CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
dead to me
"It is not good for man to be alone." —Genesis 2:18
"I'm surprised you decided to meet me again."
Campbell eyed Martin Price's grave with narrowed eyes, as if he wasn't sure whether or not to trust the headstone. Trixie hadn't come to the cemetery since the funeral and the grieving rituals—it hurt too badly—but she had business to do. "I want to make a deal." In her pocket, she gripped the wedding ring from Tommy so tightly that the gemstone threatened to slice her palm open. "I have recently come into some information you might find helpful. Regarding the whereabouts of the guns."
Beside her, the Inspector scoffed. "You have hardly proven a reliable source, Mrs. Shelby."
"I know," Trixie conceded. "But we're all playing the same game, aren't we? I'm just trying to call a truce now."
After a long moment assessing her, Campbell shrugged and said, "Name your price."
Trixie smiled. "I want a job."
Neither said anything for a long stretch of time, and then Campbell burst out laughing. Trixie tried not to bristle at the reaction, but she couldn't help the scowl that pulled on the corners of her lips. "You can't be serious."
"I can. And I am."
"You have no qualifications."
"I do," she objected. "I watch things, Inspector. I play stupid very well. What was it that you called me? A bit dumb?"
At that, he pursed his lips. "You will never be an Agent of the Crown."
"Oh, God. I have no interest in that," Trixie said. "But I could be an informant, if you compensated me for my work."
He chuckled. "You almost had me fooled, you know. I thought you loved your husband."
"I wasn't lying about the things I knew of my husband's business," Trixie said, hoping the strain of her fib was not apparent. "But he uses me as bait. He thinks I don't notice the game I'm playing a pawn in, but like I said, Inspector—I'm not stupid. I know more about the Black Country and Birmingham gangs than anybody else, because nobody expects me to be paying attention. Including you."
Campbell raised an eyebrow. "I hope you don't just expect me to take your word for it."
"If you did, you'd be even dumber than I thought you were," Trixie replied cheekily. "I'll give you a few of the guns. Call me at this number when you find them, and we can make a deal for the rest." She passed him a folded slip of paper. "If not, well—I guess I'll just have to tell my secrets to someone else, hm? Us women and our loose lips, you know."
"Fine," he gritted out. "Give me the first spot. Go home. I'll call if your intelligence is good."
Trixie smiled, pleased. "The dead keep secrets, you know? Especially the boys who went to war. I guess you wouldn't know about that." Even in the silence, even without looking at him, she could sense his contempt. "They're haunted by guns. You ever heard of a man named Danny Whizz-bang?"
"Can't say that I have."
"He sees Germans in the backs of milk carts. And he shoots them with his broomstick." Trixie patted Campbell on the shoulder jovially, just to see how it felt to have the upper hand—just once. "Imagine what he could do with a real gun."
"But he's dead," said Campbell.
Trixie nodded sadly. "So I guess we'll never know."
By the time Campbell called, the rest of Trixie's plan had begun to fall into place. She sat behind the Garrison office's desk, a glass of gin on the table, and let the phone ring twice before answering. "Hello?" she drawled.
"Don't think I'm growing fonder of you after once instance of truth," Campbell replied from the other end of the line. "We found the handguns. What about the Lewis machines?"
"Do we have a deal or not?" Trixie pressed back.
"We have an...arrangement."
"Semantics," she dismissed. "I want you to send one of your men to bring me fifty pounds, and I, in exchange, will provide you with the location of the machine guns."
"Where are you?"
"The Garrison. Payment by five on the dot, Inspector. That gives you more than enough time."
"I don't like your tone."
Trixie rolled her eyes. After a long moment contemplating how to respond, she decided to meet him with silence and the disconnect of the call. As soon as the phone was back on the hook, Tommy spoke from behind her. "So?"
She pivoted around to find him leaning back casually against the bookshelf, like he wasn't going to risk hanging for this. "So it worked."
