Red and the Wolf

Travel seems to tap into my creative streak. My trip to the oldest town in the United States, Saint Augustine again proves that true. An inn and a sexy man walking through inspired this tale.

It happened while I sat at the dining room table of the historic bed-and-breakfast inn.

Because the check-in area was a tiny space, the owner, Mrs. Lopez had asked me to wait in the combination parlor and dining room until she finished with the guests before me. The scent of coffee and pancakes lingered. The period décor reflected in the ornate furniture, colorful ceramic dishware, and noble art, took me back in time. My mind wandered into the late 1500s when this settlement began.

The inn-keeper interrupted my thoughts and explained there was a room mix-up. Over her shoulder, I noticed a man smiling at me. He stood past the check-in desk in the stairwell by the front door. Mrs. Lopez continued telling me it would be a while before she could confirm my room availability. While she talked, I explored the man’s captivating eyes and dark hair highlighting his olive skin. He flat out turned me on. He was a broad man wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, untucked. He wore work-pants, not jeans that paired with sturdy work boots. I couldn’t decide if he was a guest or a worker at this bed-and-breakfast. Either way, my body responded to him. I was like a wildflower in a field with a bee buzzing around me.

The owner left to attend to her room problem, and he slipped both hands in his front pants pockets, turned his shoulders inward tucking his chin and cast his eyes on me. With a subtle invitation, he nodded his head toward the upstairs. He was like a magnetic force drawing me closer. My body vibrated in response. I stood and walked toward him. He reached his hand out; I clasped it, and he pulled me upstairs. I was spellbound.

At the top of the stairs, he opened a door and ushered us in.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said.

“For me?”

“Yes, you, the red-headed spitfire. I have your gift.”

“I don’t understand.”

He walked me against the door, squeezed my hands, and dropped to his knees. Shivers ran up my body as my mind tried to process what was happening.

His warm hands caressed my bare legs and moved upward. I dropped my hands to his soft, inky colored hair.

“It’s a gift you deserve.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I’m here to provide you enjoyment.”

Was it the twinkle of his eyes, the sincerity of his smile or my aroused body that confirmed I deserved a present?

“I like gifts.” I nodded at him. After his fingers gathered my hemline, he pushed my skirt up which bared my vulva to him.

“No panties.”

I inhaled a shaky breath. “No panties.”

As he held the cloth at my waist with one hand, he stroked down my wet seam with the other, teasing my nub as he went. I burned like white-hot coals.

“You know Spaniards are attentive lovers.”

“Are you going to show me?” I squirmed inhaling my aroused essence as he wet his fingers in his mouth and then drew circles on my clit. A door slammed in the distance which almost pulled me away from him.

“Yes. Love of women tames my tongue.”

“Your tongue is my gift?”

“Yes, I’m your blessed wolf, here to serve your womanly petals.”

As his mouth touched my wet lips below, electricity sizzled through me, and I wiggled against him.

His tongue. Oh, yes.

His full lips and his dynamic tongue. Lapping. Sucking. Oh, yes.

I wanted to ride his face.

I wanted to feel these exquisite sensations forever.

I was soaring into an orgasm.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you, all right?”

The bed-and-breakfast owner stood in front of me in the dining room. My heart pounded, and my skin flushed. I put my hand to my chest to ground myself.

“I think I am.” Mrs. Lopez observed me as I looked around for the man.

“Did you have a little ghost encounter?”

“An encounter?”

“We have a romantic ghost here who loves redheaded women.”

“A ghost, you say?” Is Mrs. Lopez for real? Could that be possible? Could a ghost provide such pleasure?

“I hear he’s talented. Come this way so I can get you your key. Check out the portrait behind you.”

As I rose from my chair, I turned. Decked out in period finery, my tongue lover smiled down at me. The picture captured him in another lifetime, in different clothes, and in a different stance, but it was him.

“Just a moment, please and I’ll be right there. I’d like a closer look.”

The plaque at the bottom of the artful painting caught my eye. It read:

“Julio Sanchez Lopez. John, Son of the blessed, Son of the wolf.”

My blessed wolf.

“Mrs. Lopez, what is my room number?”

“We use colors, my dear. You’re in the Red Room.”

I shook my head and grinned at the portrait. “Señor, Lopez. I think you can find me. Red and the wolf have unfinished business.”