Red & Wolfe, Part I: An Erotic Fairy Tale by Ella James

Author:Ella James [James, Ella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Barkley's Books
Published: 2014-05-09T00:00:00+00:00

My cheeks heat up, as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy actually clenches, like it’s saying “fuck me now.”

Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.

Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.

A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard, his cheekbones stark and high. His mouth, which twists when he sees me, is full and pink and sensuous. And yet, there’s something harsh about it. Almost mean. I picture it closing around my nipple, sucking me before he sinks his teeth into my tender flesh.

His eyes flick up to mine and my heart beings to hammer. They’re dark brown—intense and long-lashed—but that’s not what makes me stop mid-stride. No. It’s the way they sweep me up and down, so obviously assessing.

Does he find me wanting? Satisfactory?

I want to take a step closer and yank off his Mets ball cap. I want to run my fingers through his hair.

I notice I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m recovering from a panic attack.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He steps toward me and I lick my lips.

“You’re Red.” His voice is so low, I can feel the timbre of it between my legs.

“You’re…not my grandmother.”

“No.” His mouth presses into a tight line. “Red,” he says slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Gertrude passed a few days ago.”

“She died?”

He nods once. “She did.”

He swipes his cap off his head, revealing short, black hair.

I stare at it, as if it might help me comprehend. I waited a lifetime to meet my grandmother, longed for her since my mother died, and came this close to knowing her? How could she be gone?

My eyes water—from shock or disappointment? Maybe from the wind. “When did she die?”

“Earlier in the week,” he says.

I can’t believe it. I cut my eyes away from him, casting my gaze into the water lapping at the wood posts of the dock. I run my eyes back up his body, and in that moment, I resent his beauty. I don’t want to notice the way his slacks hang on his muscled legs, the way the wind presses his button-up to his washboard abs.

And yet I do.

So inappropriate.

I put a hand over my face and try to collect myself. When I feel cooler—too cool now; cold—I ask, “So the money…? It’s an inheritance?”

His features morph, from neutral to furious in seconds. “So it was the money,” he barks.

“What?”

“You needed money.” His tone is harsh and judging.

“The money was given to me. I didn’t ask for it.”

He makes a face that starts out as a wince and turns into an angry smirk. “That’s how I got you here. Money grubber.”

My stomach tightens. “I’m not a money grubber. What do you mean ‘got me here?’” It hits me like a cannon ball that I don’t even know who he is, this man who’s suddenly so angry with me. “Who are you?”

“My name is Race.

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