25. A Man On His Knees
A Man On His Knees
Blaze
My vision tunnels. The entire room could be on fire and I wouldn’t notice. I only have eyes for Jo and these perfect fucking tits in my hands.
“No, I don’t want you to stop. I want more,” Jo breathes.
Her heart pounds beneath my fingertips. I pull away from her, smiling as she whimpers, and turn her by the waist until she’s facing me.
Like a rubber band, we come back together, firmly pressed against each other with the tips of our noses touching.
Every breath she inhales drags her pert nipples across my chest, and fuck if I’m not seconds away from making a fool of myself by cumming in my boxers.
“If you change your mind,” I whisper against her lips, watching her eyes flutter shut, “at any point…” I breathe along her jaw.
“...Tell me.” I kiss the base of her ear.
“I will stop.” I kiss down her throat, backing her up so slowly that I don’t even think she realizes she’s moving.
“You’re in control, wife. Do you understand? ”
“Yes, Blaze. Yes, yes, yes.” Her hands rove across my skin, leaving chills in their wake.
When the back of her legs meet the table, her eyes snap open, but I don’t leave her half a second to speak.
My hands slide down from her waist to her thighs, and I crouch just enough to pick her up and place her on the wooden surface—cards and chips from our game completely forgotten.
I catch her gaze long enough to see she’s still with me, but I can’t help taking in the full picture. She looks like a goddess perched on her altar, and I intend to pray.
I drop to my knees.
Jo tracks my every movement with wide, colorless eyes as I hitch her leg over my shoulder and begin peppering kisses along the inside of her ankle.
“Have you ever touched yourself, wife?” I inquire between kisses, making a point of glancing between her legs so she doesn’t chastise me with, “However would I plait my hair otherwise?”
“Not in the way I suddenly wish you would,” she admits, attempting to hide behind her hand.
I hum and wait for her to look back at me. “Do you trust me, Josephine?” Zero hesitation—she nods and drops her hand back to the table. “When I vowed to take care of you, I meant it. Will you let me take care of you now?”
“Please, husband.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I take my time and drown in her warmth and when her arms tremble and she can’t hold herself up anymore, I carry her to our bed.
She licks her lips, bliss glazing her eyes. “Do I need to play another hand, or would a simple please be enough to receive my proper introduction?” As if I could possibly not know what she means, she slides her palm over my aggressively tented boxers.
“You can have my soul if you ask. I will give you anything.” Fuck me. I mean that.
She purrs, tugging at my waistband. “I don’t want just anything. I want everything.”
So I give it to her.
The sun dancing across my eyelids wakes me, where I find Jo draped over my chest and studying my face. The curtains flapping in the breeze cast the same dancing sunlight over her mussed hair. A literal angel.
“Good morning,” I say over a yawn.
“Good morning yourself, husband.” She smiles, sighing contentedly as I stretch and tug her body closer to mine.
“How’re you feeling this morning?” As much fun as I know we both had, I really hope she’s not hurting or regretting it now that the day is new.
“I have questions, mostly…” Her cheeks turn pink and she shifts her attention to her fingers, which are currently twirling about in my chest hair.
“Then I hope I have good enough answers,” I answer softly. She’s quiet for a minute, so I reach out and tip her chin up. “You’re not being bashful with me now, are you, wife?”
Jo playfully swats my hand away. “Fine. Yes, I’m a little ashamed.
For the…ease in which you…behaved last night, I can’t help but assume you knew what you were doing.
I’m ashamed that I still haven’t a clue what it is exactly that we did—” Her eyes mimic dinner plates as they snap to mine.
“Blaze! Was that the sex? Am I meant to care for Miss Mae’s crabs now? ”
My hand isn’t fast enough to cover the guffaw that comes out of my mouth.
“No! No, Miss Mae’s crabs are long gone—very long gone—no crabs!” I laugh awkwardly. “But yes, that was the sex. I told you once that if you had it with me, you would know.” I waggle my eyebrows at her.
She rolls her eyes with a smile.
“I still can’t get over the fact that no one told you anything about it—especially your mother!