He raised his eyebrow and gave a snort of disbelief, as if he'd expected her to fail. Trixie was sure that he knew what this was: a test. A challenge. To see if she was worth keeping around when she asked—and Trixie had, by now, made up her mind to ask, once she had a moment free from the pursuit of guns and coppers and rival bookies.
If her calculations were correct, Campbell would send the fifty pounds over with a handful of non-Peaky police, prepared to "persuade" Trixie at best and torture her at worst, now that he knew she knew where the guns were. She glanced at John in the doorway and he waved back cheekily. "Are you upset?" she asked Tommy.
"Very," he responded, voice dry as a desert. "Are you ready to betray me?"
"Already have." She stood from the desk and gathered her belongings—purse and gloves, leaving his ring on the table—before heading towards John. "See you soon, probably."
Tommy lifted a hand in goodbye, and Trixie patted John's elbow. "Let's go."
"Back door," he directed, and she obeyed without argument. As the two departed through the long hallway leading towards the alley behind the pub, Trixie felt the desire to look back seize her with an unforgiving grip. Here she was, being asked to trust Tommy, as he had been asked to trust her. She stretched her neck to keep from turning her gaze over her shoulder, and kept walking.
Once outside, John provided her with one of Polly's veiled hats. Trixie fastened it to her head. "How do I look?"
He wrinkled his nose. "You look like my aunt."
She scowled before realizing that her face was shielded. Trixie socked him in the arm for good measure. Usually, he would've entertained it with a tease or a mocking cry, but they were running out of time now. Birmingham police were beginning to gather on the street, and John yanked her forward by her arm. They slipped through the other end of the alley, spit out onto a sidestreet only a few blocks over from Polly's house. The clicking of her heels was unavoidably loud now, with the strides she took to keep pace with John, and Trixie resisted the urge to flinch. This is good, she reminded herself. You're not supposed to be you right now. As they passed through these streets—streets she loved, streets she feared, streets she had grown to rule, Trixie wondered how she ever could've thought that a quiet life would suit her.
Polly's door, horseshoe and all, was before her before she knew it. "I've got it from here," she told John. "See you on the other side."
"So bloody dramatic," he laughed, but Trixie could see the lines of worry forming around his eyes. As he disappeared down the street, Trixie removed her hat and veil and raised her hand to knock, only for the door to swing open.
"Trixie," Polly greeted, stepping aside to let her in. "Have you seen Tommy? I swear, that boy is going to get himself killed just because he can." Trixie hung her purse on the hook and tucked her gloves inside while Polly continued. "Do you know?"
"Know what?" Trixie asked, her voice lifting an octave higher as she feigned ignorance.
Polly paused, watching her closely as Beatrice made every effort to avoid eye contact. "They found the guns. Some of them, at least, buried in a grave marked Danny Whizz-bang." When Trixie hesitated, Polly pinched the bridge of her nose. "What did you two do?"
"We're negotiating a truce," Trixie replied. "Buying ourselves time."
Trixie tried to give the impression of being completely calm about the whole situation—and she was, to an extent—but it was her first time taking charge, after all, and the Shelby boys had never exactly seemed confident in her abilities. She was sure, but they were not yet on board. Which meant she had to prove herself to all other parties involved.
"My darling girl," Polly said, putting a hand on Trixie's cheek. Her voice was strained with disappointment. "You were supposed to be better than him."
The look in Polly's dark eyes nearly brought Trixie to tears. "I know," she whispered. Polly—the love this woman had for her; the faith she had put in her—would always be her weakness; the one thing to turn her soft.
Polly drew her lips up into a line and cocked her head to the side; Trixie couldn't discern if it was out of fondness or fear. "You two. Your cleverness will get you killed one day."
"It'll be alright," Trixie insisted. "It was my idea. And it makes sense. Keep the guns around for as long as they're a useful negotiation tactic, and surrender when we want the cops out of town before they can find them on their own. Tommy's making a move for Kimber, you know that? He wants to break into legitimate business. We cannot have Campbell watching over us then." She swallowed. "And besides—why would we sell weapons to anyone who might want to use them to kill us?"
