Red & Wolfe, Part III: An Erotic Fairy Tale Page 5

  I lock the door and turn on the shower. I know I told him I needed the bathroom, but more than that, I need to shower. Something to ground me.

  I stand there while the water heats, shivering with my arms around my waist.

  As soon as I step into the shower, the bathroom door opens and Race walks in. I know as soon as I see him what’s coming. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open, but that doesn’t matter. I step to the back of the shower as he pushes back the curtain and gets in with me.

  He eases me down, on my back in the cool tub. He strokes two fingers into my aching pussy, wiggles one into my ass.

  “Fuck me,” I moan.

  He spreads me open, jams his cock into my swollen cunt, and clasps one hand on my shoulder as he thrusts.

  “Do you like this? Are you my fuck doll, Red?”

  “Yes,” I sigh. “Oh, yes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WOLFE

  After a thorough and, I hope, relaxing bath, I wrap her in towels and carry her to bed. She drifts to sleep in my arms, and I haven’t even drugged her. I can’t do that without her written consent, but I hardly need it.

  I tie her ankles and wrists to the bed’s four corners again and look into my little black box.

  In a few hours, after she’s slept some, I’m going to paint a pleasure-enhancing paste on her pussy and put the egg back in. I’ll fuck her ass with my fingers and tell her again how she’s my little fuck doll.

  “This is your only purpose, being fucked by me.”

  I’ll get her relaxed and lust-crazy and make her forget about her other life. The one where she lost her job and had to sell off all her shit. The one where some prick left her with a rent she couldn’t handle by herself. I had someone follow her for a day and a half right after Trudie passed, and he told me she searched far and wide for work, just couldn’t find anything.

  Sitting beside her, watching her sleep, that makes me angry. I don’t know much about her beyond the way her pussy feels, but I can tell that she’s a good person. Probably mixed up about some things, maybe sad or hopeless, but she’s Trudie’s granddaughter. She deserves better than what she was getting before coming here.

  I stroke her hair back off her face.

  Never did like a redhead, but this one reminds me of a porcelain doll.

  That’s how I got her nickname: fuck doll.

  I get up quietly off the bed and step onto the porch with my phone. I’m going to have to explain to Bob this Katie Stranger situation. Be sure he’s got someone very good and very discreet handling the NDA. Be sure that person will be here tomorrow.

  It’s a shame my little fuck doll has to go.

  I’d love to keep her here indefinitely, but if what she said is true—if she really sent my picture to the former Times reporter—I’m not even sure if I can stay here anymore.

  *

  RED

  I open my eyes to a brilliant light. A few blinks and I’m confused. Am I dead? I have a vague memory of something unusual happening. Something frightening and maybe also kind of wonderful. I try to reach up and shield my face, but I can’t get my hand to—

  What?

  Neither of my hands will move. Same with my feet.

  Finally, I look around instead of simply up. I see the little cabin room—topped by a glass ceiling that’s letting the full glare of the sun in—and everything comes crashing back to me.

  James Wolfe.

  I think I just fucked James Wolfe.

  How strange.

  I look down at the soft blanket covering me and try to move my feet again. They’re bound to the bedposts with something soft, like ribbon. I shut my eyes and hazily remember the few hours right before I went to sleep.

  My God, that man is good in bed.

  And if he’s James Wolfe?

  …He wasn’t convicted, was he?

  I lean my forehead against my bicep. I must be going crazy.

  Last night, it didn’t seem so crazy because I was caught up in my lust, but this morning I feel all kinds of unease. Not uneasy enough to try to steal the man’s boat again, but still. I lie my head back on my pillow and shut my eyes, trying to think.

  He mentioned something about a non-disclosure agreement. I guess I understand that. He’s famous as “W.,” so naturally he wouldn’t want me telling people that “W.” is James Wolfe. No one would want his paintings anymore. Or, hell, maybe everyone would. Regardless, I see the trouble.

  What should I do after I sign the NDA?

  I should go I guess. There’s no reason to stay here. I mean, the sex is great, but I have a life to return to. At least I hope I do.

  I press my lips together. Is that his voice I hear? Where is he? I look around for my phone. I promised Katie I would call today. I need to untie myself. It’s not like he has me tied to hold me prisoner. It’s a sex thing. But right now he’s not here, and we’re not having sex.

  I jerk my legs a few times before realizing what I really need to do is free my arms. Then I can untie my legs. I squeeze my hands through the binds with relative ease—small hands, I guess—and untie my ankles. I can definitely hear Race talking to someone outside on the porch.

  In the kitchen I spot my phone. I grab it and notice another door in the bedroom, this one to outside. I step out under the shade of the pines to call Katie. I think he is James Wolfe, but he hasn’t hurt me. Maybe the man’s not guilty. It’s kind of sad, really.

  I hold my breath, trying to hear Race on the other side of the couch. I can’t make out anything he’s saying, and then it doesn’t matter. Katie answers on the second ring. Her voice is tight and upset.

