Sinful Secrets Box Set: Sloth, Murder, Covet

by James, Ella

  “I’d like to try on top…if that’s all right. Only for a moment, just to feel it.”

  I laugh—a sound of shock—and then she’s crouching over me. With her eyes on mine and her mouth a little unsteady with nervousness, she presses me against herself and slowly sinks down.

  Holy fuckshit…

  I’m engulfed in heat. Her pussy squeezes me. She’s so damn tight, I nearly blow right then. She rocks slowly forward, kissing my chin before I can’t take it another second; I lift her by the hips and thrust up into her as I lower her back down.

  I’m breathing hard and heavy as she finds her rhythm. Then I’m getting fucking. I’m grunting and groaning, still fuzzy from her potion, and so damn stiff and hot and hard…even my balls are hard.

  “Finley. God. Fuck.” I feel it coming, and it’s like a dream, this whole damn thing. She’s bouncing on me, her mouth open and her eyes closed tight as I come. I hear a guttural sound from my throat and I sort of laugh at that, but then my eyes are rolling back into my head. I hear her panting over me.

  “Did you come?” My head feels heavy, and my voice sounds rough.

  Her fingers stroke my chest. Her soft laugh sends light spinning through me. “Yes, of course.”

  I feel her moving off me, and I drag my eyelids open. I reach for her, and she takes my hand. Kisses the palm.

  “You’re…so good.” My throat is tight. The word cracks.

  “You’re better, Sailor.”

  * * *

  Finley

  I know how to pleasure him. I’m heady with it. If he feels the way I do…during, and just after… I would like to do that for him every day. And I plan to. It’s as if a switch flipped last night. I’m “all in” now. This is what I’m doing, and I want to do it well. I want to well and truly be with him before he goes. Today, as I pondered all of this between patients, I concluded it can be quite freeing, letting go. Falling with no though of safety nets.

  What do I have to lose? I laugh quietly. One might say I’m desperate. I’m willing to gamble with my soul—if that’s the price of following my heart. I realized after our moment at Vloeiende Trane: life is never going to be perfect. So I choose the next best thing. I’m choosing perfect for a time. I’m choosing bliss for all the moments we can find it. When the game is over, no regrets. Even though I know I’m going to lose.

  I clean myself up, sifting through my drawers and then his bag before deciding to tuck in beside him sans clothing. I climb carefully over his legs and curl up beside him, covering myself up to the shoulders. Then, gently, I rest my cheek on his bicep. In his sleep, he stretches his arm out. It feels like an invitation. I stare for a moment. Then I fit myself against his side, melding my curves against his angles. His hand curls around my shoulder before slackening as sleep reclaims him.

  I snuggle up against him, shut my eyes, and let myself disperse into the rhythm of our breathing. I follow his pulse, inhale his scent, and meditate a bit.

  I am here, and I am fine.

  I am here, and I am fine.

  I am here, and I am fine.

  I’m better than fine.

  What will happen? I push that errant thought aside and go on drifting.

  I mean to enjoy him. Nothing more and nothing less.

  About the time the light that’s seeping through the curtains darkens to a dusky indigo, his eyes flip open. They’re wide on the ceiling. Then they move to my face, and he startles.

  “It’s all right.” I stroke his forearm. “We were napping. You’re just waking up. It’s dusk.”

  He draws a deep breath. I can see the grief in his eyes.

  I whisper, “Are you feeling poorly?”

  His eyes close. “It’s…just like this sometimes.” His words are so quiet and low, I scarcely hear them.

  I lie back beside him, wrap an arm over his chest. He muscles tremble as he inhales deeply. Does he want me near him? I’m relieved when his arm wraps around my back. Pulled up against his chest, I hear his racing pulse.

  “It’s a bit like fight or flight, is it?”

  His cheek presses against my hair. I believe he nods, but can’t be certain.

  “Do you feel frightened?”

  He’s still for a long moment. Then he lifts his shoulders.