"Everyone wants to kill us," Polly replied.
"Exactly."
Still unconvinced, Polly shook her head. "Those three—those boys, I gave up on keeping them safe when they left for war. And now I'm losing Ada, too." She exhaled, trembling, Trixie realized. Polly was not one to be frightened—if she was, then it ought to be taken seriously. "I've lost my children. I've lost my nephews. Do not let me lose you too, Beatrice. you are far too smart for that."
The words threatened to break her. Trixie wondered often what her father would think, what Luca would think, but she rarely imagined the kind of person her mother was; it had been a subject her father tended to avoid, and she supposed there was nobody left who knew the stories well enough to tell them. As she held Polly's gaze, Trixie considered that Polly might love her as much as Trixie loved Polly. That maybe Polly didn't just see her as a protege. "It will be alright," Trixie swore. "It will. I swear to God, and you know I don't take that lightly." She didn't. But she still felt like it was a lie.
With their leverage gone, there was nothing now standing between Campbell and Tommy. Trixie knew that her deal with him wouldn't hold for long, but she prayed that it would give them at least enough time to get out of town while Campbell sorted out the map she'd left him of the remaining hidden guns. But her plan was contingent on Tommy's back at the house soon. A quick glance at the clock told her that she had thirty seconds left to leave comfortably, and ninety if they were in a real rush.
She didn't bother praying–knew she didn't deserve it—and so Trixie was hardly surprised when Tommy burst through the door exactly a minute later, a red-cheeked Finn on his heels. "They're coming! The coppers!"
Trixie turned to Tommy. "They want you," he said. "They're coming here."
She shrugged. "I see." Outside the window, she could see three officers, rifles on their shoulders, approaching on horseback.
Tommy shrugged, cavalier. "Well, the Lee boys have their caravan ready out back."
"Would you be up for a honeymoon?" Trixie asked, as if this were a legitimate proposal and not an escape necessitated by the encroaching Birmingham Police officers.
"Somewhere sunny?" Tommy asked, though he was already shoving a fresh round of bullets into his revolver.
"Oh, for God's sake, you two," Polly hissed. "Get the hell out of here."
It didn't take much more for the pair to set off for the backdoor, Tommy holding the loaded gun to his thigh and Trixie empty-handed. Even her purse was left hanging on the hook by Polly's front door.
That wouldn't matter much, she decided, as she pushed the backdoor open and dove straight for the canvas cover of the caravan. It parted down the middle and she slipped inside, finding two of the Lee boys and one of the women waiting inside. "Tommy here?" the man with the reins asked.
"Here," Tommy said, raising his hand and settling in beside Trixie. The horse pulling the wagon took off soon after down the street, a steady trot so as not to around suspicion. Trixie held her breath in an effort to slow her pulse—they'd done it; they were almost out of here—but she couldn't stop being aware of Tommy at her side.
Just then, the caravan ran over a bump, and Trixie released an involuntary yelp. She grabbed for the nearest anchor, her fingers entwining with Tommy's before she could think the better of it. Sudden warmth filled her cheeks, but before the shame persuaded her to pull away, he returned the embrace, closing his hand around hers. Now she had something new to be ashamed of—her breathing steadied almost immediately with his touch, her heart calming to its normal pace. Oh no, thought Beatrice. That could only mean trouble.
Trixie tried not to think too hard about it, but she didn't let go until they found themselves in the Black Country, Birmingham and its perpetual fog long gone by the time the Lee boys pulled the wagon over on the side of the road to give the horses a rest. Her own steady grip surprised her, but not nearly as much as the fact that Tommy held her just as tightly for just as long. Whatever they had, the feeling was unrecognizable to Trixie. Was it hate? No—she was beginning to suspect it had never been that in the first place. But it wasn't fear, and it certainly wasn't affection. She stole a glance at him as the Lees, unloaded a jug of water for the horses. the crook of his brow, the frown of his lip. Whatever she felt for him, it was becoming difficult to tolerate , too big to name, stronger than anything she'd ever felt before.
