Wicked Wolff

by Reese Spenser

  “Breathe through your nose sweetheart.”

  Tears leak from her eyes, but with my help she manages to swallow me whole. I thrust faster, my cock sliding up and down her throat. When I pull up, she swallows before I fill her throat again. My release tightens my balls and I close my eyes. My hand finds their way into Eve’s hair, gripping it. When my seed spills from my cock and past her lips all I see is Olivia.

  What the fuck!

  Chapter 2

  Olivia

  THERE IS SOMETHING mythical about watching the sunrise. The way the colors peek out of the sky just before dawn. The condo complex where I live is conveniently located within walking distance of the beach. And I get to see this remarkable occurrence every morning while jogging along the beach. Being a native New Yorker, the beach never really held any fascination for me. However, since moving to Los Angeles three months ago, I’m ready to try new things, like jogging on the beach at sunrise, surfing and sunbathing.

  I make my way back to my condo for a quick shower before heading out to one of the local farmer’s market. The Hollywood Farmers’ Market has been my choice for the past few weeks. With its wide range of activities, I can see why it has become a community meeting place. It offers everything from live music, activities for children, to a rich variety of artisans selling their handmade arts and crafts. Next month I will be added to the list of cookbook authors to have a book-signing here.

  Today, the Market is where local families who live in the neighborhood and some of Southern California’s most respected chefs come for their weekly food source.

  Givens Farm is my destination today. They have a great selection of fresh organic produce and it doesn’t take me long to find everything I need to stock my pantry for the week.

  Wandering leisurely through the market, I stop at several vendors before the music of a local street performer grabs my attention. I listen as my heart pounds in my chest, matching each strum of his guitar. There is something about the emotional melodic chords that hold me captive. Something about it conjures memories of my encounter with Mr. Wolff. Thoughts of him invade my mind. I close my eyes, not sure if I’m trying to shut out the memory of how strikingly erotic and staggeringly beautiful he is or recapture the memory of the pure animal sexuality he exudes. The way he stalked towards me like a predator approaching his prey, his gray gaze was filled with need, as hungry as a wolf, seeking to devour me.

  God help me, I want to be consumed by the gray wolf.

  The music ends, and I open my eyes. The crowd applauds, almost everyone drops money into the open guitar case, including me. I give what I have in my wallet and would gladly pay more to see him perform live at a concert.

  Leaving the farmer’s market behind, I walk east on Selma Avenue, making my way to my car. Parking was difficult to find, but I got lucky. I’m behind the wheel of my car approaching Argyle Avenue when I get a nice view of the Hollywood Sign to the north.

  I still can’t believe I live here. A few short months ago I was happy to call New York City my home. I had plans there. Open a bistro, write another cookbook and start a family someday. But all that changed when I became a contestant on ‘I Want To Be A Celebrity Chef’. I didn’t let myself dream of winning, but that’s what happened. I won, and everything changed again.

  The pilot episode of my cooking show tapes tomorrow, and I can’t get pass the feeling that some disaster is about to befall me.

  It’s after one in the afternoon when I reach home. The loft style condo is the perfect contemporary urban dwelling. My brother Julian insisted that I move into one of his properties after I won the cooking competition and would be staying in Los Angeles. I indulge him because I know he worries about me living alone so far away. The sixteen hundred square feet two-bedroom, two and a half bath unit is a lot for one person. On the plus side, and there is a lot on the plus side, the expansive windows have a stunning view and downtown Los Angeles is just a short drive away. The dark hardwood floors are nice but it’s the kitchen that gets me hot and bothered. Stainless Steel appliances and cabinets with frosted glass barn doors, it’s a cook’s dream kitchen. Evenings on the balcony relaxing with a glass of wine has become my favorite ritual.

  The sound of my phone ringing ends the mental tour of my new home. The caller ID reads ‘JRF;’ my brother, Julian Robert Frost.

  ‘Hello brother.” I greet.

