Page 18 of Wolf

“Mommy?”

I yank back from her, snatching my hand away so hard I slap myself in the chest. Julia whips her head around, eyes wide, lips parted. Even now, I can’t help noticing how plump and delectable her lips are, how they would fit so nicely around me.

“Mommy?” Artie sounds distant. He must be calling from wherever he sleeps.

“Coming, honey!” Julia manages to sound remarkably calm.

“One of us did, anyway,” I mutter, and grin.

She gives me a very unintimidating glare. “You’ll be the only one who does, tonight. Whenever he calls for me, I wind up reading to him for at least an hour. You should probably go.”

“Seriously? But you haven’t…”

“I will later.” Her eyes sparkle with sudden mischief. “I promise. I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Julia…”

“Go.” She gives me a quick, deep kiss, and I clamp my mouth on hers before she manages to get free again. “See yourself out.”

With that, she gets to her feet and hurries off, straightening her clothes as she goes. It’s all I can do not to go after her. I make myself get up, and then I make myself turn around and go to the front door. Outside, the air is damp and warm, a sweaty embrace. A light breeze provides a little reprieve, and I turn my face into it and breathe until it dies down. Then, I get on my bike and ride off.

Tonight, a door has been opened. I don’t know where it leads. My body buzzes in anticipation of stepping through and finding out.

Chapter 8

Julia

My hands sting with micro-cuts from yardwork. Pulling weeds is awful without gloves, but Mom didn’t have any. Add it to the list of basic necessities I need to get.

My back also aches and my thighs burn, but those are good pains brought on from hard work. Those are pains to be proud of, like the soreness after giving birth.

Or after a good fucking.

The breeze stirs my hair against my neck, the strands tickling me like fingers caressing me. I shiver all over, reminded of Wolf’s touch despite his hands being so much more demanding and possessive than the wind. It’s been a few days since that night and I’ve masturbated multiple times since, rubbing my clit while imagining that it’s him doing it to me. Before bed, in the shower, it’s like I’m working overtime to get a fraction of the satisfaction that he would be able to give me.

I wish I’d given him my number so I could call him. Instead, I’m always in anticipation, always on edge, wondering when I’ll turn around and see him coming my way. That I haven’t seen him prowling around at all, or heard a motorcycle passing by the house, disappoints me in a way I’m not prepared to admit. It’s one thing to crave his touch, another entirely to want his company. It’s hard to differentiate between the two, that’s all.

That’s what I tell myself.

I pause in my work to give my back another break and check on Artie, who’s outside playing in the yard. Mom’s inside taking a nap. She takes a lot of naps throughout the day, like a particularly sleepy cat.

Artie’s exactly where I left him, playing with some plastic animal figurines in the grass. He’s ripped up some of the weeds and is using the pile to feed them, herbivores and carnivores alike. I smile, then turn my attention back to my work.

There’s a car coming down the road, a sleek, new model that’s entirely unlike any of the other vehicles in Helena. No one here is particularly rich, definitely not rich enough to shell out the extra cash on a vehicle like the one coming my way.

Wait. My heart thumps. I’m awful with cars, but that’s a Mercedes Benz. Not only is it a Mercedes, it’s a silvery shade of blue.

That’s exactly what Malcolm drives.

My hands clamp into fists, nails digging in my palms. I pray for it to be a coincidence.

It’s not. Of course not. The car swings into the driveway. The engine dies and the driver’s door swings open. He steps out.

Six feet exactly, he’s got the same level of sleek polish as his vehicle. His chestnut hair is slicked back from his forehead in a smooth wave, the longer top blending with the shorter sides. His jawline is marked by a dusting of a beard. His upper lip receives the same treatment from a moustache. His nose is straight, his eyes a little narrow as if in a perpetual look of concentration.

I used to love how he always seemed deep in thought. Shortly after meeting him, I had formed an image of him in my head as an old-school lawyer, the sharp and studious kind, always ready for a challenge. Having observed him at work, I had learned that impression was correct. He always knew the loopholes and workarounds, and how to shut them down when other people tried to use them against him.

More often, I had seen him use those techniques against me.