"Congratulations, Beatrice," he said, when he caught her staring. He still hadn't let go of her hand. "It's worked out quite well, hasn't it?"
"So far," she allowed—that was as much praise as she was willing to accept from him before she got suspicious. "Still have to manage the ordeal of getting back into the city unscathed."
"Halfway there."
She withdrew her hand. "Never thought of you as the optimistic kind."
"You've thought of me, though?"
She knew he expected her to get flustered. "All the time," she said instead. And it was the truth, wasn't it? She couldn't escape him, as far as she ran. These days, she didn't find herself trying to.
"Me. Shelby!" one of the Lees shouted. Trixie recognized the Irish lilt of his accent. Johnny Dogs, the officiant from John's wedding.
"Johnny," Tommy replied, pivoting in his seat so he was facing the open curtain.
"I think she's sick. Would you mind taking a look at her?" Johnny squinted, the golden sun casting a bright glare across her face. "I wouldn't ask, but you know better than I do."
"Hold on," Tommy told Trixie, before disappearing outside. Hold on for what? What did he mean to continue? She rifled through Tommy's coat, draped over the bench until she found a pack of matches and a tin of cigarettes. She lit one, took a long drag, and then stepped outside, landing heavily in her boots on the dirt road. The world was the brightest she'd ever seen it, bathing them all in an impossibly warm, pleasant glow. It was everything she'd imagined: blue skies stretched from horizon to horizon, birdsong in the distance, the sway of the long grass in the breeze. That damn house. She could have this all—she would have this all, unless she got up the nerve to ask for something better.
"Is she alright?" Trixie asked, coming up behind Tommy. Smoke unfurled from the end of her cigarette, filling the hollows of his face as he turned.
Tommy shook his head, wordlessly holding out his hand. Trixie placed the cigarette between his fingers, and he inhaled before explaining, "Worm eggs in her hooves."
"Bad?"
He tilted his head back and forth, as if debating in his head. "Caught them early. But they burrow. She'll need to be treated somewhere before we can go back."
Trixie surveyed the desolate landscape. "Where do you suggest we go?"
"We passed a farmhouse on the way," Johnny Dogs piped up. "Might have someone who can help. I saw horses."
"Alright," said Tommy, patting him on the shoulder. "Lead the way."
There was no handholding on the brief backtrack towards the farmhouse. Trixie felt the dread in her stomach expanding, and took the anxiety out on her nail beds as they walked, Johnny Dogs guiding the horse on her reins. What if the horse was in worse shape than they thought? Tommy knew what he was doing to an extent, but he didn't handle that sort of thing anymore—Curly did. He could be out of practice. And if they even tried to hitch a ride back, would anyone take them? Would Polly and the others be safe until they got back?
Trixie gritted her teeth as the carriage came to a stop. Erasmus Lee's men began to draw guns from their holsters, the sights of the barrels jolting her from her worries. "What the hell are those for?"
"Persuasion," one of the boys, Cass, replied.
"No guns. We're not trying to arouse suspicion."
"There's no one around here for miles!" he protested.
Trixie just rolled her eyes, stalking ahead, towards the white farmhouse set back from the road. She passed the garden, the vegetables and flowers beginning to poke through the soil, before raising her hand and knocking gently at the door. Nobody answered. A moment later, she knocked again, louder.
"Coming!" came a woman's voice from inside the house. Trixie looked up, and found someone far older than herself peering down at her through the window. "We don't get guests here very often, I thought I was imagining things!" she hollered down.
"I'm so sorry to disturb you!" Trixie shouted back up. "We're traveling through, and our horse is sick. My husband saw that you have horses here and was wondering if you could help us take a look at her."
"Oh, one second, dear," the woman said. Trixie waited many seconds, in fact. When the door opened, Trixie could see clearly that the woman was old enough to be her grandmother, frail, but her eyes still kind. "Is that her?" She pointed to the horse down the road. It whinnied, as if to answer her question. "She's beautiful."
Trixie nodded. "She is. The boys think she's got worm eggs in her hooves."
