RED & WOLFE
Part Three
An Erotic Fairy Tale
ELLA JAMES
CHAPTER ONE
RED
A few seconds ago, I was breathless with excitement, but as I hear footsteps coming up the stairs that wind around the tree, I feel almost sick.
Race is “W.”
What will he say when he finds out I know?
As I stand frozen in the little wooden tree house, all the hims converge inside my mind: the pushy bastard who manipulated me, the sex god who made me lose my mind, the savior who pulled me from the ocean, the smooth-talker who rubbed shampoo into my tangled hair, and now the artist—my favorite living artist: the mysterious “W.”
“W.” is anonymous. Since he started putting out his wildly popular oil paintings five or so years ago, guessing at his identity has been an international pastime. No one knows anything about him. Because he wants it that way.
Suddenly I just can’t stand to be the ruin of his carefully kept secret.
The clomping footsteps grow louder. I step toward the painting, thinking of hurling it into the space above the tree house’s short walls and below its low roof.
Then he’ll think I stole it.
Shit!
I look around the tree house. It’s just a small, wood box, no larger than a good-sized walk-in closet. Three of its four short walls are lined with a wrap-around wood bench. I see the shadows flicker over in the direction of the stairs and I make a split-second decision.
I dive under the bench in one corner of the tree house. I press my back against the wooden wall as tightly as I can and tuck my knees up to my chin. I hold my breath and one big, leather boot steps onto the floor, and then another. My gaze rolls up his muscled legs, clad in beat-up jeans. There’s a hole in the thigh, only a few inches from his crotch. At least I think there is; it’s pretty dark in here, so maybe it’s just a trick of the moonlight streaming through the space between the roof and the half-walls, and my pervy imagination.
I clench my jaw, hoping he’ll think the tree house is empty and go look for me elsewhere.
Instead, his big feet step in a circular motion. My heart races. If he finds me here, he might not want me to stick around. In fact, he probably won’t. I’m surprised at the feeling of loss that accompanies that thought.
Clomp.
Clomp.
Hell yes. He’s turning back toward the stairs!
And then the phone I’m clutching starts trumpeting the Star Wars theme song. I try desperately to hit the button that will silence the damn thing, but my fingers aren’t fast enough.
His feet move quickly in another semi-circle, and when he stops, they’re pointed at me. His face appears in front of mine a second later.
“Red?”
Emotion flickers through his handsome features, but I can’t see clearly enough to discern which one. I’m looking into his eyes when his hands close around my forearms and he pulls me to my feet.
Moonlight spills over his face, and I’m struck anew by how hot he is. I want to twine my arms around his neck and press my breasts against his broad, bare chest. I want to run my palm over the sexy stubble on his cheeks. I want to bite that chin and kiss those lips and press my forehead against his.
My eyes cling to his face, because I’m nervously awaiting his reaction to me here, but he shifts his weight and shadows obscure it. I realize I’m still holding my phone. I hold it up with the screen facing out so I can see him.
When he tugs me to his chest, I’m momentarily stunned. His fingers skate up my forearms and over my elbows, then curl around my biceps. He crawls his hands up my shoulders where his fingers stroke my neck. His touch is whisper-light and gentle, but I can feel the tension in his hand.
“What the fuck are you doing up here, Red?”
My phone belts the Star Wars theme again, and his fingers wrest it from mine. He frowns down at it. “What’s this?”
“A cell phone.”
His frown deepens. “I know that.”
“Oh.” I’m so nervous I’m getting kind of dumb. “I, uh, didn’t have service, so I came up here to call my friend.”
The little screen lights up his face, revealing the lines of tension around his mouth, the hard-set jaw. His eyes bore into mine. “You gonna answer it?”
I can tell what he wants me to say. “I’ll call her back in a few.”
He turns the phone off. I hold out my hand, but he’s already set it the bench behind him.
He turns back toward me. The clouds scoot out of the moon’s way again, and pearly light illuminates his features. His eyes flicker from me to the canvas and back to me. Then he reaches through the darkness between us and cups my face with his warm hands. “Tell me the truth, Red. Did you tell her anything you shouldn’t have?”
“My friend? No.” I shake my head. “I haven’t even talked to her yet.”
His eyes are intense, but the rest of his face has softened. It’s a strange contrast, one that feels even stranger when he puts his hands on my shoulders, and in a casual-sounding tone says, “Did you see my painting?”
He keeps his face neutral, as if my answer doesn’t matter, but heat burns my neck and cheeks because I know it does.
His hands on my shoulders seem to weigh a hundred pounds. I watch the tanned skin of his throat as his pulse pumps underneath it. Then I raise my eyes to his.
“I did,” I whisper.
The skin around his left eye trembles—as if it wants to twitch and he won’t let it.
“Well,” he says evenly, “what do you think?”
I debate my answer for only an instant before I decide to end our little game. “It was amazing. I can’t believe you’re him!”
His brows narrow. “Him?”
“Race, I saw the ‘W.’—and I know your work. Until just a few months ago I worked as an art critic. Did you know that?” In the surreality of the moment I can’t remember if I told him. “But you probably knew. You knew I was a fan.” I gulp a breath in. “Did you know?”
