Red & Wolfe, Part III: An Erotic Fairy Tale

  “What things?”

  “I was researching the pork market. Specifically, I was checking into a tip about changes in the way a certain company’s hogs were selling to its largest buyers. I worked for about two hours, which my internet records reflect.”

  “And then you got a phone call.”

  “Yes.”

  “You got a phone call from your wife. Cookie.” Prosecutor John Longman’s blue eyes hold mine. “Why wasn’t she at home that night?”

  “She was out with an acquaintance.”

  “You mean a man she was having an affair with?”

  I work to keep my face neutral. “It wasn’t an affair. I knew she was seeing Paige. She had my blessing.”

  “Is this due to your unusual marriage? Your sexually open marriage?”

  God, I want to clench my jaw so much. Instead, I swallow. Look the prosecutor in the eye and say, “She had my blessing. The terms of my marriage are not your business.”

  “I think you’re wrong. How long had she been ‘seeing’ Bryson Paige?”

  “They knew each other for a long time.”

  “Is it true that Mr. Paige was a sexual dominant, like yourself?”

  “My sex life is none of your business,” I tell Longman. “Nor is his.” But that’s not true. Paige was a sub.

  Longman’s blue eyes flash. He stands a little taller, like he always does right before he begins to make a point. “You passed your wife off to another man, who tied and bound her, then invited you over to share the spoils.”

  “I didn’t arrive until after they were dead,” I say, as evenly as I can muster.

  “Were you or were you not invited over to share in sexual intercourse?”

  I inhale. Exhale. “I was not.”

  “Are you or are you not a sexual dominant, known in such circles as a ‘dom?’”

  “Objection,” my lawyer cries.

  “Denied,” says Judge Jacobs.

  “That’s none of your business.” No jaw clenching…

  “Are you a submissive?”

  “No, I’m not a fucking submissive.”

  “Thank you for a straight answer,” Longman says. “We have records of your involvement with Club Rosalie, as well as Mayan Place and the sexual swinging circle known as ‘The Group’ that met up at the Parkman Hotel.” He straightens up again—not a good sign. He clears his throat. Another bad sign. “So that night, you got a phone call from your wife’s cell phone.”

  “A call for help,” I offer. I’ve talked this over with my team, and I’m supposed to appear cooperative and forthcoming right here. “I assumed at the time that things with Mr. Paige had gotten out of hand. She wanted my help.”

  “What time did you arrive at the Paige residence?” the prosecutor asks.

  “Eight fifteen.”

  “And yet, we have a witness, someone who worked at the Paige house, who heard your voice—a deep, resonant voice on the security cameras—at seven forty.”

  “This has been hashed out a number of times. How deep is my voice? It’s relative.” I want to scream that Cookie’s father, Robert Smythson, has a deep voice, too, but I know I can’t do that. My team tells me pointing the finger while I’m on the stand will make me look guilty.

  “Why did it take you thirty-five minutes to arrive?” Longman asks.

  “There was traffic.”

  “But your trek can’t be traced by satellite because you left you cell phone at home.”

  I shrug my shoulders a few times, trying to look and feel looser. “What do you want me to say about that?”

  “It seems awfully convenient.”

  “Objection!”

  “Stepping out of line, Longman,” the judge warns.

  Motherfucker steps closer to me. “What did you find when you arrived?”

  “They were in a garage. She was hanged,” I swallow past a lump in my throat, “and he was strangled by rope they had been using.”

  “And you called the police immediately?”

  “I did.”

  A curvy blonde court reporter looks at me with solemn eyes. I wonder if she believes me. I wonder if anybody does.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RED

  He moves quickly, closing the distance between the two of us with one long, steady stride. He wraps his arms around my back, sliding one down behind my knees as he lifts me up and slings me over his shoulder.

  My body stiffens as adrenaline floods my blood. I try to jerk out of his grasp, but he’s holding me too tightly. “What are you doing?” I cry, kicking at his thighs.

  We’re at the front tip of the boat now: the bow. I can feel it. He takes fast, small steps to keep his balance as the waves rock us.

