41. Penn

Chapter 41

Penn

I ’m sitting in the kitchen, my knuckles splayed out on the table like a sacrificial offering. My personal tattoo artist, Nico, is hunched over my hand, his focus unwavering as he meticulously etches the words “hell” and “fire” onto my knuckles. The buzzing sound fills the kitchen, almost drowning out the sounds of Bad Omens blasting from my phone speaker.

“You’re a goddamn masochist, Penn,” the artist mutters, his voice muffled by the mask he’s wearing.

“Better than being a coward,” I reply, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just make sure you spell it right. Don’t want to walk around with ‘heel’ and ‘frye’ on my hands.”

Nico chuckles, never taking his eyes off his work. “I love your money too much to misspell your shit.”

“Shit, man, you always know how to make me feel alive,” I quip, my lips curling into a sly grin as I watch the ink flow beneath my skin.

He snorts, shaking his head as he continues his work. I watch the ink seep into my skin, black and permanent, like the darkness that always lurks at the edges of my mind. Hell and fire—words that fit me like a second skin. Just like their owner, my beautiful, bitchy, hellfire wife. Reagan will probably roll her eyes when she sees this. Maybe she’ll laugh. Or maybe she’ll trace the letters with those long, artistic fingers of hers, pretending not to care while her eyes give her away.

“Done,” Nico announces, leaning back to admire his handiwork. I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of fresh ink and raw skin.

“Thanks, fucker. You’re a fucking artist, man.” I throw him a wad of cash, more than generous for his time and skill. He grins and pockets the money, nodding his appreciation before heading out the door.

The kitchen light catches the new tattoos, making them glisten like freshly spilled blood.

I’m getting a chub just thinking about it.

With Reagan at her art class, I’ve got some time to kill. I head toward the fridge, the cool tiles beneath my feet giving me a chill. I need my damn slippers. The fridge door swings open with a low hum, revealing an array of fresh produce and neatly arranged containers. All this healthy bullshit—courtesy of Oakley and Iris—looks like they raided a farmer’s market. Kale, avocados, organic yogurt. Seriously? Where’s my Red Dye 40?

I rummage through the shelves until I find a hidden stash of Dr. Pepper cans behind some Greek cups of jizz. Now we’re talking. Grabbing one, I pop it open and take a long swig; the fizz tickling my throat and leaving a sweet aftertaste that brings me back to life.

I shut the door and move to the pantry, moving things around until I spot the bright red box of Cheez-its.

Come to daddy, my chemical covered crackers .

With my loot in hand, I make my way into the living room and flop down on the couch, slipping my feet into my bat slippers. Immediately my cold feet start to warm up.

Grabbing the controller, I fire up the console and immerse myself in the digital chaos of video games. Reagan should be back soon from that expensive ass art class I saw her eyeing a week ago, and I lovingly forced a spot to open up in that full ass class for her.

The game pulls me in, bullets flying and enemies dropping like flies. But my mind keeps drifting to my wife. If she could get the fuck home already, that would be fucking great.

The game offers a temporary distraction, but it’s her presence I crave.

The front door creaks open, and I hear her footsteps. Her boots are clomping on the hardwood floor. My heart does that stupid lurching thing, but I keep my eyes on the game. I’m still partially in denial about how much I need her, how much I ache for her touch.

“How was class, Rembrandt?” I call out, my tone casual, masking the need to touch my wife that’s coiling in my gut.

“Oh, the same. Associating with the plebs,” she replies, her voice laced with that familiar sarcasm. The front door clicks shut, and I hear her footsteps moving closer. My hands tighten around the controller.

“Got anything good to show me?” I throw a glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of her smirk.

“The only thing you want to see is my tits,” she says, tossing her bag onto one end of the couch. She slides down beside it, her movements sleek and fluid.

“Nah, I wanna see your cunt and ass also. I am a connoisseur of fine tastes, after all.”

“Move,” she commands, nudging me with her knee. I drop to the floor without hesitation, settling between her legs as if it’s my favorite place to be. Newsflash it is.

“Careful, Blackwood. Keep talking like that and you’ll find yourself begging me to fuck you senseless again.”

“Begging’s not typically my style,” I shoot back, smirking. “But if you’ve got a double-ended dildo, maybe we can both get fucked at the same time. Cheek to cheek.” I wiggle my eyebrows for effect.

She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the grin tugging at her lips. “You’re such a goddamn freak, Penn.”

“And you fucking love it,” I say, my eyes turning back to the TV as her thighs bracket my shoulders.

“Delusional as always,” she retorts, and I can almost hear the smirk in her voice. Her pencil scratches against the paper, a soothing sound that I’ve come to expect.

Her eyes wander. I feel their weight, tracing the lines of my body until they land on my hands. Finally, she notices the broken skin. Her sharp inhale is almost imperceptible, but I catch it. A wicked grin spreads across my face.

