is confirmed when I notice, amongst the heavy
dresser and wide desk, a claw-footed tub in one corner of the bedroom.
I’ve got my mouth half open, trying to decide if I should
just be me and blurt out “sex cave,” or continue with my act and feign charm.
I turn around to him, belatedly realizing I should be
making sure he doesn’t shut and lock the door. I find his eyes on me, but when
my gaze meets his, he breaks away and walks over to the window.
“This used to be my room,” he says without turning around
to look at me.
“Until?”
“I gave it up for trainees.”
“That sounds
kinky.” It’s unplanned; I just murmur it.
He turns to me, his eyes hardened, his mouth gone
sensuously soft. “You think so, Miss Whatley?”
I nod, and he walks over to me.
His hands close around my wrists. He looks into my eyes,
like he’s desperate to see what I’m thinking. He brings one of my hands to his
mouth. The soft brush of his lips on my palm makes me tingle, but it doesn’t
matter. I’m going through with my plan regardless of how attracted I am to him.
“Can you see yourself staying here?” he asks, in that low,
deep, sexy voice of his.
“I don’t know.” I try to sound weak; uncertain. “I think
I’d miss my friends at the Tri Gam house.”
“I could make you forget about them while you’re here.”
IS KELLAN WALSH
PROPOSITIONING ME?
“How could you do that?”
He steps a little closer to me, sending my pulse racing.
His wide chest is inches from my breasts. I find myself longing to step
forward.
Instead, he does.
My breasts mash against his chest as our hips brush. Half
a heartbeat later, I feel his dick pressing against my lower belly.
Oh my God.
His hands come up and frame my face. His eyes, on mine,
are hypnotic.
“I’m not going to lie to you. I want your body, Cleopatra.
I’d like nothing more than for you to stay here with me. I’ll teach you to
deal—teach you how to avoid getting caught, how to maximize your, our earnings—and we can see if this goes
anywhere.”
“That’s why you brought me up here?” I whisper.
He nods slowly.
Excerpt #2
They say willpower
is finite, and tonight, I’ve used up all of mine. Not going after Cleo and
giving her the whipping that she earned. Not calling one of the girls on my
list of dirty fucks.
I pull up the text feature first, but I know as soon as I
see it that I’m not going to text Cleo.
I need to hear her voice.
I punch her number in and sit at the top of the front
staircase, looking down on the foyer: a dark cavern, sparkled and polished—all
for naught. No one who comes here cares about those sorts of things.
No one but me.
I like order.
Cleo lets it ring so many times, I’m surprised when the
ringing gives way to silence. A little rush jolts through my body when I
realize she’s breathing into the phone.
“Cleo.”
It takes her a moment to answer, and when she does, she
sounds young and fragile. “It’s me.”
I curl my fingers around the phone, remembering the sweet
scent of her pussy. My dick hardens, and as it does, my balls draw up and ache.
I ignore the pain and focus on the pleasure. My hand drifts down and wraps
around the thick head of my dick. I tug and grin, imagining how I’m going to
discipline Miss Whatley when I get another chance.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” I ask.
I know she’s got something to say to me. Otherwise she
wouldn’t have answered my phone call. I wait a minute or so, stroking my dick
through the opening of my robe.
Finally she says, “What do you have to say for yourself? You made me feel cornered and
scared. It’s not my fault your balls had to pay the price.”
I laugh—a low hoot, surprising myself. “Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I don’t like you, Kellan Walsh. I
don’t want to talk to you again.”
“Tell me—how does your pussy feel? My cock is wounded. Even
now, as it salutes her, it feels…misunderstood. Discarded.”
“Are you really trying to sexy talk me after what happened
today?”
“No trying to. I am. Don’t tell me you don’t like it.”
“Is that a threat?” Her voice is high, like she really
thinks it might be.
“Cleo. Cleo, Cleo… We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, I’m
afraid. If you think I would hurt you, I’m forced to wonder if you’re
fanaticizing. I’d never hurt a woman who didn’t beg for it.
Excerpt #3
I feel his arm weave underneath my shawl, the weight of
his wide palm as his hand spreads over my thigh. His fingers burn through the
cotton of my leggings, then drift to the crease between my legs.