  Then he sits down on the bow. I push against him but his grip just tightens.

  “Settle down!”

  “Let go of me!” But he doesn’t. Just before he lowers me over the edge of the boat, toward the black water, he says, “Sorry.”

  Then he drops me. The ridiculous thought swimming through my head as I bob under and pop up, flailing to keep from getting hit on the head by the bobbing boat, is this is so different than last time we got off the boat, my head tucked against his shoulder while he carried me toward the trees.

  I might be screaming, because I gulp salt water. I feel something hard against my arm and push against it. Then his arms close around my waist and shoulders. I’m being pulled toward the shore. This, too, for the second time. I try to shove away from him, try to duck under a wave and disappear, but this man is a powerful swimmer.

  Every time I claw him or try to kick him in the gut, he turns me around so I’m facing away from him, all the while continuing to pull me toward the sand. When the beach floor tickles my soles, I start to sob. I can’t imagine why he’s doing this. No—yes I can. He’s doing this because he’s going to hurt me.

  Just as the waves start breaking all around us, I’m lifted out of the water and thrown over his mighty back again. My body vibrates with each step he takes across the sand. I take a chance and pinch the back of his neck. He lets go of me. I fall into the sand.

  Standing over me, naked and ocean-wet, with his big dick hanging and his bearded face angry and taut, he looks like some primal man.

  “My friend is coming to the harbor! If I’m not there she’s calling the cops!” I choke on another sob. If only this were true!

  He leans down low over me, black eyes bore into mine. “Did you tell her about ‘W.?’”

  I stop to think for a moment, wondering about the correct answer. I can’t imagine where he’s going with the question, so I tell the truth. “No.”

  I must have done something right. I can see the tension leave his shoulders.

  I jump up, dashing back toward the sea. “I’m leaving! I’ll tell my friend it wasn’t you! You can use your money to pay someone to hunt me down and sign a NDA.” Even though my dash toward the boat doesn’t make much sense, since I can’t operate it, I dive into the crashing waves and kick off the sand.

  He lets me get a few feet in before he scoops me up under my arms, hauling me out of the water and tucking me against his chest. A few big strides and we’re on sand again. Waves break at his feet. He hoists me up, so he’s holding me against his chest, more shepherd-and-lamb position.

  His face scowls down on mine, seawater dripping off his chin and onto my cheeks.

  “Little Red. What a naughty girl you are.”

  I start to cry. It’s not something I’m proud of, but then neither is this. I’ve got a bucket list. I can’t die yet!

  “She’s not coming,” he says as he turns toward the island forest. “I can tell.” His chest expands—a sigh? “Calm down Red.” His eyes flick down at me. “I’m not gonna hurt you. But I’m also not gonna let you leave this island.”

  I tuck my chin against my chest. “Because you are going to hurt me!”

  I can feel him shake his head. “Because my privacy is very important. I need you to sign a NDA, Red.”

/>   My heart beats wildly as he carries me back to his house. My mind careens with wild ideas, horrific scenarios, desperate desires that involve mostly dry clothes and my old apartment back in Boston.

  When he dumps me down on his couch and turns toward the bedroom, I make a wild lunge for the door. A strong hand grabs my elbow, throwing off my trajectory. I slip and go down to my knees.

  As soon as they hit the hardwood floor, he locks an arm around me and turns me over, so I’m lying on my back like a felled turtle, and he’s looming over me. I can feel his erection against my thighs, but he doesn’t make a move on me.

  “Red,” he says softly, “do I seem like a murderer to you?”

  “You’re acting like one,” I breathe. “You’re pinning me down.”

  His lips move only subtly: a smile, a grimace? “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly. And there’s no malice, no flirtation, nothing in his tone at all. “In fact,” he places one hand on the side of my face, his fingertips gently stroking my hair, “I’m going to make you feel good, if you can trust me.”

  I look away from him and match his quiet tone with one of my own. “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  He strokes my nipple. I look down to find both of them hard, jutting out under my shirt.

  “Are you sure, Red?”

