Best Christmas present ever?

  Famous actress and secret submissive Sheridan Stratford can’t wait to collect her Christmas gift from Mistress Nora—a two-hour session with the Big Brad Wolfe, one of New York’s top male dominants. But when she’s snowed in with Mr. Wolfe for the night, Sheridan is forced to reckon with the sacrifices she’s had to make for her career. She expected to get eaten by a wolf, not fall in love with one…

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a standalone novella featuring characters from the Original Sinners series. For readers already following the series, it begins the December before Mistress Nora and crew moves to New Orleans.

  To the lone wolves still looking for their pack.

  And to all the girls who have forgotten how much fun it is to dance.

  Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  PART 1

  A WOLFE IN WINTER

  ONE

  Outside the car window, the snow was falling and falling and falling.

  Inside the warm interior, “Merry Christmas, Darling” by The Carpenters played through the car speakers behind Sheridan’s seat. When Karen Carpenter hit those glorious low notes, Sheridan felt them like a soft massage in her back.

  “Can you turn it up, please?” she asked her driver, O’Neal. Without a word, the music grew louder in the back. She’d always loved this song. As a child, she would sing it into her hairbrush, pretending to feel the sort of sexy, grown-up longing that Karen Carpenter sang about so beautifully. She could only ever pretend, because she hadn’t experienced loneliness or hunger at that age. Now, she missed those days of wanting for nothing.

  Just as Karen was making her Christmas wishes in the final chorus, O’Neal pulled the car to the curb and stopped. “We’re here, Miss Stratford,” her driver said.

  Here? She peered out the window squinting through the veil of softly falling snow. Really? This place? The house wasn’t what she’d expected at all. A picturesque stone cottage, it looked more like the home of an overpaid academic or a retired corporate attorney than that of a wolf.

  Then again, she’d never seen a wolf den before. Maybe wolves liked living in tiny hamlets in Westchester County.

  “Thank you,” Sheridan said to her driver. She tried not to sound breathless with nervous excitement. “Pick me up at midnight?”

  “You know it.”

  “Do you think the snow will get worse?” The neighborhood was covered in a blanket of white from a previous snowfall, with two more inches predicted tonight.

  “This tank can handle anything, Miss. I hope you have a nice time at the bridal shower. Let me get the door for you.”

  “Stay, please,” she told him before he could exit the car. “No reason for both of us to get our shoes wet.”

  They always did this song and dance. Bad enough she was so pampered and helpless she had a personal driver, but she could open her own damn door.

  She left the car and pulled the hood up on her Burberry coat. The soles of her boots made a hollow echoing sound on the stones as she walked the shoveled pathway to the front door. The snowflakes were lighter than air and danced away before touching the ground.

  She’d been told not to knock or ring the bell but to come inside the moment she arrived. The house had an arch-top front door, like something out of a fairy tale.

  There were always wolves in fairy tales.

  She double-checked the house number on the door. 55 Ivy Drive. She waved to O’Neal, still waiting in the car. He flashed his lights and then drove off to wait somewhere less conspicuous.

  Sheridan glanced around at the neighbors’ houses. Was anyone watching from their windows? Would anyone recognize her from TV? This was a wealthy hamlet, but she doubted the sight of a Bentley dropping off a hooded woman late at night was an everyday occurrence.

  Her breaths rose like smoke with every exhalation. Sheridan turned the knob and went into the house.

  She found herself alone in a lovely entryway—dark wood paneling, very masculine. The only sound was the crackle of a fire in another room. Where was her host?

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the antique mirror hung by the door. She’d put her long pale blond hair into a loose braided crown. It seemed fitting for the “bridal shower” she was supposedly attending. Her make-up was subtle and natural, with coral lipstick and the slightest tint to her cheeks. She hoped her host would approve of her, wherever he was.

  Next to the mirror stood an iron coat rack. Sheridan took off her coat and hung it up. Under her coat, she was wearing a winter white sweater dress with a black belt to match her black boots. If the dress seemed suspiciously short for a bridal shower, it was only because there was no bridal shower. She was actually here for two hours of kink with one of New York’s preeminent male dominants. The “Big Brad Wolfe.” A Christmas gift from her Mistress Nora, of course.

  After waiting a few minutes in the entryway, Sheridan realized no one was coming to greet her. Was this part of the scene? Leave her alone? Let the anticipation build? Turn her into a bundle of nerves before even showing his face? Probably. And it was working.

  Sheridan wrapped her arms around her stomach and stepped into the living room just to the left of the main hall. The walls were painted antique ivory with dark brown trim. Probably the original colors of the house. Very old-fashioned, but she liked it. The sofas and armchairs were all dark buttery leather. A gas fire burned low in the stone fireplace. It was a beautiful cottage, if too quiet and empty at the moment.

  There was something very manly and stark about the house. She didn’t feel a woman’s touch anywhere. All leather, no lace. But she did like it. And she found herself liking the man who lived here, who had chosen not to tear this old house apart and rebuild it. She would have cried if she’d walked in and found he’d turned it into one of those god-awful glass and steel minimalist boxes that had taken over New York.

