Authors: Ella James
RED & WOLFE
An Erotic Fairy Tale
My first instinct is
. I’m arching my back, butting my head into the chest behind me, screaming my head off. Then my stunned synapses start to fire again, and my clawing hands freeze.
The arms around my shoulders belong to Race. Of course they do. He’s thrown a hood over my head, and now he has me locked against his chest.
Fear zips through me, followed by arousal.
It’s what he intended. Surely so.
It’s just a game.
A fucked up game.
I twist around, wanting to go at him. Wanting him to go at me. Because despite everything I know, I still want him.
I twist around, ready to shove him in the chest. Ready to snarl and bite and buck. Ready to fuck him like it’s the last time, because maybe it is.
My hands grab at his neck.
He shoves me forward. I’m already panting. Already wet. I wait there, bent over the bathroom floor, the skin of my hips tingling in anticipation of his hands jerking my gown up. I wait for his cock to shove inside me, stretching me out, stamping me his.
I’m bowed there, docile as a child, when something hard slams into the back of my head. Static fills my body. I feel the world careen around me, like I’ve been tossed back by a mighty ocean wave.
“Race?” I try to whisper.
But I’m already tugged into the tide.
Several hours earlier
It’s my college nickname. Skull and Bones. Some summer-after-junior-year beach fuck gave me mono, so by the time I made it to my senior year at Yale, in mid-September, all the storied, hand-me-down names were already taken. One of the older guys in charge, Charles Labombo, said I “missed the race,” and that was that.
No one knows the name but other Bonesmen, so Bob and I use it as a code. He gets something delivered to the island, he has them ask for Race. No one but Race.
I’m under the canopy of trees in front of my cabin, at an easel, working on another
Red on Rocks
while Red sleeps in, when I hear a motor humming on the east side of the island. Bob told me he’d have a non-disclosure agreement here by ten. It’s a little shy of nine, so I figure whatever legal weasel signed on for this must be hyper vigilant. Wouldn’t want to piss off a murderer, right?
After a brief hesitation, during which my paintbrush lingers over Red’s pussy, I decide not to keep him or her waiting at the dock till ten. But I’m not going to hurry, either.
I step inside, pull on a shirt, and walk softly to my bedroom, where the sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling seems to get brighter the nearer I get to Red. Pleasant details of the room jump out at me, for maybe the first time ever. I notice the reed basket I wove one particularly dull day shortly after I moved here. It’s well-shaped. Not bad to look at. The cedar box of paintbrushes on the table by the bed brings a lightness to my chest. A pressed tiger lily on the dresser seems to vibrate orange. I step slowly to the bedside and allow my eyes the prize of looking down on her.
She’s sleeping on her right side, both arms tucked around her. This sort of mobility is a pleasure I always denied my subs, but when I tied Red, I couldn’t imagine doing anything but making her comfortable. And indeed, she does look cozy curled up in my covers. One cheek is pressed against the pillow; the other one glows warm pink. Her brilliant copper hair spreads around her face, spilling over her pillow and onto mine.
“Stay here,” I murmur, although of course, she can’t get up with any ease. I have her tied to the bedposts—I have her
I peel the covers off her feet and check the binds. She’s got room to move around, but she can’t leave the bed—not without some trouble, anyway. The thought fills me with an obscene amount of satisfaction.
As I wash my arms up to the elbows in the bathroom sink, I drag a deep breath into my chest. I hold it there, energized by the almost sting.
I clean every smear of paint from my hands and arms. I trust Bob implicitly, and I know he’s sent an attorney with a record of impeccable discretion. The person will know James Wolfe is “W.”—there’s no way around that—but I don’t want him seeing paint on me. The painting is mine. What’s mine is private, because anything I value, I hold close. I’ve always been fanatical about my privacy, going way back. Probably my father.
I step into the bedroom, needing to lay my eyes on Red again. She’s still sleeping. Still here.
What will it be like when she goes? I feel a pull behind my sternum, something dark and yawning. I’m not willing to put a name to the feeling, but my body remembers it. My mouth waters with the memory of the Scotch I drank to fight it off. I shut my eyes until the ghost passes, then walk slowly to the bed.
Red looks like a princess. Her Royal Tight Cunt. Sleeping Beauty with my handprints on her ass. How can I let her go? I peel the covers off her chest, because I need to see her breasts. They look round and soft through the fabric of her nightgown. I push the neckline down and cup one in my palm, bouncing it a little. I’m looking at her face, hungry for a peek of her eyes.