  Pleasure whispers through me, mocking. My body feels warm and restless. I’m amazed how strongly I react to just his fingers, stroking.

  “I’m stupid,” I whisper.

  Have I always been this stupid? Maybe. Maybe this Red was always waiting inside the other one, like a Russian nesting doll. Once the shell broke on my outer layers, this smaller, more colorful, more defunct Red is all that’s left.

  His hands come down on my cheeks. “You don’t seem stupid to me. Just afraid. And you don’t need to be afraid.”

  “You’re him, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Race, remember? Only Race to you.”

  I’m lying still under him, struggling to keep my breathing even. Somewhere deep inside my head, yet another, smaller, stupider doll is thinking of how raw my ass feels. How wet my pussy. If this man is James Wolfe, he could do all kinds of depraved things to me. I wonder what they would be.

  His voice snaps through the air, jarring me from my stupor. “What do you want, Red?”

  His eyes on mine are seeking. I can’t tell what I’m supposed to say. Part of me wants to ask again if he’s James Wolfe—to press the point—but I’m afraid to bring that up again.

  “I don’t know what I want.” But I’m definitely aroused despite my fear.

  I watch his face for a moment. His mouth flattens. His brow clenches. He looks like he’s trying to decide something. “You’re in charge of your own fantasies. You know that, right?”

  His hand dips between my legs, and I know whatever twisted fantasies I have, they center on him.

  Do I want to fuck him because of who he is, or am I willing to overlook who he is because his body calls to mine? I don’t know, and right now, I can’t seem to care as much as I should.

  He scoops me up and carries me to his bed, where silky ties are secured to each of the four corners. He ties my ankles first, and then my wrists. My mind is screaming with would-be fear that never fully forms. I’m shocked to find, as he strips me of my shorts and shirt, I feel relieved.

  It’s as if every fear I carry with me daily has been hoisted off my shoulders and onto his. I look up at him as he knots the ties around my ankles, then my wrists. The way I feel makes no sense whatsoever. Instead of panicked, I feel so relaxed I’m almost sleepy.

  As if he can read my mind, he says, “Relax. I’m going to make this night perfect for you.”

  He grabs a small, black box off of a wooden trunk, opens it, and reaches inside. I see him draw something out, but he keeps it tucked inside his hand. He pulls my wet pants off, parts my legs, and looks into my eyes.

  “You want this don’t you, Red? You want to push your limits. I bet you like being afraid. Kind of takes you somewhere else.” He strokes my inner thigh. “Right now, you’re in my hands. You have no responsibility. You’ve surrendered everything to me, put your very life in my hands. That’s what you believe, although I’d never hurt you.”

  His voice is low and sensual, but his eyes are alert—assessing me, as always—as his knuckles stroke my inner thigh. His fingers part my pussy lips, and I jump a little as he drags a small, cold, silver egg over my wet entrance. With a little pressure from his thumb, he pushes it inside me. Never dragging his gaze away from mine, he holds up a remote and grins.

  “I love seeing you writhe.”

  He flicks his hand and bliss ripples through me.

  “Argghhh!” With each lightning fast undulation it shimmies deeper into me, its movement smooth and firm against my pussy walls. The effect is a stroking sensation, combined with the pressure of penetration, plus vibrations that ripple all through me, making me feel like I will burst. Making me needy for more. Tickling my clit.

  I groan and scissor my legs, already so close. I’m panting, seeing stars when he rolls me over. My pussy spasms around the vibrating egg. I thrust my hips into the mattress, desperate to come.

  “What a dirty girl. I bet you want your clit sucked. Am I right?”

  He slides a hand under my hips, finding my clit with his fingertip as his other hand pulls my ass cheeks apart. I’m hyper-conscious of the roughness of his finger. My hips wiggle in time with the vibrating weight inside my cunt. I’m panting hard, so distracted I barely notice his slick finger rubbing my ass. A second later, I feel a burst of pressure as he pops another egg into me.

  “Oh my God!”

  I try to swallow, try to breathe, but all I can do it lie there, writhing as he fucks me by remove control.