The woman made a face. "That's no good." She stuck her head back in the door and shouted, "Edward! Visitors!"
"Visitors?" came the bellowing reply. A man rounded the corner, just as old but seemingly in better shape. "Oh, goodness. We never get visitors around here. I'm Edward Proctor."
"Beatrice Shelby," Trixie replied. "We, um—our horse is sick, and we're hours from home."
"No trouble at all," Edward said. "You know what it is?"
"Worms," his wife replied. "In the hoof."
He made the same face as she had, and nodded somberly. "Let me take a look."
Trixie watched carefully as he introduced himself to Tommy and the Lees, more for his sake than theirs. Only when she saw them shake hands, guns remaining hidden in their holsters, was she satisfied enough to look away. "I don't think I got your name," she told the woman.
"Prue," Mrs. Proctor replied. "I know what you're thinking. Prue Proctor. It sounds quite silly."
Trixie hadn't even considered that. "It's nice," she insisted. "Very even."
Mrs. Proctor laughed, and then said, "Shall we venture off the porch?"
Trixie nodded, and the two women followed the path in the grass to the road. Tommy was still smoking the cigarette from earlier, while Johnny Dogs lifted the horse's leg to show the worms. "She's got a limp, you see," he explained. "Not good for the journey back."
"Not good at all," Mr. Proctor concurred. "Mind if I take her to the barn for a look?"
Tommy shook his head. "Not at all." To the Lees, he said, "Boys? Stay here, we'll fetch the caravan."
"We?" Trixie asked, staring down at the heels on her boots. she was not in the proper attire for this sort of activity.
"Come on," Tommy said. "Won't be that bad."
Trixie glared at him, but was too afraid of making a scene in front of the Proctors to protest any further. The caravan was only a fifteen minute walk up the road, and it was mostly flat anyway, but she would much prefer to sit in Mrs. Proctor's garden, admiring the flowers.
She took long steps to catch up with Tommy. Already he had another cigarette between his lips, a match in hand. As soon as flame met paper, Trixie pulled it from his mouth and took a drag, determined to demonstrate her displeasure. Unfazed, Tommy simply lit another cigarette, smoking quietly until they arrived at the caravan. "Why did I have to come, again?" she asked. "You have to know it'll take far longer with me than any of the Lees."
Tommy tossed his smoke to the ground, stomping it out with his shoe, before turning to Trixie and offering her a smirk. For once, his smile was genuine; his eyes lit up by the sun, creasing at the corners. "Can't I get a moment alone with my wife on our honeymoon?"
She paused, startled. "What?"
"I asked—" He took a step closer, backing her up against the ledge of the caravan. "—Can't I get a moment alone with my wife on our honeymoon?"
There was a heat pooling in her stomach before she even knew what to do with herself. Trixie hadn't put much thought into whether or not they'd touch each other again—she'd assumed he needed her to distract from the night at the Pub, and would promptly move on. Fuck some other woman. She tilted her chin up, stubborn as always. "Dragging a caravan on foot is not as romantic as you may think."
"And if the caravan has sentimental value?"
"What?" Trixie said—or would have, if Tommy didn't garble her words by kissing her. It caught her so off guard that she nearly fell backwards. His hands snaked around her waist to hold her steady, and his mouth was sweet, and he was being gentle, unusually so. Trixie let out a whimper, her body betraying her as it curved to fit against his chest. "Tommy," she breathed, breaking away. "We don't do this."
"We don't?"
"You needed a distraction," Trixie argued, even as everything else seemed to be crying out no, no, no, we want this, we want him. "You didn't want me."
Tommy pinned both wrists at her sides. "I think I know what I want."
"Me?" she asked, doubtful. "Come on, Tommy."
"You're my wife until the day at the races," he said, bowing his head to press a kiss at the line of her jaw. "Let me have you until I have to let you go."
Trixie stared hard at him and found an unfamiliar and far more daunting beast staring back at her: honesty. Tommy's words fell haggard around them, and his hand came up to cup her face with a gentleness she wanted to believe was a trap, if only to know it would be easier that way. "You have me," she confessed quietly. "Until the day of the races."
