31. Boobies
Boobies
Blaze
My darling, demure wife is shoveling as much snow as she can behind her in a desperate attempt to get me to release her, but the cute little snow-mole should know better by now.
“You don’t surrender. I have learned,” I grunt in her ear as she continues to wriggle her ass against me.
She manages to thrust a handful of snow in my face, and I sputter.
“But haven’t you learned that I’m relentless?
“ I punctuate the last word by flipping her onto her back and pinning her hips to the ground with mine.
“Relentless?” she gasps, “I would say ravenous.” A villainous glint in her beautiful cerulean eyes is the only warning I get before she’s stuffing fistfuls of snow into my face.
I shake my head like a dog, then twitch my lips in an attempt to shake the snow from my mustache—the ends starting to freeze.
“You’re not wrong, woman, but can’t I be both?” I playfully snarl at her, burying my frosted face into the crook of her neck and nibbling while she squeals.
“Alright, alright! I concede!”
When I pull away and look at her, breath vacates my lungs all at once. Rosy cheeks—the tip of her nose too—her eyes sparkling and a smile so wide I almost worry it will split her face in two.
“Josephine.” Her name comes out on an exhale, sounding more like a plea. Her expression morphs slightly, taking on a hint of concern as she gazes up at me.
“What is it, husband?” Her fingers are freezing, but comforting nonetheless when she reaches up and cups my face.
“Josephine, I love you,” I rasp, my throat tightening as if caught in a vice.
I’ve told girlfriends in the past that I loved them, sure, but compared to this?
The young, teenage love I expressed in my younger years was like the flame from a match—fleeting.
Whereas this feeling burning inside me now is more like the business end of a flamethrower—hot, fast, and consuming.
Her smile doesn’t falter, but it leaves her eyes nonetheless.
My lungs are no longer strong enough to expand.
I’m aware of how crazy this is. I’ve refrained from telling her my true feelings for a while now because it’s that crazy, but I thought…
it truly felt like she was here on this insane level with me.
“Blaze,” she starts, her entire body sagging beneath me.
“Wait,” I interrupt. I can’t. “You don’t have to say anything. If you don’t feel the same—yet or at all—don’t say anything. I just…I couldn’t keep it inside anymore.” I scramble up to my feet, dragging her up with me by the arms. “Now, do you want to build a snowman?”
Albion kept me working like a dog these final days leading up to the Winter Festival, but I understand since the woodshop will be closed for the entire thing.
The festival is a three-day event starting on the twentieth, and everyone left in town—or brave enough to risk the weather to leave their country homes—will be in attendance.
Attendance primarily meaning down by the river and not wandering the streets.
Even if Alby kept the shop open, no one would be around to venture in.
Okay, the extra workload is also partly my fault.
When I first heard about the festival and all of the merchants that would be hawking wares, I dumbly suggested Albion set up a booth.
Lucky me, he loved the idea and set Gus and me to work immediately prepping show pieces: an oak rocking chair, two beautiful chess boards, a massive mahogany hope chest, and various little shelves, bowls, and boards.
I’m a good husband, however, and I told Alby I wouldn’t be available to run his booth under any circumstance, and thank God for that.
“Here! They’re all done!” Jo exclaims as she stomps up the stairs, fabric filling her arms. I meet her halfway, in nothing but a loose-fitting, long sleeve tunic, ye olde wannabe-boxers and my lucky socks.
The decline in patrons to the modiste has been steady, leaving Jo more time than she knows what to do with, which is why she even had time to perfectly tailor this slate gray jacket and these navy trousers.
I take the clothes from her one at a time so I can pull them on.
In all the months I’ve been here, I’ve never worn something so perfectly fitting as I am now.
“Josephine, you minx,” I purr as I finish tying the trousers, admiring the fit in the full mirror.
“Lord have mercy, I thought my ass looked decent in my Wranglers–what on earth have you done? I’d take a bite outta this cake myself if I could reach it.
” Every other pair of britches I’ve worn since falling back here have been baggy and thin–worse than the cheap khakis I wore for that public speaking class I took in my senior year of high school.
“Do you like them? We can call them your ‘blue not-quite-jeans’ and maybe in my next shipment of fabrics I can ask for some denim and make you a pair of real jeans.“ A megawatt smile spreads across her face.
“I’m sure Levi would love that—not as much as I would, though. These are perfect,” I praise, dropping into a squat, then standing and kicking at the air a few times. “Just enough stretch to move, nice and thick so I don’t get frostbite on my—“
“Yes, yes, I picked that fabric blend specifically for your balls. That, and I no longer needed it for Lady Winthrop’s winter coat, so I may as well use it.” The wattage of her smile dims.
I don’t even try to say anything. At this point, there is nothing left to say.
I close the gap between us and pull her against my chest. As tickled as I am by the thought and the effort she put into my not-quite-jeans, I hate the reason why she had time and spare materials to make them.
More than that, I hate the guilt gnawing at me for it.
If I had never dropped into her life, would she still be sitting in the gutters of social ruin?
Did I destroy her life?
“I need to get dressed as well, or we’ll never have time to look at everything,” Jo sighs, squeezing me once before backing away. “Go wait downstairs now.”
“What? Down—are you kicking me out while you get naked? That’s the best part!” I groan in mock outrage. “Husband privilege states I get to see boobies!”
“And if you see the boobies, we’ll never leave the house. Now go downstairs and let me have a picturesque reveal with this dress!” she orders as she pushes me toward the stairs.
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute. I must admit, I am looking forward to this reveal. Aside from one afternoon when she was first playing with a few fabrics, I haven’t seen any part of this gown. She’s been sewing when I’m at work and hiding it before I get home.
I’m not left to wait long.
“Ready?” Jo calls out, followed by soft steps descending from the loft.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get even a syllable out, there she is. Thank fuck for these thick pants, because anything weaker and my dick would have poked a hole in them. She’s stepping from the last stair and my jaw is on the floor.
“Christ, you look like season one Claire, but hotter because you’re you and you’re mine.“ I take a step towards her, not bothering to hide my intentions.
“You better behave! I want to at least say hello to Alby and Gus and see all of your hard work in action. Afterward, you can bring me home and do whatever it is that’s bouncing around in your head right now.”
I grumble my displeasure while reaching out to touch the edge of the pine green muslin. The dress really does resemble something that walked out of the Outlander costume closet—a long skirt and sleeves, a few ruffles framing her waist that peek out under the matching full-length overcoat.
“I like the gold,” I tell her, tracing a line of the shimmering embroidery as it shapes and accentuates her figure. “The whole ton is going to eat their hearts out tonight. As soon as they see this dress and realize how stupid they are for taking their business anywhere else—“
“I would love to be humble and argue, but I am incredibly proud of this one and hope you’re right. I don’t wish to think about what will happen if you’re not…” she trails off, fidgeting with her skirts.
“Well, enough of that—that is tomorrow Jo and Blaze’s problem. Today’s problem is how far can I walk at half-staff just from seeing you in my favorite color.” I snag my wife’s hand and head for the coat rack, dutifully wrapping a scarf around her neck as she rolls her eyes.
“Last week you said purple was your favorite color, and before that it was yellow,” she chides, pulling a trimmed straw bonnet on and tying the ribbons deftly beneath her chin.
“And when we first met, it was pink. My favorite color is whatever you’re in.” I wink at her and slip into my own coat before plucking my hat from the top of the rack and tucking it under my arm.
“You’re an insufferable dog,” she mutters as she steps through the door I’m now holding open. I don’t believe her ire to be true for a second though, and her fingers trailing across my chest as she passes agree.