Page 37 of The Spinster & the Sock

She purrs, tugging at my waistband. “I don’t want just anything. I want everything.”

So I give it to her.

The sun dancing across my eyelids wakes me, where I find Jo draped over my chest and studying my face. The curtains flapping in the breeze cast the same dancing sunlight over her mussed hair. A literal angel.

“Good morning,” I say over a yawn.

“Good morning yourself, husband.” She smiles, sighing contentedly as I stretch and tug her body closer to mine.

“How’re you feeling this morning?” As much fun as I know we both had, I really hope she’s not hurting or regretting it now that the day is new.

“I have questions, mostly…” Her cheeks turn pink and she shifts her attention to her fingers, which are currently twirling about in my chest hair.

“Then I hope I have good enough answers,” I answer softly. She’s quiet for a minute, so I reach out and tip her chin up. “You’re not being bashful with me now, are you, wife?”

Jo playfully swats my hand away. “Fine. Yes, I’m a little ashamed. For the…ease in which you…behaved last night, I can’t help but assume you knew what you were doing. I’m ashamed that I still haven’t a clue what it is exactly that we did—” Her eyes mimic dinner plates as they snap to mine. “Blaze! Was that the sex? Am I meant to care for Miss Mae’s crabs now?”

My hand isn’t fast enough to cover the guffaw that comes out of my mouth.

“No! No, Miss Mae’s crabs are long gone—very long gone—no crabs!” I laugh awkwardly. “But yes, that was the sex. I told you once that if you had it with me, you would know.” I waggle my eyebrows at her.

She rolls her eyes with a smile.

“I still can’t get over the fact that no one told you anything about it—especially your mother! She was marrying you off to a stranger, knowing damn good and well that you would be expected to partake—fucking hate that by the way, no one should be expected to partake in anything. And don’t get me started on the married-off-to-a-stranger-with-no-choice thing—”

I shut up immediately. Jo has taken this conversation into her own hands—literally.

“Yes, yes—I’m aware of how you feel about my education. Now that I know what sex is…can we do it again?” She punctuates her question by giving the ol’ Johnson a pleasant handshake.

“We should…have a conversation first…about babies.” I am fighting for my life to maintain focus long enough to say what will more than likely stop her from choking my chicken. Sure enough, Jo freezes, though she doesn’t relinquish her control.

“Good gracious! When you said–that was—that’s how…babies?” Jo squeaks.

“I didn’t. Last night, that is…I, uh, didn’t give you the batter to make pancakes,” I attempt to delicately reassure her.

“Blaze, now is not the time for your absurd future-babbling! Are you telling me we’re going to have a child?” The whites of her wide eyes confirm that this is absolutely not the time for me to beat around the bush.

“No, Jo, no! In order for that to happen, I would have to…” I sigh dramatically. “You remember that stuff that got all over your stomach?”

Jo nods, color rising to her cheeks exactly as I know it’s rising to mine.

“That would need to go inside you to make a baby. I don’t think either of us want a baby right now, so we should probably discuss more effective means to prevent that.”

“I see…” She stares down at my chest for a moment. “Would you say that the means you used last night are, say, effective enough to use until we acquire these more effective ones?” Her attention shifts, and I find myself washing away in her ocean eyes.

I groan, “I can’t imagine a world in which I would ever tell you no, Josephine.”

She squeals as I roll us over and show her exactly how much I mean that.

We don’t leave the loft for the rest of the day.

Three bedrooms, an en suite bathroom, and a massive garden. The Clarendon Cottage is a potential homeowner’s wet dream—even if it’s only a fraction of the size of the Dashwood’s sitting room.

“I still don’t see why we’re looking at estates. There is nothing wrong with the loft. Why on earth am I going to need more space after you leave?” Jo whisper-shouts as we tour the cozy rooms of the house.

“Assuming I can even leave at all. Listen, Albion is more than generous with my wages, and we hardly spend any of it. Wouldn’t it be nice if you had a sleepy Saturday and could actually stay in bed without some Karen beating your door down over a loose button? You deserve a nicer home than the loft. You deserve to have a sitting room that isn’t ninety percent boxes and piles of old fabric. None of the money I make will be going to Nebraska, so I might as well spend it on you—us—right?” I can see the argument beginning to slip from her lips, so I do what anyone from the 2000s would do: I change the subject.

“What do you think about this for our kids—assuming you want to have any—one day?” I ask, leading her from the main bedroom into the smaller adjoining room.