  But maybe she was being hasty. Perhaps Brad didn’t even live here. He could have rented this house for the evening. No photographs anywhere. No personal items. Not even a Christmas tree, even though Christmas had come and gone just three days ago. She saw only sturdy, stately furniture and a warm fire.

  Was she supposed to go upstairs? Was this a test? Maybe the night wouldn’t begin until she did? Was she ready?

  She turned around to warm her back at the fire and gasped.

  A man stood in the arched entryway. He was watching her, not saying anything, one arm on the doorframe, one hand casually in his pocket like he’d been standing there for an hour. Where had he come from? She hadn’t heard a single footstep.

  He was tall, very tall, and broad-shouldered, too. His hair was mostly gray with a touch of brown, and so was his perfectly groomed stubble. He wore a dark blue three-piece suit, and his unbuttoned jacket revealed a trim waist.

  Sheridan’s heart raced at the sight of him. Mistress Nora hadn’t been exaggerating when she said he was big, handsome, and did she mention big?

  He took a step toward her, and she noticed his feet. No shoes. No socks.

  “Bare feet,” she said without meaning to speak out loud.

  “All the better to sneak up on you,” he said as he walked into the room.

  She didn’t know what to do or say. She just stood there in front of the fireplace as he came up to her.

  Up close, he was even larger than he’d appeared looming in the doorway. He was over a foot taller than her and had to be twice her weight. He was built like a football player but had the penetrating blue eyes of a poet.

  He brought his hand to her face, and she stiffened, surprised by the touch of his warm fingers on her cheek. She didn’t move away but stood there as he stroked her jaw with his fingertips. His rough, strong hand felt so good she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into his touch. When she opened her eyes, he studied her so intently that she blushed.

  Sheridan remembered who he was and what he was. She looked down at the floor as she’d been trained to do.

  He snapped his finger in her face, startling her. His fingertips tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes, to look at him and let him look at her.

  Sheridan was twenty-seven. Since the age of twenty-two, she’d been going to Mistress Nora for kink. She’d endured all sorts of sadism from her beloved mistress over the years. She’d been stripped and whipped, flogged and fisted, forced to orgasm over and over and over…

  Oh, but nothing had ever made her feel quite so uncomfortable as this long, intense eye contact from this man she’d never met before tonight. He was undeniably a dominant. In a room of a thousand men all pretending to be doms, she would have known he was the real one. Looking him in the eyes like this went against all her training.

  He bent his head as if to kiss her on the mouth, but instead put his mouth to her ear. “Did Nora tell you I’m your Christmas present?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny.”

  “What?” Her voice was shaking.

  “She told me the same thing about you,” he said, his warm breath tickling her skin, his voice deep and commanding.

  She smiled. Couldn’t help herself.

  “Something funny?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry, only curious.

  “Mistress Nora warned me about you.”

  “Did she? What did she say?”

  “She said you’d probably scare me a

t first, but you’re like one of those Rottweilers or Pit Bulls who look terrifying but are actually crazy about tiny kittens.”

  “Oh, I do love to play with kittens, kitten,” he said as he stroked her cheek again. “Do you want to know what your Mistress Nora told me about you?”

  “That I’m on TV?”

  She felt his laugh more than she heard it, and it felt like the warmest, softest brush of air over her ear. “She said you needed fucked,” he said. “Is that true?”

  “If I say yes, will you fuck me?”

  “If you’re good.” His voice was a low rumble. She could have listened to him reading an old phone book in her ear.

  “I’ll be good,” she said.

  He brought his lips to her ear again. “Good.”

  She took a deep breath and inhaled the most delicious scent of his cologne mingling with his warm tan skin. She wanted to press her cheek to his, rub her smooth skin against his stubble. It had been a long time since she’d been so powerfully attracted to a man.

  He stood up straight again and, with one last look in her eyes, turned and walked away from her.

  She felt a pull toward him, as if he’d tied a rope around her waist, and where he went, she must follow. But she remained frozen in place, awaiting his command.

  When he reached the stairs, he looked back at her over his shoulder. He held out an arm and beckoned her. Although they’d only just met, she was ready to be with him. Sometimes in fairy tales, the girl runs away from the wolf.

  Sometimes the girl lets him eat her.

  TWO

  Like a lamb to the slaughter, Brad Wolfe thought as he marched Sheridan Stratford up the stairs. The girl was pale, scared of her own shadow, and dressed all in white. However, he’d been warned ahead of time that she was no lamb.

  She’s darling, Nora had said a week ago on the phone when she’d set up this little “Christmas present.” She’ll fit in the palm of your hand. But trust me, she needs beaten and fucked like a man about to jump out of a plane needs a parachute.

  He’d told Nora he wasn’t one to fuck on a first date. She’d laughed so hard and so loudly he’d had to hold the phone away from his ear.

  Well, she would know.

  Brad, listen to me, Nora said, suddenly serious. When the one-and-only Mistress Nora told you to listen, you listened. When I say Sheridan Stratford needs beaten and fucked like a man about to jump out of a plane needs a parachute—you know what I am saying, yes?