  “Oh…Race!” I buck and toss. I find my clit with my fingers, but I’m so strung out, I can barely manage rubbing it.

  He sets both eggs on a slow simmer—just enough to drive me crazy, to keep me panting on the edge—and rolls me over again. He parts my knees and grins over me.

  “My little fuck doll. Stuffed and dripping wet.” He leans over, giving my pussy a long, luxurious lick that obliterates all thought and has me shrieking. My frenzied fingers tug his hair. Pleasure is shorting out my brain. I can’t think straight. I can’t move. I start to come, and the eggs go still.

  I scream. My legs scissor. My clit is so swollen it’s painful.

  “Race…help me,” I sob. “I feel…drunk.”

  “On lust, Red. And I’m about to black you out.”

  Both eggs spring into motion, vibrating harder this time. My body jerks, and I start rolling my hips around.

  “Fuck me,” I beg. “Please.”

  “I want your mouth around my cock. Do you want to suck my dick?”

  I nod and he helps me up. I’m lying on my back, leaning on my elbows, moaning every few seconds as the eggs do their work inside me. He straddles my chest and holy shit, he’s hard as hell. I open my mouth wide and he thrusts his length inside. I open as wide as I can, taking him deep into my mouth. I’m so close to coming I can barely coordinate the movement of sucking him off. I’m drooling all over him.

  He keeps adjusting the settings of the eggs—fast to slow to fast—as if he can scent when I’m about to come.

  In and out, in and out he pumps, and I’m moaning around him. He turns both eggs on high again and my whole body quivers. I’m so lust-blind, so desperate, I take his cock in both my hands and lick him all over his balls before gliding my mouth back up his shaft, over his head, back into my throat.

  He’s got my hair. He’s pulling—hard.

  “Red, Red, Red…”

  I look up at him, at his beautiful abs clenched in pleasure as he—“oh fuck!”—shoots off into my mouth, cupping my head between his strong thighs as he pumps right down my throat.

  I swallow. I sink back on the mattress and curl over on my side, stroking my clit. I’m so wet it’s ridiculous.

  “
Not yet. You come when I say you do, Red.”

  He turns the eggs off, pushes me down flat on my back, and reaches two long fingers into my supercharged pussy, curling them around the egg, drawing it out.

  I can only moan.

  I’m almost limp as he scoops me up and tosses me down on my belly. Now he pulls me up, so I’m on my hands and knees, my head hanging between my arms.

  “Are you going fuck me?”

  “Yes, Red. Now you’re going to get fucked.”

  I can feel the head of him pressed against the warm, wet entrance to my cunt. It’s too much.

  “Please, Race!” I writhe, pressing back against him.

  “Please what, Red?”

  “Fuck me! Please!”

  He pushes inside—only a little. Just the hard, plump head of him. “I’m gonna fuck you hard. You sure you’re ready?”

  “Yes! Oh yes!”

  He pushes in a little more, and even as sopping as I am, he’s big; he stretches me.

  He wants to inch his way inside, but I can’t take it. I rock back against him, already lit up with the promise of his full length.

  But as I move, Race rocks back, too.

  “Red,” he scolds. “Who’s in charge here? You or me?”

  “I don’t know,” I wail.

  “I am,” he says sternly. “You do what I say. And in this case, I say be still.”

  Unexpectedly, I start to sob. He stays in place for one, two, three seconds, then he thrusts in—hard.

  I come as soon as I’m full of him.

  The orgasm goes on and on, and he doesn’t let up for me. In and out, in and out he goes as I curl over, collapsing on my elbows, cheek on the mattress, ass in the air.

  Two strokes later and I feel his cock harden and expand. He groans my name, then pulls out in one smooth stroke, spilling all over my back.

  “Stay here,” he murmurs. “I’ll go get something.”

  “I need to get up,” I say hoarsely. “To use the restroom.”

  “Hold on first.”

  I feel a tug, and the egg slides out of me. He helps me off the bed. The room spins as I cross it. My legs quiver as I step into the bathroom. I can barely stand.