Chapter 26
washington
. . .
“Pumpkin!” Bridget ran past me before I even pulled my arm back from punching her husband in the face.
A slow ripple of whispers started as Madison stared at me and stuttered.
“I know what you think, Maddy. That was a five, bébé.”
Her eyes said it looked more like a ten.
“He’s about to wake up.” I held up a hand and lowered each finger for a countdown.
As Gaston jolted awake, he nearly pulled his wife down to yank himself up into a standing position. He took a wobbly step, hands pressing onto a linen table. The wineglass tower crashed around him. Not my problem.
“Call the cops!” Bridget snarled, helping her husband stand.
“Not. Yet.” I gritted out the words. Man, I’d snapped. Not violently. Okay, a touch violent. Two of my knuckles approached Judge Gaston’s face before his knees buckled. So, not technically violent if he crumpled at the slightest contact.
I grabbed a wineglass from the edge of the linen tablecloth that had been at the base and hadn’t fallen, and a silver fork. Tapped it like a gavel. The guests who hadn’t witnessed the altercation turned. Birds turned. Hell, the winery vines turned too.
I stepped forward, squaring my shoulders.
In corporate law, I’d stated my case in many places: Conference rooms colder than Madison’s heart a year ago.
Twice at Ruth’s Chris. At a tailgate for a Saints owner.
The Twerking Turtles Lounge, where the dancers had better business instincts than that particular client.
But this was the first time I’d argued in a peaceful garden. “Ya’ll are the judge’s witnesses. Yep, I punched him. I own that. He’ll probably sue me. Get three-hundred grand. My last penny.”
“You’re damn right,” Gaston replied, snatching a chilled champagne bottle from a server who gawked and blinked the entire time. As he placed it over his swelling skin, I rolled my eyes.
“However, Judge Gaston had better be glad I didn’t two-piece his wife. See, that punch was on behalf of my wife, Madison.” As a sea of faces stared at me, I got into attorney mode.
“On Monday, I will file charges against the DuValls for alienation of affection.” I straightened my tie and then cut through the rise of murmuring.
“As you all may know, my son spent two years on life support. We barely held on. However, at my son’s funeral, Bridget DuVall’s words cut much deeper than this shiner.
Emotional trauma carries a much heavier weight. ”
Bridget glanced around frantically. “What? This is ludicrous. I didn’t—”
“She said …” My voice rose with enough acumen to let everyone know I was judge, jury, and executioner.
“She said, my wife is childless, which technically is true. My wife is without her child through no fault of her own. But Bridget DuVall took it a step further. She took her word back and declared my wife childfree, insinuating that it was Madison’s decision.
That Madison chose not to have a child. That she was happy to be free. ”
Gasps came from the couples all over. From the vines.
From the offended wisteria. I nodded. “That word, childfree, planted a seed in Madison’s mind.
Undid every happy moment we had with our son.
Erased him. It erased my love and affection for her.
She didn’t want me anymore. Didn’t believe she deserved love.
She blamed herself for our son’s death. Blamed herself for an accident that was out of our control.
The very next day, Madison filed for divorce. This woman ruined my marriage!”
Gaston laughed. “You’re reaching.”
His wife tried a new tactic, sobbing, “I meant nothing by what I said.”
I stomped my foot like a pimp turned pastor catching the Spirit. “Guilty! And Gaston, don’t play with me. I’ll file a lawsuit so devastating I’ll be sipping espresso in your house in Rome, dressed in your robe while smoking your Cubans.”
DuVall cleared his throat. “Washington, son. I’m not gonna press charges because of the punch. It’s water under the bridge.”
“I must not have made myself clear. I’m going to own every asset you’ve ever touched.
Hell, you’ll be asking the judge if you can at least keep your middle name.
Spoiler alert, the judge will say no. Look at everybody around you.
I’ve convinced some. The rest of them are racist as the day is long.
So, let’s see who’s victorious in a court of law.
” I shrugged, then took Madison’s hand, turning to leave.
“If you’re Black or Hispanic, got a little color in you, Gaston will sell you out for his buddies in the long run.
If you’re white and you woke? Don’t vouch for this man. ”
Madison smiled up at me, the warmth of her smile spreading across her face before she kissed me. “You know that was longer than seven minutes, right?”
“You agreed to …”
She was already slipping out of my arms to grab a bottle of wine. Then another. “Now, you’ve gotta lick two bottles of wine off me. Moscato and Chardonnay.” She grimaced at the label on the Chardonnay. “You better not say I taste dry and oaky, either.”
By the time the elevator doors closed, Madison was still laughing. Her quiet, breathless, uncontrollable little laugh came from her chest, not her throat. The kind she tried to hide behind her hands, but I took one and kissed the back of her wrist.
“Bébé, you know I wasn’t kidding earlier about pouring this wine on you.”
“I know.” Her soft whisper echoed in the elevator, cheeks flushed.
Our suite hinted of the vineyard outside and that scent of something honeyed that clung to Madison’s skin. Soft evening light stretched through the windows and onto the bed. An invitation.