  Yes, he knew. Sheridan would die without it.

  When he’d first laid eyes upon her next to the fireplace, he’d found it impossible to believe she needed anything besides comforting. Sheridan was just as vulnerable as the characters she played on screen, if not more. He observed her looking around the living room for some clue about the master of the house and, finding none, grow nervous and worried. She’d wrapped her arms around herself, protecting herself as if she was in a wolf’s den—because, as Brad knew, a predator always went for the soft underbelly of its prey.

  But then he’d shown himself and watched her expression change from fear to curiosity to desire in the time it had taken him to walk the twenty steps from the entryway to the fireplace. Nora had told him Sheridan had a bit of a fetish for nice suits—especially three-piece suits. And at first, it was his suit she seemed to notice as he strode toward her. But when he stood close to her, so close he could hear her breathing, close enough he could smell the lavender in her hair, he saw her lift her face closer to his neck and breathe him in.

  Smelling him. Taking in his scent. Like an animal in heat.

  Brad had raised his hand to her face, waiting for her to flinch, but she didn’t. When he touched her impossibly soft skin, she moved closer. Her eyes closed briefly, eyelashes fluttering in pleasure as Brad caressed her cheek. At that moment when she wasn’t looking, he smiled. It had been months since he’d smiled like that.

  “Sir?” she said, snapping him out of his thoughts. She was waiting patiently at the second-floor landing.

  He climbed the final stair and joined her. “Your driver comes back at midnight?” he asked, taking his phone from his jacket pocket.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be naked by then, covered in come and sweat, so we should probably stop at fifteen ’til, yes? Or do you need more time to clean up?”

  Her eyes went wide again as she watched him set a phone alarm. And how could he resist this lovely little submissive who, as Nora had said, could fit in the palm of his hand? He pictured his hand cupping her cunt, her heat against his palm, her wetness slick against his fingers…

  “Ten.”

  “What was that?”

  “I only need minutes to clean up.”

  Brad didn’t smile. He wanted to. If they hadn’t been playing already, he would have. A spoiled brat, this little girl, already negotiating for five more minutes.

  He cupped her chin with his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes again. He knew this was terrible training, that he should be instructing her to look at the floor, not him, but what a waste of two pretty eyes… She wore her desire in her eyes, and she wore it well.

  “I am going to fuck you and beat you—maybe not in that order,” he said, to see her expression. Her eyes widened even more, and then she nodded slowly in acceptance. “I’ll use protection, of course, but I can’t protect you from bruises and welts. You’ll be covered with them tomorrow. Will that be a problem?”

  She shook her head no. Her breathing quickened. He was already hard but knew how to keep himself under control.

  “Do I call you ‘sir’?” she asked, her voice small and respectful.

  “Sir or Mr. Wolfe.”

  She nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

  “Nora’s told me your limits. She’s told me what you like, what you need. Is there anything she hasn’t told me that I should know about you or your body?”

  He always asked that question before topping a woman. In his professional capacity, he never had sex with clients, but this was more of a blind date, D/s-style, but there were still things he needed to know. Was she on her period? Did she have any injuries? Was there anything she’d never tried before that she wanted to try? That’s what he meant. He assumed those were the sort of things she’d tell him. But she surprised him.

  “If I start crying, sir,” she said, “you can ignore it.”

  He was shocked by the sudden tightness in his chest at her words. The things women said to him when he asked that question usually turned him on or made him laugh. They didn’t usually break his heart.

  “Why would I ignore it if you started crying?”

  “It’s just…it doesn’t mean you’re hurting me, sir.”

  “Then what does it mean?”

  She looked at the floor. “I’ve… Mistress Nora’s moving, you know. I’m feeling a little lonely.”

  Ah. Brad knew how that felt. He’d only agreed to this “very private session” to alleviate the loneliness for a couple of hours.

  “Go inside. Wait for me,” Brad said. “Neither of us will be lonely tonight.”

  THREE

  Sheridan shut her in the dungeon by herself, leaving her alone with her thoughts and fears. The dungeon looked like an old smoking lounge. Dark wainscoting and navy blue walls. A small fireplace with a carved wood mantelpiece and tiled around the grate. Two large tufted brown leather club chairs. Even a humidor with cigars in it. No coffee table. Just a big old steamer trunk. Vintage. A real antique. She clicked the latch and opened the lid.

  Inside the trunk were floggers, whips, spreader bars, plugs, dildos, vibrators, a few tubes of lube, handcuffs, paddles, and stocks. On the ceiling? Hooks. On the fireplace, candles. Unscented. The kind you use for wax play. The rug in front of the fireplace was thick faux fur, the type of rug you put down when you were planning on fucking someone for a few hours or days on the floor.

  Two sturdy D-rings were screwed into the underside of the fireplace mantel.

  Genius. If she hadn’t known to look, she wouldn’t have noticed. She could have brought her parents or grandparents into this room, and they wouldn’t have thought for one second they were standing inside a dungeon. And if anyone asked about the D-rings, Brad could say that’s where you hang the Christmas stockings.