Page 35 of The Spinster & the Sock

That thing his boxers, poorly conceal…

Moments we’ve shared in the last few months bounce around my brain like a trapped and frightened bird seeking escape.

Or relief.

“You lose,” Blaze interrupts my ungodly string of thoughts and moves to re-deal when I stand abruptly, meeting his intense gaze.

Something riotous—or maybe devilish—makes me want to play his version of the game.

We are married after all.

He can’t possibly sit there half-naked while I am clothed to the throat. So I seize the ribbon at my neck and untie it, carefully undoing a row of buttons until I wiggle the gown over my head, leaving me exposed in my shift and stays.

All the while, Blaze stares, intoxicated by the sight.

His eyes, partially obstructed by brows furrowing in approval, never once divert their attention. He is nearly expressionless save for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, which gives his pleasure away.

As I sit back down, more scandalously clad before a man than I ever have been, Blaze leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I have never been more motivated to conquer with my next hand than I am right now.”

He shuffles the deck, deals five cards each, then looks at me, his gaze spreading goosebumps across my skin. “You only have to win two more times before you get a proper introduction to Mini Me.”

My cheeks heat. “I believe he attempted a greeting the other morning.”

Blaze turns a card over from the top of the pile. “That was all you, wife. You and your spectacular thigh.”

I examine my hand and realize I am, as Blaze would call it, fucked. My cards are off suit, and I hold only twos and sevens, and a nine. “What exactly makes my thigh so spectacular?” I force a pretense of calm, but wonder if he can see the pulse quickening at my throat.

Blaze grins. “They’re thick.” He looks up at me now, reveals his winning hand, and whispers, “A man could get lost in them.” A hot tingling spans across my entire body as he says, “Royal Flush, darling, put down your cards or show me…” At this, his eyes trail from mine, past my lips, further than my collarbone, and eventually rest on my breasts.

Suddenly, my knees are trembling.

The room feels quieter.

His gaze burrows deeper. He watches, waiting, wondering what I will do. I can tell him I have lost the hand, but choose to remain dressed. He would respect that.

But I don’t want to.

I stand slowly, smooth the front of my chemise, and sidestep around the table until I am directly before him. Then I deliberately lift my leg to rest my foot on his bare knee. “Help me,” I whisper as I raise my skirt and motion towards the ribbon securing my stocking well above my knee.

Blaze gazes up at me, his hands gripping the chaise’s cushion beneath him. His menacingly stoic act loses its balance, and he swallows—visibly. “H-help…untying your ribbon?”

I nod, too afraid to speak lest he hear a tremble in my voice and doubt my sincerity.

“As you wish,” he says, and I almost think it is one of his futuristic references in the way he fakes some horrific accent before relinquishing his grip on the seat. Slowly, his fingers glide up my leg, past my knee to where a delicate blue ribbon is tied neatly. With furrowed brows, he loosens the ribbon’s knot and watches it fall to the floor before reluctantly pulling away and meeting my gaze. Deep yearning reflects in his eyes.

He dips his chin.

Seeking permission.

“Does a ribbon count as a piece of clothing?” I ask coyly, finding a shocking sort of confidence in my own voice.

Blaze leans back, licks his lips, and clears his throat. “I suppose a gentleman is supposed to say ‘yes’?”

“Certainly.”

“What does it make me, then, if I say ‘no’?”

“Can husbands be rakes?” I jest, motioning towards my stocking. “Off with it then. Fair is fair.”