She was marrying you off to a stranger, knowing damn good and well that you would be expected to partake—fucking hate that by the way, no one should be expected to partake in anything.
And don’t get me started on the married-off-to-a-stranger-with-no-choice thing—”
I shut up immediately. Jo has taken this conversation into her own hands—literally.
“Yes, yes—I’m aware of how you feel about my education. Now that I know what sex is…can we do it again?” She punctuates her question by giving the ol’ Johnson a pleasant handshake.
“We should…have a conversation first…about babies.” I am fighting for my life to maintain focus long enough to say what will more than likely stop her from choking my chicken. Sure enough, Jo freezes, though she doesn’t relinquish her control.
“Good gracious! When you said–that was—that’s how…babies?” Jo squeaks.
“I didn’t. Last night, that is…I, uh, didn’t give you the batter to make pancakes,” I attempt to delicately reassure her.
“Blaze, now is not the time for your absurd future-babbling! Are you telling me we’re going to have a child?” The whites of her wide eyes confirm that this is absolutely not the time for me to beat around the bush.
“No, Jo, no! In order for that to happen, I would have to…” I sigh dramatically. “You remember that stuff that got all over your stomach?”
Jo nods, color rising to her cheeks exactly as I know it’s rising to mine.
“That would need to go inside you to make a baby. I don’t think either of us want a baby right now, so we should probably discuss more effective means to prevent that.”
“I see…” She stares down at my chest for a moment. “Would you say that the means you used last night are, say, effective enough to use until we acquire these more effective ones?” Her attention shifts, and I find myself washing away in her ocean eyes.
I groan, “I can’t imagine a world in which I would ever tell you no, Josephine.”
She squeals as I roll us over and show her exactly how much I mean that.
We don’t leave the loft for the rest of the day.
Three bedrooms, an en suite bathroom, and a massive garden. The Clarendon Cottage is a potential homeowner’s wet dream—even if it’s only a fraction of the size of the Dashwood’s sitting room.
“I still don’t see why we’re looking at estates. There is nothing wrong with the loft. Why on earth am I going to need more space after you leave?” Jo whisper-shouts as we tour the cozy rooms of the house.
“Assuming I can even leave at all. Listen, Albion is more than generous with my wages, and we hardly spend any of it. Wouldn’t it be nice if you had a sleepy Saturday and could actually stay in bed without some Karen beating your door down over a loose button?
You deserve a nicer home than the loft. You deserve to have a sitting room that isn’t ninety percent boxes and piles of old fabric.
None of the money I make will be going to Nebraska, so I might as well spend it on you—us—right?
” I can see the argument beginning to slip from her lips, so I do what anyone from the 2000s would do: I change the subject.
“What do you think about this for our kids—assuming you want to have any—one day?” I ask, leading her from the main bedroom into the smaller adjoining room.
“I think that this is not what I expected when you said you wanted to go for a walk.”
“Well, Mister Hollows, what do you think of the lot?” the man from the land agency asks as he strides into the room.
“I have to admit, the other gent who was here just left, and he’s placed a substantial offer on the table.
If you’re interested, you’ll need to outbid Mr. Lamb, and you’ll need to do it soon. ”
“Thank you, sir. I’d like to discuss it more with my wife before committing to anything.
” I thank him and promise to get in touch soon.
Jo is quiet as I help her into her thick coat and as we start walking back to the modiste.
I can’t help but feel like it’s not the house, but the concept of the house that is bothering her, and I intend to ask her the second we get home.
The streets are empty compared to when I first got here—turns out most of the town goes out to the country for the winter—but we still have to weave our way through the end of day crowd.
The modiste comes into view at the same time that I notice a quick tug on my coat.
If I didn’t know any better, I would blame it on the wind, but I’ve been to New York, and I recognize a pickpocket when I feel one.
I snatch the boy by the collar, his hand still in my pocket.
My anger is gone the second I see his gaunt face with tears streaking through what must be weeks of dirt.
He’s just a kid and can’t be older than thirteen.
I’m just about to let the kid go, give him a handful of coins and send him on his way when Jo frantically grabs my arm.