"Just until then," he murmured, his hands falling to her waist, his lips returning to her own. "You'll be mine until then."
Oh, Tommy, she thought. I'll be yours long after, whether I like it or not. Trixie could see the golden sun rise and set a million times over a beautiful house, tend to a garden, raise children with a doting husband—but she would never forget him. Even if she tried. And that was the worst part. She needed to renegotiate soon, because they were both too proud to ask the other back when the leaving was already done.
One of his hands came up her skirt, unhooking the garter suspenders from her stockings and rolling the thin fabric down her legs. "You think about me all the time," Tommy said, disbelief coloring his words. "What do you think about?"
Trixie missed the warmth of his mouth but didn't bother chasing it as he ran his thumb up and down the inside of her thigh. "This," she admitted. "I wonder what happened to you. Who you used to be. Who you'll become." Everything in Birmingham—everything in the world, probably—was easier than Tommy Shelby. Trixie would have a better time with calculus, or learning ancient Greek, than she would with him. His thumb swiped over her slit through her panties and she hissed through her teeth at the burn.
He smiled at her the slightest bit and rested his hand at the back of her neck. "When I dream about this, Beatrice, you're usually wearing white."
When I dream about this. This. His fingers teasing her, coaxing something out of her she didn't know she possessed. Something cruel in Trixie's belly bloomed at the fact that he thought about her in the pitch-black of his room, wanted her back however much he was capable of it. It was a complication. But it was a complication she longed for. Don't make me leave, she wanted to say. Instead, she pushed him off of her. "I dream of you," she said, hiking up her skirt to her hips and playing with the band of her underwear. Tommy's eyes darkened with understanding as he watched her toy with the lace. "I dream of you touching me."
"How?" he demanded.
"You start slowly." Trixie pressed gently into her clit, eyes squeezing shut on instinct. Tommy was watching her closely, and she wanted to hide, wanted to be someone else watching the two of them, wanted to see how he was reacting without feeling the shame But she wanted to be touched, and didn't want to be afraid, so she forced her eyes back open and began stroking herself delicately through the fabric, cocking her head to the side with bravado. "You're mean. You're selfish. But when you fuck—" Trixie bit her lip to suppress a moan. "—it's like you're about to die. When I dream, I mean." Tommy's eyes were growing wild, his lips parted, as he darted his gaze back and forth between her lips and her cunt.
She was wet now, so wet that she could feel it through her fingers. Trixie shifted, pulling the underwear down to her thighs and touching herself with an urgency selfish enough to match him. God, it felt good. Tommy stepped forward, putting a finger under here chin and tilting her head up to face him. "Fuck yourself for me," he said, like, mail this for me, or, count this cash for me. If she was offended, the thought was in one ear and out the other, because she dragged her fingers down to her cunt and began stroking herself deeper. He pushed her face into his shoulder, and Trixie thought he was going to kiss her on the cheek again, but instead found him breathing heavy against her ear. "Say my name."
"Tommy," she whispered immediately. "Tommy."
"Good girl," he said, pressing a hot kiss to the dip of her cheek, and another to her neck, and Trixie's head rolled back. He felt so good and he was barely even touching her, being so gentle with her, and she brought two fingers back up to her clit and started circling it until she couldn't take it. Her back arched, her legs lifted, her mouth fell open—and then it was gone. His hand wrapped around her wrist hard enough to bruise, holding her so tightly just out of reach, but her hips were still rolling as she stared at him stupidly. "Don't, Beatrice," he warned. "You'll come when I'm inside you. Understand? You're mine until the races."
"Arsehole," she snapped, her words quivering with the rest of her body, but she reached for his belt buckle anyway, fumbling to get his cock out. "Fuck me, then," she said, as if she didn't care either way, all the while undoing the button on his slacks.
He stopped her again. "Get in the caravan."
She raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Do you want to be fucked, Beatrice?" he said, sounding bored, and she would've believed him if not for the unmissable tent in his trousers. "Get in the caravan."