  “How did the launch party go last night?” He asks without preamble.

  Like I said, he worries about me. “Did any of those Hollywood fast talkers give you a hard time?”

  “No one gave me a hard time. I made a brief appearance, staying long enough to take a few photos for social media.”

  “So, when does the first show air?”

  “Not for a few months. We shoot the pilot tomorrow.”

  “Are you nervous.”

  “About the cooking. No.” I take a deep breath, releasing some of the anxiety I feel.

  “What’s got you nervous?”

  “What if I fail? What if this is all a big mistake?”

  “You don’t fail Livie.” The use of the nickname he gave me so long ago has me missing him and home. “You are the most resilient person I know. And you can do anything you set your mind to. This is no different from any other challenge you’ve undertaken.”

  “How did you get so smart?”

  “Five years of college and life experience,” he deadpans.

  “How are you?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation away from me.

  “I’m not on the cover of any tabloids this week, so that’s a win.”

  I laugh; my brother is notoriously famous for his playboy antics that seems to fuel bad press and sell newspapers. “And how is dad?”

  “He had a rough couple of days, but he’s on the mend.”

  Our father took a fall down the stairs recently and suffered a mild concussion. Julian and Mila, my father’s wife, assured me that there was no need to return home. Mila is a nurse and has taken excellent care of my father over the years, before and after their marriage. I trust her judgement.

  Julian and I continue to catch up for the next half hour. Before ending the call, I promise to check in every few days. My stomach growls and the gnawing at my backbone reminds me that I haven’t had lunch.

  I make my way to the kitchen to prepare a meal of a southwestern grill chicken salad. The salad is light and refreshing, using most of the ingredients I purchased at the farmer’s market. Reviewing the recipes for tomorrow’s show, I dine and work at the granite countertop breakfast bar in the kitchen.

  After lunch I spend a few hours working on my new cookbook. I plan to prepare many of the recipes on the show. Although the show hasn’t been officially titled yet, it will focus on French cuisine, my specialty. Coming up with new ways to prepare a dish has always been a passion of mine. And that passion transferred to French cuisine when I spent a summer in the South of France with Julia, my brother Julian’s mother.

  We dined at some of the best restaurants and I made a game out of guessing the ingredients used to prepare my meals. But it wasn’t until we had dinner one night at a quaint family owned bistro that I actually fell in love with the artistry of Southern French Cuisine. That’s also when I knew I wanted to be a chef and own a bistro myself someday. I was sixteen when we took that trip. And seven years later that dream is within reach.

  By bedtime the anxiety I felt earlier in the day has given way to calmness. Prepping for the first day of shooting provides me with a sense of clarity. But lying in bed tossing and turning, sleep eludes me. And my mind once again fills with thoughts of piercing smoky gray eyes. Closing my eyes, I welcome the sensual assault on my senses.

  The rich deep baritone of his voice plays on a loop in my head. And I can’t forget how his mouth felt on my skin when he sucked my fingers. My body shudders reacting to the memory. No man has ever been so bold with me. And I find myself eager for the slightest touch from him.

  Monday morning my alarm go
es off and I hop out of bed, ready to start my day. I shower and dress quickly before grabbing a cup of coffee and heading out the door. The commute to work isn’t bad for a Monday morning. The sentiment is quickly dashed away when I get a flat tire six blocks away from Gray Wolff Studio. Parking the car, I gamble, deciding to walk the rest of the way instead of changing the tire.

  I’m ten minutes late and rushing pass security when disaster number two occurs. The heel on my shoe breaks, sending me tumbling down onto the marble floor on my ass. Several security guards rush over to help, but I’m on my feet before they reach me. Realizing that I have held up production on the first day, a pang of guilt hits me hard. Removing my shoes, I hurry to my dressing room.

  The crew from hair and makeup greet me as I walk in. Before I can apologize for my tardiness, I’m ushered behind a screen and Jean, from wardrobe, is urging me to change my clothing. Exactly seven minutes later I’m on set ready to tape the pilot episode.