“Like what you see?” I tease, flexing my fingers so the fresh ink stretches and moves. The words stand out starkly against my knuckle, raw and dark.

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters, but there’s a hitch in her breath.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” I shoot back, dropping the controller and turning my head to look up at her. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. She’s biting her lower lip, a habit she has when she’s trying to suppress something.

“Why’d you get that?” she asks, her voice softer now.

“Felt like it,” I say, shrugging. “Seemed fitting.”

“Fitting for what?”

“My wife on my body,” I reply simply, enjoying the way her eyes darken at the statement. Flattery and arousal flickers across her face, and I savor every second of it.

“You’re impossible,” she murmurs, leaning down so her lips brush my ear. Her breath is warm, sending shivers down my spine.

“Shut the fuck up and kiss your goddamn husband,” I snark back, tilting my head to give her better access. Her hands slide down to my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to send a delicious pain shooting through me.

Her lips crash into mine with a brutal intensity as we fight with lips, teeth, and tongue until she pulls away, breathing deeply.

“Keep playing your game,” she orders, her voice taking on that challenging tone I love. “I need to finish this sketch.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, picking up the controller again. But my focus isn’t on the game anymore. It’s on her, on the way her body shifts behind me, the heat radiating from her skin.

I try hard to keep my eyes glued to the screen, but she is a siren. Every so often, I steal glances over my shoulder, catching glimpses of her brow furrowed in concentration, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she works.

“Damn it,” I mutter as some faceless enemy takes me out on the screen. It’s impossible to concentrate when she’s right there, tantalizing and untouchable.

I never did like being told I couldn’t play with my toys.

Finally, she breaks the silence with a voice that’s softer. “Penn,” she says, and just my name on her lips is enough to make me drop the controller like it’s got crabs.

Reagan’s warm breath sends a shiver down my spine as she leans in close, her lips brushing against my ear. “Let’s go for a ride, hubby,” she whispers.

“Is that right?” I smirk, tilting my head to look up at her .

Her fingers trace patterns on my shoulders, nails grazing my skin just enough to make me twitch.

“Yeah,” she says, leaning closer. “Thought it might be…relaxing.”

“Shit,” I say with a grin that feels feral even to me. “You ain’t gotta tell me twice, woman.”

I get up and look down at my slippers sadly. Damn, I’m gonna need to put boots on and leave Billy and Stu behind.

We head outside and to the smaller of the two garages that houses mine and my brothers’ bikes and walk to my beauty, just gleaming and waiting for us in the cold March air.

Reagan hands me her hair tie without a word, turning around so I can braid her long hair. A ritual that’s oddly intimate despite its practicality. As I run my fingers through her hair, separating it into sections for the braid, I find that it’s one of many small things I love doing for my wife.

“I still can’t believe how good you are at this,” she teases, her voice softer than usual.

“Helmet,” I say, handing her the matte black headgear. She slides it on, the act transforming her from the pain in my ass to my partner-in-crime.

“Ready?” I ask, swinging my leg over the bike and settling into the seat.

“Always,” she replies, climbing on behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist in a firm grip. I start the bike and rev the engine, the roar announcing our departure as I guide us out of the garage.

I feel the rush of adrenaline already starting to build. The bike lurches forward, tires screeching against the pavement as we tear away from the house and onto the open road. The wind whips past us and her fingers dig into my sides, possessiveness and trust well up in me.

“I wanna go fast, psycho,” she yells, her voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

“Say less,” I reply with a grin, twisting the throttle harder. The speedometer needle leaps, climbing toward the red zone. The asphalt rushes beneath us in a blur of gray and white.

The feel of my girl pressed up against me on my bike is something indescribable. She molds to me, an extension of my body, of my mind. I know with her that if I was to ever be lacking, she would pick up the slack, the mantle. Her demons have tainted her and her shades of gray blend seamlessly with my black and red shards until all you see is us.

Beautiful.

Broken.

And just this side of fucking psychotic.

I grip her hand, feeling her warmth against my rough skin, and tap it four times. She grips even tighter in response, nails biting through my jacket and into flesh.

Ahead, two cop cars sit side by side like bloated vultures under a billboard advertising some irrelevant luxury crap no one’s buying. They stand out like two fucking pigs at the 4H fair for best in fucking show.

With a flick of my wrist and a shift in weight, the front wheel lifts off the ground. The bike stands on its rear wheel as we fly past the fucking Paul Blart mall cops.

They can’t see my face, nor can I see theirs with how fast we fly by, but I imagine jaws dropping and their realization sets in, and they are scrambling to get a little hitch in their giddy-up and come after us.

For that split second, there’s nothing but Reagan’s laugh cutting through the air as I slam us back down to two wheels and open up the throttle to push my bike to its limits.