I stroke her nipple with the pad of my thumb. This woman is intoxicating. She belongs in rich oil strokes. She lives in crowded forests. Eternally nude, bathed in light—the kind of milky, flat light that comes through pale gray clouds. Why did she go swimming alone in the sea? It haunts me.
“Red,” I whisper.
I need to get to the dock, but first I want to see her eyes.
“Red?” I push her gown down a little further and close my mouth over her breast, working her nipple with my lips. Caressing it with my tongue. I’m rewarded by a soft moan that goes straight to my cock. I need to be inside her, despite knowing I don’t have the time.
I pull the covers down and slide my hand up her shin, then up her thigh. She’s warm from sleep. Her skin feels like burnished velvet. My fingers brush her pussy and she lifts her hips. She wants it. I love the way she always wants it.
I love the way she says my name: a mew.
“I’m going to fuck you with my fingers,” I say, leaning near her face. “Then you’ll go to sleep again.”
A dreamy smile floats over her lips. She nods a little, pressing her head into the pillow.
I slide a finger into her. She’s hot and tight, softer than silk. I can feel her clench as I pump into her. She’s wet this morning. So fucking slick. I stroke in and out, painting her pussy, using my fingertip to smooth warm lines around her swollen clit.
I’m rewarded by her crying out.
“Say my name.”
I still my hand. I can hear my blood rush in my ears.
Her hands grab at my wrist. “Race.”
I allow myself a brief grin. It’s undiluted satisfaction. She knows—or at least suspects—I’m James Wolfe, but she’s still in my bed.
“Say ‘Race, please.’ I like to hear you beg.” I push another finger into her. Her body quivers.
“I like to feel you jump.”
I stretch her with a third finger and slide my thumb over her clit. I’m moving slow. So slow.
“Race, oh God—yes.
“That’s right, sweetheart.”
I twist my wrist, so the soft side of my thumb glides over her clit. I thrust my fingers faster in and out of her. I close my eyes and feel her. Listen to her pant my name.
I’m so hard I can barely move, can barely suck in air.
I’m half an inch away from dropping my jeans and shoving my dick into her when her legs drop open, she thrusts against me one hard, final time, and her pussy spasms like a flower blooming fast.
I lean down and lap the sweetness up. She comes again, slamming bony knees against my head, and I can’t help the low chuckle that spills from my throat.
“You’re so fucking sexy.”
I smooth her gown down, kiss the breast that’s peeking out, and tuck it back into the gown’s bodice.
“You’re my little fuck doll. Don’t forget it.”
I tuck the covers up to her chin as her eyes slip shut.
I check her binds once more, ensuring they’re neither too tight nor too loose on her ankles and wrists. She turns slightly over on her side, her lips parting, hair falling over her cheek and neck. Her eyes peek open, darting left and right until they settle on my face like sunlight.
“Thank you, Race.”
“You’re always welcome, doll.”
I walk outside feeling like I could blow away with the humid breeze.
I don’t hear the boat’s motor anymore, but I’m still gonna take my time. I walk the shaded path to the beach on the east side of the island, where visitors dock on the rare occasion there are any. It’s not the same place I anchored Red and I; it’s closer to the front of the island, just a short walk from Trudie’s cottage.
As I walk down the pebble path, Red owns my mind. Visions of her overlay the slender, sun-drenched pine trunks. I watch a gull glide off a maple limb and spread his wings, and I can almost feel her plump pussy against my mouth. The trees sway, and I see her head tilted, her lips parted.
Cookie flits through my mind—Cookie smiling at me from the bathroom that adjoins our rooms. I’m dressed in leather, examining a new whip, which is spread out on my black bedspread.
Her heart-shaped face curves with her friendly, indulgent smile.
“What will I do with you, my dom husband?”
The sunlight warms my hair. I feel hands smoothing it, fingertips dragging on my temples in a way that feels amazing. In my mind’s eye, I see Red’s face, not Cookie’s. I see her face beside me in a bed we share. Red lips. Freckles. All that hair to thread through my fingers as I fuck her from behind…
It’s the first time in six years that my daydreams haven’t starred a ghost.
The pebble path rolls on, toward Trudie’s cottage, but I veer right beside a large, moss-drenched cypress. I follow the path visible only in my mind’s eye as the ground grows damper, the carpet of leaves wears thinner, and my shoes stick to the black and tan sand. It’s soggy around the cypresses, more marshy. One of the things I love about the island is its varied landscape.