29. The Rake & The Red Ribbon
The Rake we’ve just found a married man in the act of adultery—in the street, no less! Have you not ruined my family enough?”
“Why she chose you instead of me, I will never know,” Eddie spits.
I open my mouth to tell these fuckers to kiss my ass and quit pretending they truly care about my wife, but Jo pulls away from me before I get a word out.
“Lord Edwardson, dear brother, with all due respect, would you kindly fuck off? We were in the middle of something.” She makes shooing motions with her hands, ignoring the men’s sputtering altogether and turns back to me.
Hands land on either side of my collar, and then she’s pulling me into a searing kiss.
This woman is tattooing herself on my soul.
Neither man wastes a moment before storming off like petulant children—or maybe they do, I’m a bad judge of time in general, but when my wife is tongue-fucking my tonsils, it’s decidedly worse. We’ve either been kissing for five seconds or five hours and I don’t have a fucking clue.
“Oh!” Jo exclaims. “Home! Take me home! I have to show you the sleeve…” The way she whispers ‘sleeve’ makes me immediately anxious, and not in a good way.
“Wife,” I warn when she starts jogging down the road with her skirts in her hands. “How did running from me work out for you last time?” I call out, starting after her.
She squeals and picks up her pace.
I’ll never say no to a good chase.
We finally make it back to the modiste; me stomping up the stairs and Jo giggling from where she’s slung over my shoulder. I head straight for the bed and flop her down on it.
“Are you ready for your punishment, wife? For running away from your handsome husband?” Her giggles intensify, but cut off with a gasp when I shuck the suspenders from my shoulders, letting my pants drop to my ankles, then I drag her to the edge of the mattress by hers.
“The sleeve, it’s in the drawer,” she says quickly, waving wildly at the bedside table. I understand now that this sleeve must be some kind of early condom, but as I stare down into the drawer, I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s a fucking dress for my Johnson!” I cackle, holding it over my goods by its red ribbons. “What do you think, wife? Is red my color? What do I even do with these?”
“You’re to tie them,” she says wickedly, “around here.” My eyes bug out of my skull as she fists my family jewels.
“Son of a bitch.” I drag a hand down my face. “It really is a dress for my Johnson.”
My head is pounding. I didn’t think I drank that much, but clearly I was wrong.
Bam, bam, bam!
“Josephine Colette Dash—Hollows!”
My eyes snap open, then over to where my wife is still drooling on her pillow.
Bam, bam, bam!
Okay, maybe it’s not my head that’s pounding—though I can’t for the life of me think of who could be screeching for my wife so vehemently.
As quickly and quietly as I can, I slip from the bed and search for pants. I unlatch and yank the door open just as the offender begins banging again and find myself face to face with Helena Dashwood.