The shock of his identity hits me anew and I grab his solid forearm. “Is that why you wanted this island so much? Because it’s where you do your painting? Race, I want to hear your story. I won’t ever tell, I promise. I’m a very—”
“Quiet.”
He takes my hand in his and, with that black gaze boring into mine, drags my palm down to his jeans-clad hip. Hypnotic eyes hold mine as he tugs my hand slowly lower, to where the denim rises to form his fly.
I hold my fingers straight, my palm pressed flat, tingling with anticipation.
“Lower,” he murmurs.
I slide my palm a lower and begin to feel the bulge of him.
A rumbling noise comes from his throat and his hands find my breasts, fondling as I cup my fingers under him, then curl them just a little, so I’m cradling the weight of him in my palm—or trying to. He’s so big, my hand can’t hold all of him.
I fumble with his fly, desperate to get my hand inside his jeans, get my fingers around his cock.
“What a dirty girl you are.”
He rocks himself against me and his erection takes full form. It’s long and thick—delicious—and my greedy fingers flail against his jeans.
He laughs, a wicked sound that makes my clit hum.
“I don’t want to talk about art, Red. I don’t want to hear you talk about it, either. What I want is for you to suck my dick.”
He rubs my shoulder with one hand and teases my nipple with the other. “That’s why you’re here, remember? That’s why I invited you to stay—so you could be my little fuck doll. Take my dick deep in your throat, then let me eat that sweet pussy. In f
act, I’m hungry now.”
He pushes me forward until the bench hits the back of my knees and I fall onto it.
“You will let me eat your pussy. You will come when I tell you to. Do you understand?”
I nod. My stomach clenches at the bossy way he’s talking to me, but I can’t deny it gets me hot. Knowing that he’s “W.”? Icing on the cake. I’m so wet.
My hand rubs his cock through his jeans as he lowers me, back first, onto the bench. The wood is hard and cool through my pink cotton shirt and black shorts, but the sensation barely registers. He’s leaning over me, lifting my ass up off so he can yank my shorts off, and I can see his long, thick cock strain at his jeans. He jerks my shorts down, and I do a half sit-up, straining my abs so I can reach for his dick.
“God, I want to touch you.”
He chuckles and tosses my shorts over his shoulder.
I tug at his jeans again and he drops them.
He’s naked underneath. The moonlight gleams off his cock like sword. I spread my legs for its invasion, and fingers plunge into me instead.
“God.” He’s got two fingers in me, and he’s spreading them out so I feel full, full, full.
“Race!” I lift my hips. I feel him part my ass cheeks and I pant as he strokes a finger over my asshole.
I gyrate on the bench. Do I move forward or back? “Jesus.” I want him in both ends.
He slips his pinkie into my ass and I gasp. My pussy clenches around his fingers. I feel so good.
He presses his dick against my thigh and I want it inside me. The two fingers in my pussy and the pinkie in my ass are driving me insane, but all I can think about is that beautiful dick of his. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine opening my mouth wide to take it down my throat. This was never a fantasy of mine before, but with him, I want it. Maybe because his cock is so perfect.
He wriggles his fingers, finding my g-spot, then licks my pussy with slow, expert precision.
He licks me up and down twice more, and I pant harder.
“Not yet,” he warns.
I’m shocked when he slides his fingers out of my cunt, out of my ass. He turns me over and I can feel him leaning over me as he parts my ass cheeks.
“Race…”
“I want to taste this fine ham.” He slaps my ass. “I need to make sure it’s tender first.”
He slaps me again, and then his rough hand glides up my inner thigh, and his fingertips find my slick clit. He tweaks it, and I gasp in pain-pleasure.
He rubs a wet circle around it, dipping into my pussy then dragging his finger back up as his palm smacks one of my ass cheeks.
“You know what that was for?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Seeing things you’re not supposed to see.”
Two fingers frame my throbbing clit, pressing on it so a burst of pain shoots through me. At least I think it’s pain until it explodes like pleasure. I suck back a breath.
He smacks my ass again—the sound of it bouncing off the treehouse walls.
“You know what that one was for?”
I shake my head.
“Going places that you’re not supposed to go.”
He spanks me again. “Just because,” he rumbles. “Now I’m going to punish you. I’ll make the punishment fit the crime. I want to see what you don’t want me to see,” he says, parting my ass cheeks. “Have you ever had your asshole eaten, Red?”
I try to wriggle away from him, because of course I haven’t, but he grabs the back of my thigh and pulls me back to my spot on the bench.
“You’re going to love my tongue in your asshole.” He licks around it and my legs tremble with surprising pleasure. “You might call this an invasion of your personal space.”
Again, he licks me there while his fingers find my clit. I gasp.
It’s too much, almost too much out of my comfort zone to be enjoyable. His tongue might even be plunging inside now. But I’m gasping. Thrusting my ass into his face because what he’s doing there is making my pussy ache with need.
He licks circles around my asshole. His fingers slide into my pussy, then he drags them out, painting my sensitive lips and my throbbing clit with my own wetness.
