Page 27 of Wolfish Player
“Please—fuck—please!” My voice breaks as my body bows up off the couch.
And then I come undone.
The orgasm rips through me so violently I scream, trembling against his mouth as he keeps licking, keeps sucking, wringing every last wave out of me until I collapse in a boneless heap.
When I finally manage to breathe, he pulls back just enough to smirk up at me, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his fingers through my hair, possessive and taunting.
“When was the last time you wrote on your book?”
“A couple weeks ago.” I’m still coming down. “I wrote two chapters.”
“Hm.” His gaze lingers on me, unreadable, before he finally stands.
“Do you feel better now, Miss Barrett?” His tone shifts as if his mouth wasn’t just on me.
I can only nod.
“Good.” He straightens his cuffs. “You can make up the time I spent massaging and tasting you by coming in three hours early tomorrow. You’re welcome.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
It’s four a.m., and my body is staging a full rebellion. Every step toward Grey Wolf feels like I’m dragging cement blocks instead of feet.
When I step into the lobby, Mr. Wolfson is sitting at the receptionist desk, holding the second book in myWildwoodsaga.
I stare at him, completely confused.
“What happens next in this story?” he asks, flicking his gaze between the cover and me.
“What?”
“It ended on a cliffhanger,” he says. “What happens next?”
“A lot…”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s on my laptop,” I say. “I got halfway through it but stopped writing it years ago.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t selling,” I admit. “I think it sold like two hundred copies total, and I…I just couldn’t afford to finish it, you know? I had to keep moving on to something that did.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
“If you’re that interested, I can print out what I have and?—”
“Yes,” he interrupts me. “I would like that.”
“Okay…” I wait for him to insult me so I can take the elevator upstairs. “Well, my boss insisted that I come in super early today, so I’m going to go upstairs if you don’t mind.”
“He doesn’t want you upstairs just yet.” He moves from behind the desk and walks to me. “Come here.”
He places his hand against the small of my back, sending a jolt of warmth through my body as he leads me down the hall and into one of the lounges that’s named after one of the firm’s top-selling authors.
Bright lights spill across the room, illuminating rows of chairs and framed covers lining the walls—every one belonging to M.L. Emerson, the elusive powerhouse whose books never leave the charts.
