Page 45 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Is it too late for the carriages?” Jo slurs and I laugh.

“No one out here has money to pay coachmen.” I shrug. It’s the same reason I would walk from the bar to my mom’s art studio to sleep off the booze until I could drive back out to the farm. We aren’t poor, but I’ll be damned if I spend thirty or forty dollars for an Uber.

“Which is why we’re walking too,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Perhaps I’m starting to adjust to simpler ways.”

“Is that so?” I drawl, a devilish smile splitting my face as I slow my steps.

“I’m inclined to say no now—what are you thinking, Blaze?” She laughs nervously, turning to walk backward and likely keep an eye on me.

“I’ve been a good boy, Jo,” I purr, angling my steps just right so that she backs right where I want her. “I have kept my hands further from you than I wanted to, for your sake.”

She breathes in sharply when her back hits a lamppost, and I’m right there, kicking my feet in between hers.

“You drank liquor from my body, you rake!” She feigns astonishment at the impropriety.

“Like I said, I kept further from you than I wanted.” I lean in, pleased as her focus darts between my eyes and my mouth. “But if you think you’re adjusting, maybe you’re open to breaking a few more rules?” I whisper against her mouth.

Her eyes blow wide. I watch her panic, giving her time to think—to choose for herself whether she wants this. She glances down the street, and when her eyes meet mine again, she’s smiling dubiously.

“I suppose I could be compelled to bend a little,” she breathes. Her hands snake around my neck, and I’m off to the races. I slam my mouth on hers, tasting the liquor on her breath. I slide my hands down her arms, bringing one slowly back up along her ribs while I slip the other behind her. With one hand full of tit and one full of ass, I can die a happy man. Jo starts mewling, grinding her chest into me, and I don’t miss the way her thighs are tightening against mine.

“Are you hungry, little wife?” I rumble, nipping her lip.

“Famished. Ravenous. Starved,” she drawls as she drags her leg up to hook over my hip.

“Would you like your husband to do something about that?” I pop two fingers into my mouth and grin when Jo whimpers, nodding.

My hand drops from my mouth to the hem of her dress, which has ridden up to her knee. At the same time, I descend upon her neck—lips, teeth, and tongue. Jo releases a wanton moan.

I lied. Now I can die a happy man.

“Lynyrd? Lynyrd Hollows?” A voice calls out from behind Jo. I pull my hand free, letting her leg and dress drop back down while using my opposite hand to hide my wife’s face against my chest, knowing she won’t want to be seen—caught in this situation. Standing under the lamplight, it’s hard to discern who recognized me until they step closer.

“Edwardson. What are you doing out at this hour?” I ask, not even trying to mask my irritation.

“What am I—”

“For Christ’s sake!” Another voice interrupts, and Stanley steps from behind the viscount. “Forget why we’re out; 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.