He drags his fingers past my taint and circles around my asshole, spreading the wetness there as well.
I realize what he’s doing only a second before the head of him is pressed against my backdoor.
“Relax.” I feel his cock move and there’s a finger pushing in. He’s saying, “focus on my finger. Press against it.” I do, and his finger slides inside.
The sensation is shocking. Wonderful. Consuming. I rock against him.
“I feel drunk,” I whisper.
“Drunk on me.”
A few more strokes in and out of my ass, while his fingers pump my pussy, and I’m shattering apart, shouting his name.
“That’s the only name you know me by, fuck doll. That’s all I am to you. Just Race.” And I know just what he means. He’s telling me not to mention the painting or “W” again.
He turns me over on my back, lifts my legs over his shoulders so my ass is in air, and plows into my dripping cunt.
“I’m your new God, Red. Now I want you to close your eyes and let your pussy worship me.”
I can feel his length push into me deliciously. I’m so full I grip his shoulders and neck with my legs. I grunt and groan, wanting so much to take all of him. My fingernails dig into the hardness of his thigh.
With my body in the air and my head on the bench, I’m feeling dizzy. Every time he pounds me, I slide forward on the bench.
His finger pumps into my ass.
I pant and writhe. Then he turns me over, presses his dick against my asshole again, and pulls my cheeks apart.
“While you’re on this island, I own you.”
And then he shoves himself inside me.
I see stars. When I find my voice, I scream, so loud I swear I think it echoes, until the screams become guttural groans.
I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only make animal noises as his huge dick invades me, stinging, stretching, filling me so much I think I’ll come apart.
My cunt lights up every time he plows into me, almost as if he’s fucking it instead. My clit throbs. As my body falls forward, is pulled back, falls forward; as I push against his cock so he can fill me deeper, my clit is flashing like Christmas lights. But it’s a minor detail. Everything is secondary to the fire storm of his cock splitting me wide.
I feel his hand on my belly, pushing my back against his chest. His fingers dip down, gliding gently over my clit.
“Now. Come.”
And that’s all it takes.
I come so hard I think I black out.
When I open my eyes again, I’m sore and hollowed out by pleasure.
I lie there glittering in the sheen of my bliss, hating him as he pulls his pants up and grabs the canvas and my phone.
He leaves without a glance at me, which hurts my feelings and my pride. So why am I already hungry to be taken just like that again?
CHAPTER TWO
RED
I’m surprisingly sore when I move off my stomach and reach down to tug my pants back on. My ass is tender and my pussy is still slick and puffy. I’m a little surprised to find my hands and legs are shaking. Why is that? Because the afterglow’s still here? Or is it something more?
Maybe it bothers me how fast I let him get me on my back and get his fingers into me. I let him put his cock in my ass! There was a moment where I had a choice: to clench around him or to push into the mind-bending sensation. I went with it. Why?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t turned on by the painting. I’ve always been a bit of a star fucker, and to an art geek like me, “W.” is a major star.
I smooth my shorts over my thighs and wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Don’t get me wrong: I’m no stranger to kinky sex, but it’s different with Race. It’s like I give him full control over me. It’s like he hypnoti
zes me. Were there any limits with him tonight? Any walls I left up?
Damn. I let him fuck me in the ass. And I liked it.
I look down at my shirt, which, surprisingly, was never removed, and then I look around. My phone! Where is my phone? Oh yeah. He grabbed it. I was still in my post-fucked haze, and I didn’t even make a move to stop him.
What a domineering motherfucker. Who does he think he is?
He took the painting, too.
Maybe he was worried I’d photograph it and send it to all my friends.
I look out the ‘window’ space between the half-wall of the tree house and the low-slung roof. The clouds must be covering the moon, because everything is dark. The forest around me sways and shadows flicker. In front of me is Gertrude’s back yard. I can see the outline of her little flower garden, but not well. I have to squint to make out flowers.
I should probably climb down the stairs and find Race. Get my phone. I haven’t called Katie back, and that makes me a terrible friend.
Still, I prop my elbows on top of the little half-wall and take a few deep breaths. Do I want to find Race? I wish I could make him come to me, but he’s got my phone. I think about the way he left me. I’m trying to wrangle up a stronger feeling than insulted irritation, but I’m just too tired. That, and I think I know why he made such a speedy exit.
Dude clearly has issues with being ‘found out.’
I take my time going down the stairs that wrap around the tree. The leaves and moss rustle in a gentle breeze that feels somehow wrong, given the way the last day of my life has gone. It should be storming. There should be a hurricane.
I step onto the warm grass with my bare feet, because when I stepped out of Race’s cabin, I thought I was going to call Katie from the porch or somewhere equally nearby. I wander through the trees for a few minutes, looking for the pebbly trail between the two houses. I feel a renewed burst of concern for Katie. She’s clearly okay, because she’s calling me herself, but what if something happened to one of our mutual friends?
I think it will take at least five minutes to walk to Race’s cabin—maybe more like ten. When I walked from his place to here, I was paying more attention to my cell phone signal than the time.