  “My source says it’s him. He’s dangerous, Red.”

  I look around the forest, trying to think of how to calm her down. “Look, Katie, I appreciate your concern, but I’m pretty sure it’s not him. Really.”

  “But this is a relative.”

  “Not his,” I say defensively. “Hers. They’re probably paranoid.”

  “You’re making me really nervous, Red.”

  I roll my eyes. “I can make my own judgment calls, bestie.”

  “I’m just trying to be your friend.”

  “I know, but—”

  Behind me, a door creaks. I turn to find Race standing there in just jeans. His brows are bunched together.

  He steps out.

  “Who are you talking to?”

  “Hang on. Hey Katie, I’ve got to go. Tomorrow?”

  “Doll, I thought I made myself clear. No phone calls.”

  I hear Katie talking to a dead line as he presses the red button on my phone. He pulls me inside, through the bedroom and into the bathroom. I glance at the shower, already warm and ready to be fuck-punished.

  So I’m stunned when he locks his arms around me, pulls me over to a tall, dark wood bookshelf, and pushes it aside, revealing a large, square hole in the wall. Behind the hole, a dark staircase.

  I scream. He scoops me up and starts down the stairs. “I promise not to eat you for breakfast.” He leans down over my head, doing something that feels an awful lot like a brush of his lips on my hair. At the bottom of the staircase, he sets me on my feet and reaches to the side, flicking on a light.

  “Look around. I’ll be right back. I can’t trust you, and I have to make another call.”

  “But Race, I—”

  “Quiet, Red. Just look around. There’s nothing to be scared of.” He speaks over his shoulder as he hustles up the stairs.

  The domineering bastard!

  I rub my tired eyes and force myself to take a good look around the room. It’s lit by a small, oval light at the center of the low ceiling, and is the size of…maybe two or three gas station bathrooms. It’s made entirely of cement: ceilings, floors, and walls, which are lined with shelves that look like unfinished oak. And on the shelves, canvases. I feel a hint of interest in them despite my irritation and fear.

  I puff my breath out. Turn around. Moving makes me feel less trapped, even though, of
course, it’s an illusion. I’m very trapped. I don’t see a single window. Not even those stupid, tiny ones you see in prison cells.

  I look around at all the canvases once more before deciding I can’t just stand here. I’ll panic. I walk back up the cement stairs. There are only eighteen of them, which makes sense, because the walls in the art dungeon are not tall. I’d guess eight feet, max. Did Race have to duck when he stepped into the little room? I don’t remember. Probably because I was too busy flipping out.

  I take the last few stairs on my tiptoes and stand at the door—some kind of wood; maybe oak, like the shelves in the art dungeon. I can’t tell for sure because there’s no light up here at the top of the stairwell. A sliver of gold beams from beneath the door, but it doesn’t do much for this dark space. I tap the door with one knuckle. I can’t tell how thick it is, but maybe not too thick. Maybe I could kick it down if I needed to.

  Surely I won’t.

  He hasn’t hurt me yet.

  That doesn’t mean he won’t, my inner pessimist whispers.

  I walk back down the stairs. I think it’s been fifteen or twenty minutes since he left me here, and the adrenaline that got kicked up when he put me here is starting to leave my body. I feel exhausted. I ache everywhere. I walk around the room, noting a few wood benches, a stockpile of paints, brushes, and a bunch of other cans and jars of miscellaneous painters’ chemicals. In one corner, there are easels. They look store-bought, which stands out to me because the benches are clearly hand-made. In the center of the room, beneath the little light, is a metal stool, covered on top by a thin strip of industrial-looking black rubber.

  I sink down on the stool and take another long breath. It doesn’t smell musty here. I’m not feeling sneezy, like I do when I’m around a lot of dust. I tell myself he comes down here a lot. It’s not a creepy basement; it’s valued storage space.

  I allow myself a look at the backs of several of the canvases nearest to me. They’re standing with their painted sides against the back wall of the shelves, and each one is covered with what looks kind of like a long sheet of tissue paper. I peel the paper off one and turn it around. It’s breathtaking, a spider web between two branches. The colors are perfect. The web is situated so W. perfectly observed the rule of thirds, making the dimensions feel pleasant. And yet…the mood is somehow somber. The web is painted with thick strokes of gray and white, but it has a fragile feeling. I turn it back toward the wall and cover it up.

  I look down at the floor. There’s no drain. I wonder if that’s because we’re below sea level. Now that I think about it, I bet that’s why this room is just one big cement pod. So water can’t leak in. I don’t know much about construction, but it makes a kind of sense.

  At the very least, this space doesn’t seem like it was designed for captives.

  Of course it wasn’t.

  Wolfe or not Wolfe, he doesn’t want anyone around.

  I get up and walk around the room again, and I notice for the first time a low hum. I peek behind some shelves and see a big, black box. My stomach twists as I imagine what it may be, but then I see a sticker on its side: HAMPDEN DEHUMIDIFIERS.