  Take after take I’m fumbling around the kitchen. Missing the mark and unable to find my groove. Everything feels foreign to me, different from how I arranged it last week.

  “Let’s take a break.” Joel Harper, the director announces.

  I hear his frustration and that of the production crew as they leave the set. Knowing my time will be better spent reorganizing the set kitchen, I forgo taking a break.

  Making my way back to my dressing room, I wait for the next inevitable event. Shit always happens in threes. First, I get a flat tire, making me seventeen minutes late. Then I discover that everything has been rearranged in the kitchen, causing me to look like a bumbling idiot. Another disaster awaits to complete this rule of three. It’s Murphy’s Law.

  Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

  I don’t know how long I stay secluded in my dressing groom weeping silently. But I have ‘ time to dry my eyes before I come face to face with him. The Gray Wolff.

  Chapter 3

  Dorian

  I’M MAKING MY WAY ACROSS the parking lot of Gray Wolff Studio, when I spy Olivia racing toward the entry of the building. My footsteps hasten to catch up with her. She has me salivating like Pavlov’s fucking dog eager for the mere sight of her.

  Upon entering the lobby, I notice immediately that the security guards are distracted.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, gaining their attention.

  “Miss Frost fell to the floor a few moments ago and we were trying to decide if we should file an incident report.” Jerry Coates, the senior of the two men responds.

  Scanning the lobby, I look for an injured Olivia.

  “Was Miss Frost hurt after she fell?”

  “She didn’t appear to be.” Kyle Eastman, the new guy shares his observation. “She seemed to be in a hurry when she ran away.”

  “Ran away! What do you mean?” I bark.

  “What Kyle means, Mr. Wolff, is that after Miss Frost stumbled to the floor, she took off her shoes and left before we could assist her.” Coates clarifies.

  “File the incident report.” I instruct.

  “And what about her shoes. Should I toss them or send them to her dressing room.”

  “I’ll take them,” I hear myself saying.

  The two men eye me questionably, before handing over Olivia’s shoes. The heel was broken on one shoe, which explains why she fell. I take my leave in search of Cinderella.

  When I find Olivia, she’s in the middle of shooting the pilot episode of her show. She moves zombie-like about the set kitchen, preparing each dish. And the director’s displeasure after each take seems to be wearing her down.

  Joel Harper, the show’s director, calls for a break after a few hours. Olivia stays behind, and I watch her from the shadows off set. After her task is complete, satisfaction curls her lips as she leaves the set.

  Olivia is in her dressing room with the door slightly ajar. Her nearness fuels my desires. My cock is a blazing arrow pointing directly to her. With her back to me, her shoulders are slumped, and she appears to be crying. When she turns to face me, her tear stained face and glassy blue eyes meets my gaze.

  I say the first thing that pop in my head.

  “I get that you’re having a bad day, but a few bad takes and a broken heel will not get the show cancelled.” They are not the words I wanted to say to her. But they make her smile. Of their own volition my feet move toward her.

  “I believe these are yours,” I say, presenting her shoes.

  “You had the heel repaired.” Olivia observes, as she takes her shoes. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure Sunshine.”

  Upon further inspection Olivia concludes that the shoes are brand new.

  “I can’t accept these.” She says returning the shoes to me.

  “You don’t like them?”

  “Of course, I like them. They are the exact match to the pair I ruined.”

  “Then why not...”

  “And I know how much they cost,” She says cutting me off.

  “Then you know I can afford them.”

  “Did you buy every female employee a pair of shoes today?” Olivia challenges.

  “I will if that’s what you want.”

  “Your money doesn’t impress me Mr. Wolff.”

  “Tell me what will?”

  My words come out weak, lacking confidence. For a moment, I’m reminded of a time when the words coming out of my mouth weren’t my own. When the demands of my cock held my brain and will power hostage.