I grip his shoulder. “Kellan…”
I clench my teeth as he settles his fingertips on me,
tracing my most intimate curves as if he’s learning braille.
His mouth strokes toward the collar of my shirt.
I grip the solid muscle of his shoulder. “I can’t.”
His thumb strokes the line of my lips. His fingers part
them; he’s working his way inside, teasing against the fabric of my leggings.
With the hand still between my legs, he wraps his other
arm around me and he pulls me onto his lap. The arm that’s not across my belly,
reaching down between my legs, is holding onto my waist. He shifts his hips,
spreading his legs, and tightens the arm around my chest, holding me against
him as his hard length presses against my backside.
The cotton of my leggings is wet and pliant. The pressure
of his fingers is just right, making me want to lift my hips, making me bite
back screams.
“Kellan…I can’t—”
“Tell me ‘no,’ Cleo.”
He rocks himself against my backside, peeling down the
waist of my leggings so he can reach inside. His palm brushes my mound. His
fingers find their mark. He parts and strokes once, down toward my center. His
finger smears my slickness, and I start to quiver.
“It’s okay…” he rumbles. “Focus on my fingers.”
I remind myself to think on his words later: whether it
would ever be possible to relax around him. Then I’m trembling again. Lost.
He rolls his fingers through my moisture, spreads my lips,
and glides down me, skating…skating. Then he’s dipping down and curving. His
fingertip is pushing into me. He adds another, shoves them deep.
I groan and buck against him.
“That’s right.”
He shifts his hips, so his huge cock pushes harder against
my backside.
“Cleo… You’re so warm inside…so tight.” His fingers
wriggle deeper. I let my legs fall open. I can’t help it. Every muscle in my
body trembles as his lips caress my ear.
With his fingers pushed deep into me, he glides his thumb
over my clit.
I can feel the outline of him pressed against my ass: the
long, thick shaft; the plump, round head.
I can feel his fingers curl inside me.
“Ahhhhh.” I don’t mean to make a sound, but there it is. A
moan spills out, turning the air around us into honey.
“You like getting finger-fucked,” he growls. “You love
it.”
His thumb glides up and down my slit, then rolls around my
swollen clit. I rock my hips, taking his fingers deeper into me; pushing my ass
back against his hardness.
“What if I rub a little faster here?” His thumb drags,
heavy and slick, over my swollen nub. “What if I quit teasing you,” his low
voice whispers, “and try something like this?”
He bends his wrist a little, and I can feel another finger
stretch me. “You’re so full…” He pushes slowly in. “Your pussy’s stuffed.”
“Oh...”
“I can feel how tight you are,” he whispers in my ear.
“How much I’m stretching you.”
He’s right. I’m full. So
full. I feel both paralyzed and shocked. Like I’m gripping a live wire.
“Kellan!”
His thick fingers have begun to pump: shoving in, then
dragging slowly out.
I arch my back. “Oh Jesus. Please…”
His thumb, encircling my clit, is deft and slick. I rock
mindlessly against him.
“So full…”
He pulls his fingers almost out, the tips of them only
just inside…teasing. I clench, wanting him deeper.
“Say my name,” he orders.
“Kellan,” I pant.
All three fingers thrust at once. My pleasure squirts
against his expert hand.
“Deeper.” My voice cracks.
He slides out a little. Strokes back in.
His thumb is playing in my moisture, painting my clit. My
throbbing clit.
His fingers stroke against my walls, making me dizzy.
“You want my cock inside you. You can’t take much more.
You’re so tight, Cleo. So greedy. When I stroke over your clit, I can feel how
slick and swollen you are. Your cunt is so tight around my fingers, I can
barely move them.”
As if to demonstrate, his fingers surge and writhe.
I groan and arch my back. I’m gripping his arms. Wrapping
my feet around his calves. I throw my head back, panting.
Excerpt #4
Money isn’t everything, of course, but it’s a lot. If
you’ve never been poor, you wouldn’t understand. When you have no means, you
have no choices. Even something as simple as choosing the scented Secret
deodorant at the grocery store was revolutionary for me when I first started
dealing. Being able to grab a snack I want at a gas station, or buy one
notebook for each of my school subjects, rather than a five-subject spiral
notebook that would have to work for all my classes.