Sirens wail after us, but all I can hear is the pounding of my heart and my laughter. All I can feel is her wrapped around me, trusting me to give her a high like no other.

The wind whips past us as we tear down the highway, the roar of the engine vibrating through my bones. Reagan’s arms tighten around me, and I feel her fingers start to wander, creeping up under my shirt.

“Enjoying the ride, baby?” I tease, trying to keep my voice steady.

She doesn’t reply with words; instead, her hands slide lower, teasingly brushing against the waistband of my joggers. My grip on the handlebars tightens, every nerve ending screaming for more.

“Fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, yanking the bike to the side and pulling into a dark, secluded spot just off the road. The tires crunch against the gravel as we come to a halt, the sudden stillness almost deafening after the adrenaline of our ride.

“Get over here,” I command, twisting around and grabbing her by the waist. She straddles me, her legs wrapping around my hips. I can feel the heat radiating from her, mingling with the cool night air, as I flip up her visor, then my own.

“Always so demanding,” she purrs, her breath warm against my face as she runs her fingers over my hoodie, tugging just hard enough to make me growl.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” I shoot back, my hands finding their way to her belt, yanking it open with a practiced ease. The leather gives way, and I slide my hand beneath her jeans, feeling the wetness already pooling there. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

“Maybe I’m just excited from the ride,” she taunts, her voice dripping with sarcasm .

“Is that right?” I challenge, pushing her back slightly and positioning her against the gas tank. Fuck, I’m hard seeing her spread out on my bike and wrapped around me. I cup her breasts, squeezing them roughly through her sweatshirt before slipping my hands underneath to feel her bare skin because of fucking course she’s not wearing a bra. Her nipples are hard, begging for attention, and I oblige, pinching and rolling them between my fingers until she gasps.

“Penn,” she moans, her voice full of pleasure and impatience. Her hips grind against me, seeking more friction, more contact. But I’m not ready to give her everything just yet. I want to savor this, to draw out every moment of her desire until she’s begging for release.

“You’ll take what I give you, hellfire,” I whisper, my lips brushing against her neck as I tease her clit through her panties. At least she’s fucking got those on. My wife can’t be going out without a bra and panties on unless I’m there to be her scary fucking bodyguard. Her body jerks in response, a shiver running down her spine. “We’ve got all night.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she hisses, but there’s no real anger in her voice, only desperation.

“And you love every second of it,” I retort, sliding her panties to the side and dipping a finger inside her, feeling her walls clench around me. I pump slowly, deliberately, stroking my long fingers inside of her and making sure my rings rub against her clit to build the anticipation until she’s writhing against the gas tank, her breaths coming in ragged bursts.

“Please,” she finally whispers, her voice breaking. It’s the sound of surrender and it’s music to my ears.

“That’s more like it,” I murmur, adding another finger and increasing the pace, watching as she comes undone beneath me. Her moans echo in the stillness as I push her closer and closer to the edge.

But just as she’s about to tip over into oblivion, I pull back. The whimper that escapes her lips is almost enough to make me relent. Almost.

“You’re stopping now?” she gasps, her eyes wide with disbelief and desire. She’s flushed, breathless, and absolutely perfect.

“You wanted to tease me, so tit-for-tat baby,” I say, pulling back and letting her catch her breath. The look she gives me could melt steel.

“Asshole,” she mutters, but there’s a playful edge to it. She climbs off the bike, removing her helmet and shaking out the baby hairs that have clung to the sweat around her temples.

“Come on, hubby,” she taunts, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Catch me if you can.”

Without another word, she takes off into the woods, her laughter ringing out behind her. For a second, I’m frozen, watching her disappear into the trees. I rip off my helmet because running with that son-of-a-bitch on is not my idea of a good time. Then, the thrill of the chase kicks in, and I’m after her.

The forest closes in around me as I sing-song taunts into the air.

“Mrs. Fucking Blackwood!” I call out, my voice echoing through the trees. “You can’t run forever!”

“Who says I’m trying to get away?” Her voice is closer than I expected, and I push harder, dodging branches and leaping over fallen logs.

Finally, I catch a glimpse of her, silhouetted against the night. She’s standing in a small clearing, her chest heaving as she watches me approach. There’s a wildness in her eyes. A twin fucking flame flickers in me.

“Gotcha,” I say, grabbing her waist and pulling her close. Her body presses against mine, and for a moment, we just stand there, breathing each other in.

“Think you can keep up, killer?” she whispers, her lips brushing against my ear as she calls me the first name she ever gave me.

“When are you going to learn that I’ve infected you? Climbed under your ribs, burrowed into your organs, grafted myself to skin and bones. I’m in your body, and in your mind. Even now, you feel the tendrils of me branching out inside of you. That’s what it means to be fucking claimed by me. To be fucking mine,” I tell her before capturing her mouth in a demanding kiss.