  That was then, and this is now, and I have fought it as long as I can. But resisting her is as effective as sunblock in hell. It’s fucking useless. The palpable energy that seems to charge the air whenever I’m near Olivia pulls me toward her. And the devil riding my shoulder tells me to take what I want.

  So I do.

  I don’t give her a chance to answer the question. My arms wrap around Olivia’s waist and a stinging nip to her bottom lip force her mouth open. Taking advantage my tongue plunges deep stroking hers. At first the kiss is wild and heated with an edge of desperation. But then Olivia leans into me, returning my kiss with a gentleness that could tame the beast and set me free. I pull away, stunned by the effect her kiss has on me but pleased with her response.

  ‘You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.” The quote from Gone with the Wind comes unbidden. I might have regretted saying it if Olivia didn’t smile against my lips despite the cheesy line.

  “Mr. Wolff, I do declare, you make a girl’s heart practically jump out her chest,” she says effecting a southern belle accent.

  Not bad for a New Yorker, I thought.

  My mouth covers hers again and my hands find their way into her hair. The sensual feel of her silky strands between my fingers hardens my cock. And I resist the urge to wrap her platinum tresses around my fist.

  “Dorian.” She moans, breaking the kiss.

  At the sound of my name and the sight of Olivia’s swollen lips, satisfaction fills me.

  “I need to get back to the set.” Olivia pants.

  When she makes no effort to leave my embrace, I continue to explore her mouth, kissing her deeply. Her body reacts eagerly to my touch as if each sensation is a new discovery.

  “Dorian, please.” She begs, saying my name again. And fuck if that isn’t the best sound ever.

  Freeing herself from my arms, I release her reluctantly.

  “I want to see you again. Away from here.”

  She takes a deep breath before saying. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She grabs a pair of shoes from wardrobe, before heading back to the set.

  I’m alone in her dressing room long after she has left. Dumbfounded I try to remember the last time a woman has turned me down.

  Fucking never.

  Chapter 4

  Olivia

  RUSHING BACK TO THE set fifteen minutes early, sure that I would be the first person back. But it wasn’t meant to be when the disapproving tone in Joel’s voice catch me off guard.
r />   “Glad to see you made it back on time, Sunshine.”

  His use of the nickname Dorian just called me, is beyond embarrassing.

  “The next time you decide to hook up with the boss remember to remove your mic.”

  And there it is, disaster freaking number three. Leaving the damn mic on while Dorian was trying to seduce me.

  “It takes about a week to complete a thirty-minute episode for a show. At any given time, more than eighty people can be working together to make a TV show. The production team and the crew are as important as the talent. You’d be wise to remember that.”

  The afternoon shoot goes long into the evening. And it’s after eight p.m. when I leave Gray Wolff Studio. Walking the six blocks back to my car, the sky opens and a down pour of rain begins to chill my skin. I’m soaked by the time I reach my car but pleased to find that roadside assistance has changed the flat tire. The commute home is less than ideal due to heavy traffic, rain and the wet clothes clinging to my body.

  It’s after nine when I finally walk through my front door. I begin stripping away my clothes the moment I lock the door behind me. Making my way to the master suite, the shower beckons me. The hot water warms me almost immediately, and the massage setting on the shower head soothes away my stressful day.

  My body begins to relax under the pulsating flow. Free of inhibition my mind begins to replay the scene with Dorian in my dressing room. His touch was casual, yet possessive as if he's touched me a thousand times. A moan escapes, remembering how he used his tongue, lips and teeth, to ignite a blazing fire within me. His kisses were so passionate they still burn hot like wildfire. But I had to stop myself from making a mistake I will only regret.

  Relaxing on the balcony with a glass of wine is a part of my nightly routine. Usually I’m home in time to watch the sunset. Tonight, I find tranquility among the stars. However, my solitude is invaded by the ringing of my cell phone. I let it ring three times before deciding to take the call. But hesitate when I don’t recognize the phone number.