Page 114 of Wicked Spite
“Let’s get out of these woods,” Penn suggests, his voice still husky from trying to fuck me through the damp earth. “Home. Shower. Bed. I don’t care if you’re tired. You can sleep if you want, but I’m going to fuck my wife for the rest of the night.”
“So romantic.” I roll my eyes as he lifts me up from the ground and squeezes one of my breasts like it’s a squishy squeaker toy.
“I really am, aren’t I?” he says so seriously that I burst out laughing. “You’re actually really lucky to be my wife. I hope you realize that.” This time, he laughs, too.
He helps me get dressed, and then I help him because that’s what the two of us do for one another. I’m buttoning his jeans and he’s just standing there looking down at me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. It’s then that he cups my face in his big hand and stops my movements. He’s holding me there, just really looking at me whenhe says, “I’m the lucky one. I’d cease to exist if I didn’t have you to come home to every single night. The way I got you wasn’t the most…” he trails off.
I rub my hand up his chest, finishing his thought. “Legal?”
He glowers at me when he says, “It doesn’t matter how I got you. The only thing that counts is that you’re mine and I’m keeping you.” He kisses me again and I realize when his hands go to my hips, tugging down the jeans that he just helped me put on.
Penn was not exaggerating when he said he’s going to fuck his wife for the rest of the night.
And he does just that.
I fucking love being Mrs. Blackwood.
What’s a psycho without his hellfire, anyway?
Epilogue
PENN
“Reese, for fuck’s sake, if you whine about snacks one more time, I’m gonna lose it,” I say, my eyes glued to the screen of my phone. My wife’s little sister’s face is scrunched up in that familiar pout, her dorm room backdrop looking as girly as fucking ever. I didn’t pay fucking thousands of dollars to enroll her into a different school that I could control for her last semester of high school to play her personal Door Dash.
“Penn, I swear to God, it’s like the universe hates me,” Reese complains, clutching her stomach dramatically. “I’ve got the worst cramps, and the vending machine downstairs is out of everything good.”
“Jesus Christ, I’ll just order some delivery,” I snap back, rolling my eyes. “You can do that yourself, you know.”
“You’re the best, Penn! My favorite brother!” She squeals, her mood instantly lifting.
“Favorite? I’m your only brother, Reese.” I smirk, shaking my head at her antics.
“Not true! Technically, your brothers are mybrothers too, and Ramsey’s my cousin.” She sticks her tongue out, all mischievous innocence.
“Fuck I am,” Ramsey mumbles under his breath as he walks up beside me, raising an eyebrow at our conversation.
“Alright, hellion. I’ll order your shit, and you can have a fucking slumber party but no goddamn boys,” I say, hanging up and pulling up a delivery app on my phone.
“Don’t worry, I fucking got it,” Ramsey interjects, peering over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m sure you do, but watch yourself. I’ve got both fucking eyes on you,” I warn, a smirk playing on my lips.
“Why don’t you just order your wife some snacks?” Ramsey shoots back, a smart-ass grin spreading across his face. “Aren’t women supposed to sync up, anyway?”
“Reagan’s cycle is all sorts of fucked up,” I reply, contemplative for a moment. “She’s been like that since she was fourteen. Never know when it’s gonna hit. It’s one of the symptoms of PCOS. I read up on that shit because you know fucking acronyms bother me unless I’m the one coming up with them.”
“Figures,” Ramsey mutters, before pulling out his phone and placing an order for Reese like the obsessed little mini me he is.
Ramsey and I step into the house, the heavy oak door creaking shut behind us. My annoyed little cousin makes a beeline for the kitchen, no doubt to get something better than whatever the fuck they are serving at the hockey dorm.
“Raid away,” I mutter, more to myself than him, as I head upstairs. Climbing two steps at a time, my mind is still replaying Reese’s giggling gratitude from earlier. She’s fucking trouble with all of that innocence and keeping her away from fuck boys is going to be a full-time job.
I push open the bedroom door to find a package sitting on the bed. Its plain brown wrapping is almost ominous in its ordinariness. Before I can inspect it further, I hear the faint sound of running water and glance toward the bathroom. Reagan’s there, washing her face, her silhouette framed by the light.
“Is that anthrax?” I call out, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “If you want to poison me, you could’ve been a little more discreet.”
“Shut the fuck up and open the box,” she snaps back, rolling her eyes as she wipes away the last traces of makeup, revealing those sharp ass eyes of hers.