  “It makes sense,” I murmur. “Given what those drugs do—” the ones he’s withdrawn from— “it’s completely sensible.” I shift so I can hug him more tightly. “Does this help a bit?” I whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  But his breaths are fast and shallow. I shift more, so we’re on our sides, facing one another. His face is somber; his blue eyes are closed. His nostrils flare with every inhalation. I cup my hands around his full lips, trying for a paper bag effect.

  Instead, he kisses me between his gulping breaths. His arm loops around me. His hand delves into my hair, pressing our mouths gently together as his tongue strokes mine. Then we’re devouring each other.

  When we break away for air and he’s breathing more slowly, I stroke his face, look into his eyes for some clue how he’s feeling.

  “Better now.” The words are raspy.

  “Good.” I brush my lips over his temple. “Are you hungry?” I lean back so I can see his face. “Perhaps a bit of toast?”

  He nods once.

  When I return with cinnamon toast, I find he’s shifted onto his side, facing the door. He’s clutching his phone, and I can see his large hands trembling. When his gaze finds mine, his tired eyes look lost again.

  “Hi there, Sailor.”

  He tries to smile for me, but it’s a twitch of his lips. I stroke his hair, and he pushes up on one arm…then sits fully up, taking his plate. He won’t meet my eyes as I sit on the bed’s edge, eating my own piece.

  “Thank you,” he says after a moment.

  “I hope it’s decent.”

  “Yeah, it’s good.” Now his eyes are on me—watching me with care and all the usual perception. “You okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not too sore?” Now his voice is low and husky.

  “I’m deliciously sore.” I can’t help grinning. I expect him to return it. Instead he rubs a hand over his face, back through his hair, and does another sad not-smile that makes my stomach knot up.

  “If you need to go, I’m good,” he tells me.

  “Oh…I know. I don’t want to, in fact. Is that all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stretch out beside him, pressing my face to his thigh and hugging his legs.

  “My Declan.” I squeeze. “I forgot! I meant to make you tea. It’s tea time.”

  He gives a hollow laugh—a bit surprised, I think—as I flounce from the room, feeling a bit giddy. Everything will be well. All he needs is someone to be with him. That won’t solve all of his problems, but it should go quite far.

  When I return with the valerian/peppermint tea I made the lazy way, using the microwave, I find him crouching beside Baby on the bedroom rug. He’s rubbing her head as his eyes find mine. Such somber eyes. Yet when he stands, I feel him trying to play normal.

  “What’s this?” He smirks at the metal tea straw jutting from a mug I made.

  “Valerian tea with a bit of mint. I prefer it loose leaf.”

  His lips curve a little as he reaches for the mug, despite his shaking fingers. “What will it do for me?” He quirks one brow.

  “It will make you grow a horn—of the unicorn variety.” He draws the mug to his chest, and I smile. “It should sort you out a bit,” I tell him softly. “Valerian, if you note the name, works a wee bit like the other.”

  I don’t want to say Valium, lest it trigger something for him.

  Understanding passes over his face, and his blue eyes flare a bit in reaction. “Thank you.”

  “Have you ever used a tea straw?”

  He shakes his head, and I lean up to kiss his dimple. “Want to come into the den with me?”

  While I was steeping the tea, he pulled on a pair of soft-looki
ng plaid pants and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. He looks a bit better just now, I think. A bit tired-eyed and still a bit pale, but less pained, I believe.

  He follows me into the den, where I sift through the drawer in a small table by the front door, fishing out a faded Little Mermaid valentine. I think of his shaking hands and unfold it for him, holding it open so he can read.

  To Prince Declan

  from Finley. the princess

  The corners of his lips twitch as he reads it. His eyes move to my face.

  “I wrote it the year after. When I was eight. Don’t know why it survived these years, but I found it somewhat recently near the back of a cabinet.”

  He takes it from me, peering down at it. When he looks back up, his eyes are clearer. “I thought about you, too. Used to ask my dad about you.”

  “What would you ask?”

  He shakes his head, as if to say he’s not quite sure. “If you were okay.”