“Wash,” Madison murmured, fingers sliding up my chest as she unbuttoned my suit jacket. “We technically had our loophole but … you know me. I hate routine. So, I have another workaround.”
My brow arched. “What’s that?”
“You start from the back.” She slipped a scarf from her purse and let it dangle from one finger. “And then when you’re ready to move around … you wear this.”
A laugh rumbled low in my chest. I took her hand, spun her gently until her back fit against me.
She tilted her head and swept her hair over to leave her neck vulnerable.
I kissed the spot she offered, tasting the sweetness, slow and savoring.
Then I licked, but my nip left her breathless, her breasts rising as she hitched.
After trembling back against me, she reached forward, offering me all that arch while grabbing a bottle from the nightstand.
I took it. “I see you haven’t forgotten how to get what you want, chère,” I murmured against her skin.
Her laugh trembled, soft and fragile. “I want you.”
Those three words undid every defense I never needed.
When I unzipped her dress, the fabric slipped down her body as easily as a sigh. It pooled at her feet, and Madison stood in the dim lamplight bare, glowing, and breathtaking. My wife. My undoing. She crossed her arms, unexpectedly shy, and turned around. “Wine first.”
“Okay,” I said, diminishing all the space between us. I drowned in her naked curves, pressed against me, soft and warm, and I was still in a damn suit. That imbalance didn’t just tempt me, it snapped something in me. Turned me feral.
“The only blindfold tonight will be for those wrists, if you want.” I uncorked the bottle, the sound loud.
Madison stepped toward me, no hesitation this time. Yeah, she knew I was done with the rules.
“I guess,” she teased, brushing a finger along my lapel, “as long as you’re fully dressed, the loophole stays intact.”
Bébé, that loophole is about to file damages.
We gone break everything. My gaze dropped low, lingering.
The air thickened, hot as a porch in July.
Her eyes locked onto mine as I lifted the bottle.
I tipped it slowly. She parted her lips and caught the thin ribbon of cool wine on her tongue.
Then I let some spill down her chin to her collarbone.
I poured more, and she gasped, the cold tracing the path my mouth devoured.
I kissed the trail, tasting the wine, tasting her, and tasting everything sweet I had been missing.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders as if she could pull my mouth deeper into hers. My hands framed her hips, thumbs sweeping the curve of her waist, learning her again. Relearning the places that made her moan.
And when that trembling sigh spilled from her, barely a breath and hardly a sound, it vibrated straight through us. The world shrank to the heat of her skin, the softness beneath my mouth, and the way she uttered my name.
I lifted her in my arms, and my Italian loafers stepped over that scarf because we never needed a workaround.
The next morning, I woke up first.
Not because I was responsible. Disciplined. A morning person.
Nah.
Madison had stolen the damn blankets. Every single one. She lay wrapped like a cinnamon roll, somewhere inside, sleeping as if she hadn’t dragged me to the edge of the bed with her, tryna stop her blanket theft.
“Maddy,” I whispered, tugging the cocoon.
She held tight.
I tugged again.
A feral hiss escaped her lips.
“Really?” I muttered. “I could win this fight.”
Her voice floated from somewhere beyond. “You kept me up all night. So, I beg to differ.”
I shook my head. “Get up, bébé. We’ve gotta go home.”
The blankets tumbled, leaving me with a sight. My gorgeous wife. Naked. Goosebumps climbed over her breasts and shoulders, but I was the one who felt like shivering in delight.
She groaned. “Wash, why do we need to rush home? The contract is void. Voided. Burned. Drowned in wine. Drowned in us. So, Baby No. I’m not rushing home.”
“Excuse me?” I rasped. “I’m gonna believe you called me that because you’re still stuck in dreamland.”
She whimpered. “Why rush?”
I kissed her mouth. “Because our shower is at home.”
She shoved me. “How did you survive waking up at Audubon Park and not jumping straight into the shower? Never mind.” She rolled her eyes. “I get that part. You’d tried your best to get some that night. You are in love with that shower, Washington.”
“It’s a masterpiece.” I was already digging through my duffel bag. “We spent three months arguing with contractors. You wanted a steam room. I wanted water pressure strong enough to repent all that mouthing off you do.”
“And we compromised. A very expensive compromise. Where we got the at-home spa with fog, Bluetooth speakers, a bench big enough to—”
“Madison,” I warned, because if she finished that sentence, I’d extend the hotel checkout regardless of the charge.
She grinned. “You’re thinking about that bench, huh?”
“Yep,” I admitted, buttoning my shirt faster than I’d ever cross-examined a hostile witness. “We’ve gotta race home. Now.”
“Fine. Race you.”
I blinked. “Maddy, bébé, I’m the literal one.”
But she was already in the bathroom shouting, “First one dressed picks the music for the drive.”
I stuffed my legs into my slacks from yesterday. “Nah, you aren’t playing sad girl R&B for six hours again!”
Her response came muffled and minty. “You will cry, Wash. You always cry to it. And later, when I’m leading you to ecstasy in the shower, you’ll spill a couple of tears that the steam and water will mask, but we won’t tell nobody that either.”