  Duh. Below sea level, it’s going to be moist, so he needs to keep the air dry. To protect his paintings.

  I don’t give a shit about his paintings!

  When is he going to come back? Suddenly I can’t stand being down here.

  I take the stairs two at a time and press my body against the door.

  “RACE,” I call. “RACE, LET ME OUT! I’M SCARED OF SMALL SPACES!”

  It isn’t true. I love nooks and have been known to spend whole weekends in my apartment, watching movies and eating cookie dough with every curtain drawn. Thank God I’m not claustrophobic. I’d have already lost my mind.

  I beat against the door with my fist, but I don’t feel it give—at all.

  I lean my cheek against the door and let my feelings have some reign. “Race, please! Let me out! I won’t tell! I’ll do whatever you want!”

  My heart is pounding now.

  “Race, please! Let me out!”

  I think of hours sliding by, of days passing with no observation from me. I won’t even know what time it is. I’ll die of boredom.

  No I won’t. I’ll starve!

  I look down at myself. Under the little nightgown Race must have put me in last night, I’m thinner than I’ve ever been. I bet I lost at least ten pounds when I started running out of money, and I didn’t have a lot of extra fat before that. What if he never comes back? How long would I last?

  I walk back to the door. “I’ll smash your paintings! One by one! Let me out! Let me out Race! Let me out!”

  I take a few steps back on the little landing at the top of the stairs and make a decision that is either stupid or very smart.

  I jump a few times in place, just to build momentum, and then I ram my shoulder into the door. It doesn’t budge. Clearly, I didn’t hit it hard enough.

  I try again. This time, I hear a cracking sound. I use my knee until I get a bruise, and then I start to kick at it. I’ve seen karate movies—the way they stick their leg out sideways and snap at the knee. I do that a few times. I’m rewarded with another faint crack.

  I step back, pressing my back against the opposite wall—only three or four feet away, since the stairway is so narrow—and I jump at the door, smashing into it with all my weight.

  I notice how sore my chest and knees are before I realize I did it! I broke the wall—which was actually the big bookshelf. I’m on my hands and knees on top of it, covered in dust and splinters but free.

  I take vague note of the toilet, tub, and a painting of a squirrel before I’m on my feet. I look from the secret stairwell to the bathroom doorway. I can see his bedroom, smell the faint scent of something minty. I try to quiet my breathing and listen. As if he doesn’t know I’m here. As if he didn’t hear the massive crash of me busting through the shelf.

  Maybe he really didn’t. He hasn’t come to check on me yet.

  I’m staring at the doorway, wondering if I can get the drop on him during more mad sex, when someone jumps me from behind and throws a sack over my head.

  #

  Don’t hate me! That’s the end. I know I told a few of you I thought this story would be three installments, and that was true. I did. I think I told most of the rest of you it would be three or four, because for better or worse, I’m a “pantser.” I let the story unfold as I write, so I can’t always tell which way it’s going.

  The good news is, I’ve got most of the fourth—and definitely final—installment written already. I’ll probably put it out sometime around the first week of July, but if you want to get a notice when I decide for sure, sign up for my release day newsletter: http://ellajamesbooks.us8.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=a22900f40502ee2fc5671a7bc&id=e7b30fab36

  Believe me, I’ll never message you except about releases. I’m terrible at remembering things like that!

  You can also keep tabs on things by following me on Facebook. I’m www.facebook.com/ellajamesauthorpage. Don’t forget to select ‘get notifications’ or whatever that little doohickey says!

  I have another awesome surprise for you, a kind of consolation prize for not getting the end of Red and Wolfe’s story yet. I teamed up with the wonderful Rockstars of Romance for an exclusive cover and blurb reveal, showcasing my next erotic fairy tale serials. You can check that out right here: http://www.therockstarsofromance.com/3/post/2014/06/exclusive-cover-blurb-reveal-beast-by-ella-james.html

  #

  I want to thank a few people who made this release awesome: My fabulous publicist Rachel Marks, my fabulous personal assistant Chelle, my fabulous agent Rebecca Friedman, my fabulous editor and friend Jessica, and my very fabulous family. My absolutely amazing street team, especially the core group that’s around almost every day, giving a shit about what’s going on with me. I love you guys. A few bloggers who have done much more for me than they had to: Milasy from TRSOR, Angie of Angie’s
Dreamy Reads, Nina from The SubClub, and Hetty from Bestsellers & Beststellars of Romance. I’m sure I’m forgetting someone. If you know me, you know I’ve got the worst memory ever.

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  Looking for something to read while you’re waiting on Red & Wolfe? Check out Selling Scarlett, the first book in my Love Inc. series. It’s free!

  http://www.amazon.com/Selling-Scarlett-ebook/dp/B00CCRTFSC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1365967821&sr=8-1&keywords=selling+scarlett