You know how they say ‘it’s the little things’? It so is. Like eating cheese. Not the
boring, WIC-approved kind, but the good stuff: asiago, halloumi, havarti. When
you have one pair of shoes, and it rains, guess what? They start to stink,
because you have to wear them the next day, and the next day, and the next.
Call me petty, but I don’t like stinky shoes.
I like crackers. Do you know how expensive a box of
Cheese-Its is? Plus or minus four dollars. What about jeans? I like jeans that
fit my curves in all the right ways; not the cheap ones. I like painting on
canvases that don’t come from the discard pile behind Michael’s. Almost all my
art from high school and my freshman year is done on ripped canvas.
I don’t want to be second-rate.
I don’t want to always be reaching.
I don’t want to be a cashier, or a gas station clerk, or a
mill worker.
I’m so close to all my goals, I can’t give up now. Even if
I have to spend a couple weeks at Kellan Walsh’s illicit river mansion,
sticking my ass into the air for him.
It’s not as if I mind that,
I remind myself. Sharing my body with him can be done without too much
heartache, I think, if I can only manage to remember the limitations of our
arrangement.
A strand of hair falls into my eyes, and I swipe it off my
face. In doing so, I get a glimpse of Kellan, striding a half foot in front of
me. He’s got my backpack slung over one muscled shoulder and my overnight bag
hanging from the other. I notice, as I pull ahead to walk beside him, he’s
still holding the sack.
“What’s in there?” I ask. My stomach rumbles at the sight
of the grease stains on the paper bag.
He looks down at his hand, as if he’s only just remembered
he’s carrying it. He gives me a small, lopsided smile—a smile that feels
distracted, as if he’s only peeking out at me from wherever he is inside his
head. He says, “You’ll see.”
He holds his free hand out, and I stare down at his
forearm. The skin on the inside of his arm is smooth and pale, softness
stretched over taut, rippling muscle. He’s so beautiful and well-hewn, he
reminds me of the male gymnasts I used to watch in the Olympics.
I glance up at his eyes. They’re steely and blue, the
color of the ocean. He raises his brows disapprovingly, urging me with just
that look to take his hand, and me being me, I fold after only a moment.
“Skittish,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“You’re skittish. Like a deer.”
With a tug of my hand, he steers me to the right, toward a
wall of bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling.
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a deer. I’m a sloth.
It’s my longstanding nick name, from back in middle school, and it’s evidenced
by my favorite little necklace—now tucked safely into my bookbag—but I get the
feeling he’d give me grief for it. Instead I say, “I’m not skittish. I’m
suspicious.”
“Don’t be,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”
Add to your TBR at: http://bit.ly/1zY4hae
RELEASE DATE: February 25, 2015
I whirl around, because I need to go now.
Need to run.
He grabs my arms, snatching me around to
face him, holding me in front of him. Holding me still as he tries to tell me
things I never want to hear.
"Stop
it! Shut up! Shut up, Kellan! Fuck you!" He pulls me closer, and I slap his face.
The sound echoes through the foyer. His
smooth, tanned check stains brilliant crimson.
He doesn't move a muscle. Doesn't even
blink as I look at him for what I know will be the last time.
I'm sorry. His lips move silently. I
don't care. I can't. His secrets ruined my life. He ruined my life!
If I live to be hundred, my heart will
never be the same.
Note: Sloth is the
first in my new Sinful Secrets
series. Each intense, erotic story is inspired by a sin, and centered around a
life-altering secret. Each "sin" stands on its own, so they don't
have to be read in order. After Sloth,
I'm writing Murder. Between these
two, I'm releasing a stand alone: a more traditional romance called The Boy
Next Door.
About the Author:
Ella James
Ella James is a USA Today bestselling romance author. Her
books have appeared on numerous bestseller lists, including the Movers &
Shakers list and the Amazon Top 25 overall; two were listed among Amazon's Top
100 Bestselling Young Adult Ebooks in 2012. To find out more about Ella's projects and get
dates on upcoming releases, you can stalk her on the following social media
sites:
THANK
YOU!
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