The Wolf
She doesn’t know how close I was to catching her. How close I came to ruining everything I had been planning for tonight.
From the shadows, I watch her slow, catch her breath, hands braced against the trees. Her hair catches the moonlight—silvered at the ends, damp with sweat. The ribbon at her throat gleams where it presses into her pulse. I can see it beating there, quick, and desperate.
She’s trembling, but not from fear. I can tell the difference.
I can feel the heat radiating from between her thighs as I study the rise and fall of her chest. The look in her eyes causes my dick to twitch. God, I want her, my Little Doe, but I must wait.
I could have had her. One more step and she would have been mine—pressed to the bark, her name breaking against my mouth.
But that’s not what tonight is about. The chase is its own kind of hunger. The chase is half the fun. The chase is the foreplay.
I’ve spent years feeding on glances and distance—the way she leans across the bar, the way her voice dips when she says my name. She doesn’t remember the first night she came into the tavern, all sunshine and nervous laughter, asking for a drink that didn’t taste like alcohol.
I do. I remember every word. Every look.
She talks to me like I’m safe, like I’m just the man who pours her whiskey and listens to her dreams and her fears.
If she knew what I wanted—what I have always wanted—she’d never look at me the same again.
I can’t count how many times I’ve seen her lean across the bar, perfume and whisky filling my senses.
I remember seeing warmth spread across her cheeks, her pulse racing in her throat, a bead of sweat dripping down her cleavage.
The thought of leaning over the bar to trace it with my tongue is only that, a thought.
I could never bring myself to act on these impulsive thoughts. Not until tonight.
When she first told me she liked stories with monsters, I laughed. Said those were just fantasies, paper, and ink. But she looked up at me, eyes wide and shining, and said, “Maybe. But the best stories are the ones we normally won’t admit we like aloud, don’t you?”
That was the moment I knew she was mine—even if she didn’t yet. The kind of girl who dreams of sin and darkness and doesn’t flinch when the shadows reach back. The kind of girl who embraces said darkness and sin. The kind of girl I have gone absolutely feral for.
Now I watch her from the edge of the clearing as she lifts her camera and takes that last photo—the fire dying behind her, the smoke curling between us like a secret, the field clear of all but a few staff cleaning up after the town’s festivities.
She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t have to. Her body already knows I’m here.
I can see the moment her breath falters, the way her body instinctively knows I am watching her, waiting for her, consumed by her. It takes every fiber of my being not to sprint into the clearing and take her right there on the ground, to hell with anyone who watches.
It’s not time yet, I remind myself. The restraint causes physical pain, my balls twitch, desperate for release.
She starts walking again, back on the trail towards the village lights.
Each step she takes pulls a thread tighter inside me.
If I wanted to, I could follow her home.
She wouldn’t hear me, wouldn’t know until it was too late.
But that’s not what tonight is for. It’s not time for her to go home, it’s time for her to understand her darkness and relish in it.
But I promised myself I’d wait. Not because she isn’t ready—because I’m not.
What I want from her… it isn’t simple. It isn’t soft. And when she finally looks at me—really looks at me—I want her to understand what she’s asking for.
An image flashes across my mind, of Sirena, my Little Doe, crumbling under my touch.
My name, breathless on her lips the way I’ve dreamed of her saying.
Feeling every inch of her, claiming every molecule in her body for myself.
Bringing the pleasure out of her she so desperately craves.
I exhale hard, forcing the image away. It's not time.
The forest folds around me again, and for the first time in years, I feel alive. She’ll come back. She won’t be able to help herself.
And when she does… I’ll stop pretending to be the man she knows.