  “You remembered me.”

  He nods. His eyes dip to his feet then rise to meet mine. “Saw you as they brought you in. Down at the docks.”

  He told me that before, up on the peak as we looked at the dolphins. But I didn’t ask about it then.

  “What was it like?”

  He takes a sip of his tea, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “This is good.”

  “You can tell me,” I murmur.

  His lips press flat, revealing dimples. “I remember mostly…this is weird,” he murmurs, “but I remember your eyes. They were dazed…but kind of lit up. There was this…just something there. Kind of like an energy in them. Almost this magic. Everybody else was at the dock, but you were somewhere else.” He swallows. “I had never seen a person look like that. So I remembered.” His lips press flat again, and his hand goes into his hair as he shifts his weight.

  “Later…years later, I realized that’s how people look when they’re going crazy with pain. But you were stoic, Siren.” His lips press together again. He looks back down at his feet and then back at my eyes, and I can see it bothers him to talk to me about it. “You seemed dignified…even though you were so tiny. I remembered that a long time.”

  My eyes well. I blink quickly. “Come outside with me? I want to show you something else.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Declan

  She teaches me to throw clay. I’m too tall to sit with my knees under her wheel, so I kneel beside it, my knees on the cold stone of the patio, with Finley leaning over and around me. Her hands shadow mine, teaching me to flare the vase’s bottom, run my thumbs along the rim.

  For the longest time, my fingers shake. When it’s really bad, I use the base of my palms, and that works. Other times, the focus I’m exerting seems to keep my hands steady.

  Finley’s soft breasts press against my back, her soft arm tickling mine. When she’s in front of me, just watching, she smiles like she’s happy. She likes teaching me. And at the end, we have a vase. An actual vase.

  She holds it up like Simba from The Lion King. “We’ll put it away in this Tupperware for a bit—” she gestures to a tub that’s pushed against the house’s wall— “so it will dry evenly despite the wind. Afterward, you can paint it and we’ll set it in the kiln.”

  I’m squinting as she talks, and I picture the bowls and plates in the kitchen. “Wait…those plates inside?”

  Her cheeks redden as her mouth curves—a little bit mysterious, just like a siren.

  “Damn.” I arch my brows. “You’re really good.”

  She shrugs and does a girly spin thing, sort of like a pirouette. She looks happy and…I think that’s maybe bashful?

  I step over to the rubber trash can where she keeps her clay. There’s a foot or so gone off the top of the pile, cleaved away with something circular.

  “You used up all that so far?”

  She nods, and I run a fingertip over a ridge in the clay. “Those lines are your fingers.” I smile.

  “Yes,” she murmurs. “Their imprint.”

  “Did you do the mugs, too?” I get mine up off a table by the wheel, running my finger over its teal-with-gold-flecks sheen.

  She smiles shyly, and I cup her chin in my hand.

  “What?” she whispers. She’s smiling, but she looks embarrassed.

  “You’re an artist, Siren.”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Come here.” I catch her hand in mine and lead her back into the house. As I’m walking toward the kitchen, I notice how good my body feels. Like…this sort of calm. I can breathe easier. I squeeze her hand. “That tea.”

  “Yes? Did it make you feel nice?”

  “It did.”

  In the kitchen, I take out the plates and set them on the table. Some have mermaids, some have fish, one has a whale, another dolphins, one a boat. The style reminds me of an oil painting, with chunky brushstrokes and bold colors she blends so they look a little magical. It’s a testament to how terrible I’ve felt since I got here that I didn’t wonder before about who made these.

  “You know you could sell these, easy.”

  “I do…sell some of my work. But no one orders much from the island’s web site. Perhaps twice a month, though less often recently because I haven’t posted new work for a bit.”

  I run a finger over one of the mermaids’ tails. It’s so realistic, I expect the plate to be grooved atop the fin. Instead it’s nice and smooth, her painting just tricking my eye. “I can help you get a site up. Your own website. I bet you could bring in some good money.”

