Red & Wolfe Part 4: An Erotic Fairy Tale (11 page)

I see stars.

“Tell me what you were made to do, fuck doll.”

I try to open my eyes, but I’m pushing my ass off the bed. Every time I move the finger there shifts.

I throw my legs open wide. I’m crying. Tugging at his hair.

“Lick me again! I need to come!”

He rocks his fingers deeper into me. Oh God he’s so deep. “Race…”

“Say it, Red. Tell me what you were made for and I’ll fill you with my cock.”

“I was…”

“You were made to fuck me, Red.” He laps mercilessly at my clit.

“I was made to fuck you!”

A heartbeat, and I’m empty. Cold. Confused.

Strong hands around my waist. I’m turned over. I feel his fingers on me briefly, then I’m pushed forward on hands and knees.

He slams into me like a torpedo. I sprawl forward, losing my grip on the mattress. I almost fall on my face, but he’s got me by the hips. His cock is pumping in and out so fast I see stars.

With each thrust, he comes at me at a slightly different angle, so he plows into a different spot inside. The vibrations ripple through my clit. I feel drunk with lust, like I can barely hold my head up.

“You’re such a good fuck, baby. So nice and wet and tight.”

I’m close to coming. So close I want to scream. I spread my legs wider and slump down on the sheets, letting my clit slide over them. Each thrust makes me lose a little more of my mind. I exist only for this. I’m noting but a pussy with a cock shoved deep inside me.

“Come now,” he says.

And I do.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WOLFE

We walk to the water in silence, sometime near dusk. After I took her one last time, I locked her in the cabin with a gun and checked on my company. I returned to the part of the island where I left Linn and his crew and found them gone. The man in the tree house is gone as well.

I don’t know what the fuck it means, but for now, I’m glad they’re nowhere near Red as I walk her to the boat.

When we reach the sand, I shift her bags on my back and step closer to her, so our hips bump. I take her hand in mine and hold it gently, memorizing the softness of her skin, the rhythm of her gait. The way her hair lifts off her shoulders, waving in the salty wind.

I set her bags down, hand her my gun, take off my shirt and jeans, and swim out to the boat. I pull my sore body up and over the side, and before I fire the motors, I look out at her. She’s my siren. She looks perfect with the island at her back.

I idle the boat over the cresting waves, and when I glide it onto the sand, she raises her hand to cover her eyes. I hop down and grab my clothes, her bags. I dress quickly in the boat and then step down to shore for her. I find her eyes wet and don’t know what to do. I wipe a tear off her cheek with my thumb. “What’s wrong, doll?”

“I don’t want to go.” She sniffs. “You need me here.”

 “I don’t need you, Red. I want you. I want you bad, but I can get by without you. And I will.”

“What if they come back?”

“That’s not your problem, baby.”

Before she can argue, I scoop her up and carry her into the boat. I sit her on a wooden bench behind the steering console and try to pretend I’m not remembering the first time I saw her, at the harbor dock.

I wonder what she’s thinking. She looks so damn small as she wraps her arms around herself. I get the boat running and point toward land. The wind is brisk—colder than normal, gusting from a flat gray sky. I stand behind the steering wheel, praying she’ll come up behind me and hoping she doesn’t. I want to feel her arms around me one more time, but I know for her, the faster she cuts ties with me, the better.

And then I feel her arm slide around my waist. Heat spreads through me like a drug, and I can’t help but put my arm around her shoulders and pull her up against my side.

The boat is bouncing under us, giving me a great excuse to hold her tightly. I look out ahead of us, at the shoreline, just a bump on the horizon now, but growing quickly.

I take our speed down a few notches, and the wind quiets a little. Red leans her head against me. Her arm around my back is tight, like she doesn’t want to lose her grip on me. Her hand strokes softly over my hip. It’s…soothing. As if we are the only two people in the world, and I’m not scanning the horizon line for other boats.

Her fingers are so tender. As if she really fucking cares.

For a moment, it’s too much. My lungs freeze up, and I can barely pull air in and push it out. Black spots dot the water and the sky. Her grip tightens, and she looks up at me.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. I’m clenching my jaw, I realize belatedly, so that must be what gave me away. I open my mouth, hoping for something to lighten the mood. Something to mask the weird way I’m probably behaving.

I look down at her, and she’s looking at me, and I instead ask a question whose answer matters to me very much. “Why do you like my paintings so much?”

I’ve never actually asked anyone that. I’ve read critics’ and professors’ guesses about why my work is so popular, but that’s not the same as asking a real art critic. It’s definitely not the same as asking Red.

She bites her lip to hide a smile.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I just can’t believe you asked me that. It’s still surreal.”

