Page 22 of Wolfish Player (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #2)

THE AUTHOR

HEATHER

T he next morning, I show up to work praying for space from Adrian. I need distance, but I hate how my brain won’t stop replaying him fucking me, like my body is conspiring against me.

“We have a change of plans,” he says. “I need you to come with me somewhere.”

“I think we need some, uh, space.”

“The town car is outside waiting for us.” He grabs my hand without engaging any further.

My body is still on edge from yesterday, in limbo between wanting more and savoring the memories in case it never happens again.

“Good morning, Miss Barrett. Mr. Wolfson.” The driver holds the backseat door open for us and we slide inside.

“Where are we going exactly?” I ask Adrian as we hit the road.

“You’re going to help me check out some spaces for a writing retreat for some authors.”

“Okay…” I lean back against the seat as he eyes me. I try to keep my breathing even, try to keep my pulse from giving me away.

When I awake, Adrian is running his fingers through my hair. Through the rearview mirror, his eyes meet mine.

And they stay there for miles.

Thankfully, the driver clears his throat and begins asking Adrian about the weather, instantly siphoning some of the tension.

Well, some of it…

He makes a turn down a winding driveway and parks in front of a sleek house that overlooks a lake.

“This would be a perfect spot for a writers’ retreat,” I say, stepping out. “I think a lot of the authors would really appreciate it.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Adrian walks onto the veranda and unlocks the door, ushering me inside.

I’m immediately swept into a room of wooden beams and walls of windows that frame the lake like a portrait.

The hallway opens into two bedrooms—mirror images of each other but dressed like opposite moods.

One is all soft greys and silver, a calm retreat.

The other is darker—navy sheets, low lighting, shelves lined with worn books.

Each room has a writing desk pressed against the windows, the lake stretching endless beyond the glass, like the house itself was designed to strip away excuses and force the words out.

My fingers are suddenly itching to type, and I’m feeling inspired by the views.

“Okay, I approve of this location,” I say. “We can check out the next option now.”

“We’re staying here this weekend.”

“We?”

“Yes. You and I.” His voice is firm. “Why else do you think I would bring you here?”

“You said it was to look at writing retreat options.”

“Glad you’re putting two and two together,” he says. “You’re going to stay here, and you can sleep in the grey bedroom, and you’re going to keep working on your book. There’s a weekend bag for you in the closet.”

“Where will you be?”

“In the other bedroom,” he says. “I have writing of my own to do.”

As if he can tell I think he’s lying, he pulls a notebook from his bag and tosses it on the table.

The front cover reads From the desk of M.L. Emerson.

The name burns into my retinas. My mouth goes dry. The mysterious and prolific legend of publishing, the author everyone speculates about? It’s him?

I blink once. Twice. Waiting for the world to right itself. It doesn’t.

“You’re him?” I still can’t believe it.

“Don’t tell anyone back at the office, but yes.” He picks it up. “So, contrary to what you said a while ago, I know exactly what goes into writing a book. Get busy.”

The trees weren’t rustling tonight. They had no more answers for me…

I pause on my book and check my word count in disbelief.

I’ve typed over six thousand words in a single writing session.

The last time I did that? Back before the book deal…

Letting out a breath, I close my laptop and venture into the kitchen.

The refrigerator is stocked with snacks and there’s a “Places That Deliver Here” list tacked onto its side.

“Making any progress?” Adrian is suddenly behind me.

“Some.” My voice is breathier than I’d like. “You?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough that I think I can go home for the rest of the weekend.”

“You honestly think I would let that happen?”

“If you don’t, you’d be committing a kidnapping.”

“It’s not kidnapping if the victim is willing…”

I turn, meaning to brush past him, but he doesn’t move. He’s leaning against the counter, arms braced on either side, caging me in. His cologne and the heat of his body steal the air from my lungs.

“Adrian…” I whisper. I don’t even know if it’s a protest or an invitation.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes burning into mine.

I don’t.

His mouth crashes onto mine, hard, unrelenting. The kiss is all heat and teeth and tongue, leaving me gasping. His hand slides to my wrist, pinning it against the counter, while the other clamps onto my hip, pulling me flush against the erection straining his slacks.

A whimper escapes my throat. He swallows it, kissing me deeper, until my knees threaten to give.

He lifts me suddenly, my legs locking around his waist as he carries me backward. My spine hits the glass wall, the cold shocking against my skin. He grinds against me through our clothes, and the window rattles faintly with every roll of his hips.

“ Ahhhh ,” I gasp when his hand slides under my blouse, rough palm covering my breast. He squeezes, thumb brushing over my nipple until I arch into him, shameless and needy.

His mouth drags down my neck, biting lightly at the base. “You taste so fucking good…”

All I can do is moan as he thrusts harder against me.

“This is what you’ve been dreaming about, isn’t it?” he growls against my throat. “Me taking you apart?”

We don’t make it far before he carries me to the living room, his lips still devouring mine. He drops me onto the couch, his tie dangling loose, his jacket already gone.

“Take it off,” he orders, eyes fixed on me.

I hesitate for half a second. Then I pull my blouse over my head, baring lace that suddenly feels far too fragile. His gaze darkens. He shoves my skirt up and presses me back into the cushions, his mouth covering every inch of exposed skin.

When I reach for him, he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. His other hand skims lower, tracing my stomach, slipping beneath lace until his fingers slide between my thighs.

I gasp, hips jerking, as he circles my clit with slow, devastating precision.

“You don’t like this?” he drawls.

“No…” I bite out a lie, breathless.

“Liar…”

My attempt at another insult turns into another moan when he thrusts two fingers inside me, pumping slow, steady, relentless. His thumb never leaves my clit, the dual assault pushing me closer and closer until I’m gasping his name.

When release finally rips through me, I cry out, shuddering beneath him. He doesn’t let up until I’m trembling, undone.

Then his mouth crashes back onto mine, hungry, consuming, as if he’s determined to make me come apart all over again.

A sharp sound cuts through the haze—the rip of foil. My eyes fly open. Heat and embarrassment flood my cheeks, mixing with a darker rush of relief I don’t want to name. The fact that he thought ahead, that he came prepared, only makes my pulse race harder.

“You’re actually—” I start, breathless.

“Bend for me,” he cuts me off, sliding the condom on with practiced precision. His voice drops, wicked and low. “I’m not letting you pretend this didn’t happen later…”

By Sunday afternoon, I’m staring at a number I never thought I’d see again: ten thousand words. My body aches, my fingers ache, but for the first time in months, my pulse is thrumming with life.

And I don’t let myself think twice about the fact that I’ve screwed Adrian four more times this weekend and spent every night tangled in his arms.