Like Little Red Riding Hood’s fate,
the Wolf devoured me,
and I couldn’t stop it.
All I could do
was enjoy
how soft his lips were,
how his tongue moved elegantly alongside of mine,
how his scent tugged at the feral beast inside of me and made me want to do nasty things,
how his arms felt so strong and right wrapped around my waist,
how I missed that sensation,
the feeling of being truly adored,
the drumming of another’s heart against my chest,
lips against lips,
minds intermingled in a private session of passion that people could only dream of witnessing.
He let me go. “You kissed me back.”
I said nothing.
Sometimes silence was a better response than a jumble of lust-stricken words.
Dear God, he had me. It wasn’t fair. All the things he’d done tonight should’ve pushed me away. But I wanted him.
I craved Wolf.
And not just yearned to fuck him. I needed to learn about the man behind the ego, the person behind the paint and the passion to change society.
When he pulled away, I needed more.
“Just let me show you something,” he whispered.
I cleared my throat. “What?”
“The gallery.” He licked his lips as if trying to taste me on them. “And then I’ll take you to your friends, and have a car drive your friends and you home if you would like.”
I stood there stunned, still blinking away the lust.
“Red?”
“Don’t kiss me like that again,” I whispered back.
“Can I hold your hand?”
Say no.
But, I blurted out, “Yes.”
He tenderly took my hand, wrapping my fingers in his heat. “Let’s see the art.”
Oh my God. I should turn around. . .but. . .
I followed him down the path like a hypnotized princess walking into a tunnel with an evil wizard ready to strip her of everything. My body hummed with pleasure, and not just the space between my thighs. My eyes yearned to see his art, murals I’d only witnessed on websites and newspapers.
His hands shook as he held mine.
Why is he nervous?
He stopped as in the doorway for a second, inhaled, exhaled, and whispered, “Okay. Here we go. This is my work.”
“I’ve seen it before. You know you’re already a legend, right?”
His hands didn’t stop shaking. “I’m not used to being around someone as they see it. I usually just put it up and run off into the night. When I brought my parents in here, I threw up in the corner over there.”
“Wow.”
“Not much of a wolfy thing to do, huh?”
“Not really.” I walked forward and tugged at him to come with me. “At least you didn’t throw up this time.”
The space was the size of a warehouse. There was no way this place had been a gallery. Someone must have rented the penthouse under it, cleared it all out, knocked away the walls, and made it into a perfect spot to put slabs of brick covered in art.
Like metal to magnet, I couldn’t help myself. I walked in, drawn by the art and the oddness of it all. Here was this white space—cement floor, stark walls, high ceilings, and bright lighting that bathed the area in a bright glow.
“One day, I’m going to have a gallery like this,” I muttered to myself.
He nodded. “Yes, you are. Sooner than you think.”
Hand in hand, we walked around together, my heart pounding in my ears the whole time.
The place looked like a graffiti art museum. There were ten broken away brick walls in the room and mounted against the white walls by huge metal bars. He’d actually had someone cut into the freaking buildings somehow without ruining the mural, and then shipped them off to Miami.
I looked at him. “How much did it cost to get your own work from the street?”
“A fortune for each one. It’s why I only have a few.”
“How many murals have you painted?”
“I stopped counting at a hundred.”
“Damn.” I shook my head. “Amazing.”
Wolf utilized the wall to add to his work. If windows were there, they became the eye of a creature or the opening to a bulging and beating heart. If there were pipes, then he made them the legs or borders of an image.
And he loved color—golden rays where black should be, heavy coats of aqua blues and grassy greens. The few times he used black and white, they were to make a somber point. Solid black prisoners stuck behind white bars as they peered out onto world bursting of color.
“I can’t believe you’re Wolf!”
“Are you sure?” He smirked. “I could be a rich guy that’s obsessed with him.”
“No.” I shook my head. “You have a pretty big reputation for sneaking into places and painting murals in the living rooms of those who steal your work.”
“Aww. You’ve heard the stories.”
“Those stories is what breathes life into our world. It makes new artists like me, motivated to step into the big boys’ shoes.”
“And big girls.”
“Yes. And big girls.”