  She smiles softly, and I realize what I’m saying. I shake my head, then step close enough to grab her hands. I swing her arms a little, just because I like to touch her. “What do you buy if you have some extra money, Siren?”

  She smirks. “Money’s nearly always extra. But…I buy paints. Clothing on occasion. Sometimes pens. The lovely sort of pens.”

  I pull her close and kiss her. “You like pens?”

  She shivers, and that makes me chuckle. I run a fingertip over her earlobe, and she does it again.

  “Fuck…” I walk her slowly back against the counter.

  “What a horrid, dirty mouth,” she murmurs.

  When she kisses my neck, I rub my dick against her hip and kiss her lips until she’s panting. I nip at her throat, and she does the little shiver thing a third time. My cock throbs. “Love when you do that.”

  Pretty soon, I’ve got my fingers in her pussy, and her legs are quaking as she tries to fuck my hand. I’m damn near ripping through my pants, so I carry her to the couch, strip her from the waist down, and lean down for a feast.

  Midway through, I trail a fingertip along her slit, and Siren moans.

  “How’s this pussy feeling?” I murmur.

  “So needy…”

  I stroke my thumb over her clit, and Finley arches off the couch.

  “What do you want?” My words are rumbled.

  “You.”

  I roll a condom over myself, rub my tip between her lips.

  “Oh heavens…”

  I grin as I press against her slick heat.

  “Oh yes…”

  “You want it?”

  “Please!”

  I smile down at her closed eyes and her open mouth. “You gotta tell me what you want before I give it to you.”

  “Your sex.” Her eyes peek open as she lifts her hips, so she’s rubbing against me. “Fill me with your sex, please, Sailor.”

  “So…what you’re really saying is you want to be fucked.” I’m just messing with her, kind of hoping she might blush the way she does, but Finley shuts her eyes and whispers, “Yes—that.”

  Holy hell.

  I fuck her till we lose our minds, and afterward, I put her clothes back on, perversely pleased to know she’s wet and likely sore in her lacy, pink panties.

  There’s a little table over by the front door—the one that held my valentine. Atop it, there’s a chess case. I lead her over to it, waggling my eyebrows as I hold the c
ase up.

  “Do you play?” she asks.

  “Do you?”

  “I’m a star.”

  That first time, I can’t help letting her win. Then she’s smug as fuck, tossing her hair around and all but finger-snapping in my face. I bring it on game two. When I’ve got her in checkmate, she shakes her head slowly, folds her arms under her breasts.

  “You’re like a card shark but with chess. Carnegie! I’ve been had.”

  I’m grinning like a fool. Mostly because her tits look great pushed up that way. She takes it as arrogance and tosses her queen at my chest. It bounces onto the floor. She’s laughing as she kneels to scoop it up. I let her set it on the table before scooping her up…setting her down by the door.

  “Put your shoes on, Siren. And your jacket.”

  * * *

  Finley

  “I should ask where we’re going.”

  “Are you going to?” He smiles over his shoulder as we follow the moonlit trail.

  “I don’t suppose so. There’s only so many places to go.”

  Declan laughs, a husky sound that I feel echoed through me. The white cloud of his breath stains the dark. His assessing gaze slides to me. “You’re not cold, are you?”

  I stuff my fists into the pockets of his jacket, a smooth, suede number which he said is insulated with wool. “Actually, a bit warm.”

  He links his arm through mine then fishes my hand out of my pocket, lacing our fingers together. I give his a squeeze. “Your large hand makes mine feel child-like.”

  He snorts, and I feign outrage when I understand the innuendo. I elbow him. “Scoundrel.”

  He gives a low laugh.

  I believe we’re going to the ponds, but I’m not certain. Also this way, north of the cottage, is Hidden Cove. He could have come upon that some time earlier, and now he’s taking me there with no thought to high tide. Silly interloper.

  In the end, we crest the hill before the valley that contains the ponds—three crater lakes off to the right—and Hidden Cove—part of the craggy cliffside on the left—and he looks toward the ponds.