“I imagine lots of things about the last day are,” I say dryly. I know I sound nonchalant, but I feel the same way. I can’t believe I’m about to let her go. I squeeze her gently. “Tell me, baby.”

“Don’t you know this already? Your work is analyzed a lot.”

“I’ve read some of that. Not much. I don’t have the internet at my place.” I have a little tower I can set up when I want, but that’s not often, and it’s not something she needs to know. I pinch her side, hoping to tickle. “Go on, Red. Humor me.”

“Okay. This might sound kind of obvious, but I like the animals. People have always reminded me of animals. Like, ask me anyone and I can tell what animal they are.” She grins a silly little grin. “I feel like your paintings are of people. I can see personality, emotion, but they’re animals. Something about that just really…draws me in.”

I swallow. That’s exactly what they are. The animals are people. Often specific people. I don’t want to show her my reaction, but I’m pleased she knows. Every eagle is the prosecutor from the trial, and every squirrel is the judge. My rabbits have long been Cookie. Rabbits are the only animal I’ve painted dead.

I tuck her hair behind her ear, because I don’t want to talk about that. “What kind of animal am I?”

“I have to think on that.”

“No you don’t. You’re scared to say.”

She smirks. “Ask me someone else.”

“Hilary Clinton.”

“Panda bear. One of the really intelligent ones.”

“Barak Obama.”

“Ferret. Of the top hat wearing variety,” she says.

I swallow back a snicker. “J.K. Rowling.”

“A well-groomed horse or pony with a nice mane.”

That one gets a small hoot. Can’t help it. “And me?”

“You’re a stallion.”

I smirk, and she smiles a sad, tight little smile. “You’re hard to control, and you want what you want. You don’t need a herd. You like to run.”

“I think you need to start palm reading.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No.” I squeeze her shoulder. “I wanted your opinion. That’s why I asked.”

Water spreads out under us, and pretty soon, the shore is close enough that I can see the cars in the harbor marina’s parking lot. I try my best to drive the boat like usual. To keep my mind from getting ahead, from thinking about the ride back to the island.

I idle up to the marina and find a spot. My body’s gone numb. I can barely feel her arm around me, even though it’s there, and squeezing tightly. I take a few quick breaths, hoping she doesn’t notice how unsteady they are, and tie us off, and put her bags on the dock. As I look at her, standing in my boat, I have the irrational hope that the car I rented for her didn’t make it.

But when I turn around, I see the black Mercedes. Jesus, I feel sick.

I step out of the boat, moving like a robot. Like the death row inmate I’ll never be—thank everything.

I hold out my hand, and Red lets me pull her up. As soon as her feet touch the dock, she throws her arms around me and buries her face in my chest. I hug her back and put my mouth down near her ear.

“I’m sorry for what happened. Sorry you got hurt,” I murmur.

She clings to me, almost rigid. I drop a kiss on her hair.

“Please, Red. Please take care of yourself. Do the things I told you and don’t make me worry.”

She looks up at me, showing me her damp eyes. “I don’t want to worry about you either!”

I pull her toward a little shack that boasts a small, plastic shower emblem. I have to have her one more time. I’ll jerk her pants down and take her inside. Except we pass a bench, and suddenly I don’t want to do anything but put my arms around her and leave them there forever.

I tug her down beside me. Kiss her mouth.

This is the last time.

CHAPTER TWELVE

RED

I’m standing by the black Mercedes Race rented, but I can’t get in. My bags are in the trunk. The driver is watching in his rear-view. With every passing second, another fraction of a penny for his gas.

But I can’t move. Race’s hand is locked in mine, but the door is open. His eyes, his face, his big body—with everything, he’s urging me inside the car.

I look up at him, and I can’t even talk, because I’m lost again. I don’t know how it’s possible that this happened. That I feel so attached so someone I’ve known such a short amount of time. I don’t know how it’s possible that I can’t stay.

Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. Race runs his hand over my hair.

“You’re a good girl, baby. So good. You deserve nothing but the best.” He kisses my cheek, so chaste and soft it makes me shiver.

My throat’s so tight, it’s hard to say, “I liked being your fuck doll.”

“I would keep you if I could. Fill you with my cock all day and night. Punish that sweet ass. Red, I’m leaving here. Don’t wait for me to find you. I won’t. Don’t come back for a while. Let things settle. Try to find a way to settle, too.” He rubs his thumb down my cheek, looks into my eyes. “What do you love, Red?

I swallow. I can think of only one thing. “Writing.”

“So write. Write anything you want, baby.”

I swallow past the huge lump in my throat and shake my head. “I don’t want to write. I just want you.”

He steps back a little, still holding my hand. “I don’t deserve you, baby doll.”