She scrambled back, one leg slipping out of her panties as she moved. Tommy grabbed it, sliding it from the other leg, and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. Trixie didn't see where it landed, but she didn't care very much, because soon he was back on top of her, hiking her skirt up around her hips, pressing her into the wooden floor of the caravan, covering her mouth with his, unbearably hot and irresistible as he bit down on her bottom lip.
"When you fuck yourself," he asked, as she sucked a bruise into the side of his neck, "do you come?"
She swallowed. "Yes," she said, to the crook of his neck.
"And whose name do you say? Mine? The other one?"
The other one? It took her a moment to realize that he meant Luca. "Yours. Always."
It was the correct answer; he rewarded it with a kiss on her breast, tugging the hem of her dress down to expose her chest. "Fuck yourself on my cock," Tommy said suddenly.
She wanted to disagree, just to make things interesting, but she wanted to do it—God, she wanted to do it. Trixie pushed him back onto his knees and pulled at the buttons on his shirt, unable to form words, but he understood, rushing to unbutton the garment and remove it. She followed suit, pulling her dress over her head, leaving her in just the stockings and the boots. As he lay back, she settled on his lap, yanking his trousers down and taking his cock into her hand. "Christ," he swore, and she bit her lip at the strangled sound of his voice.
She stroked him until he was hard, still desperate to be touched, desperate to come. It took a moment to lower herself onto his cock, but once he'd bottomed out, Trixie spent a long moment panting on top of him, her hands on his chest. When she shifted, his eyes fluttered closed, his long lashes sweeping shut. She was his until the races, that's what they'd said, but she knew as she watched him that he was hers now, too. Just for a little while longer.
Trixie lifted herself up and came down hard, a moan escaping her as he bottomed out again. She bucked her hips forward, straining from the effort of lifting her own weight as quickly as she wanted to be fucked. Tommy reached up, splaying his fingers between her hips, and—oh. Him. She could feel him inside her, swollen and hard and wanting. As he pressed down against her, Trixie bucked her hips again, finding a rhythm, trying not to weep from the sensation. His other hand managed to find her hip, guiding her through the motions until he cursed and tightened his grip.
"Good girl," he murmured, eyes drooping. Trixie moved faster. "Good girl," he repeated.
Arching her back, Trixie fastened her eyes shut, willing him to let her come, knowing that he was inside her, and that had been their only condition, but also—she wanted his permission. But she was above begging. For now.
"Look at me," Tommy grunted, moving the hand on her belly to her jaw, squeezing it hard enough that her lips parted. "Eyes on me, Beatrice. Remember who fucks you."
"You," she whimpered, hating the desperate edge to her voice and hoping he would take pity on her for it. Her orgasm was close enough to taste, if only he would let her have it. Instead of mercy, he doubled down. Just as he pulled her down deeper onto his cock, Tommy rocked his own hips up to match her. Trixie bit her lip. Little cries spilled from her mouth with each thrust, needy and wanting and hot. "Tommy. God, Tommy." The word fell from her lips, over and over, garbling, like he was fucking his own name out of her.
"You want to come?" he grunted.
"Yes," Trixie said immediately. Then, too wet and wanting to endure it any longer, "Please."
He raised an eyebrow, almost looking bored. Almost. "Please?"
"Please, Tommy," she repeated. "Make your wife come."
"Wife, eh?" he drawled. "Say it again."
"Please," Trixie begged, selfishly dutiful, her breasts bouncing as she bobbed up and down on his cock, faster than before. "Tommy. Let your wife come on your cock. Let me be yours."
"Fuck, Trix," he swore. "Look at me."
She obeyed.
"That's it. Come for me, Beatrice."
After all that begging, it still took a moment for the orgasm to unfurl in her center. It would be so easy to throw her head back and screw her eyes shut, but his grip on her hip grew crueller every time she considered it, like he knew. "God, Tommy, God—" she moaned, until her mouth fell open and her words gave way to something incomprehensible. It hit her like a flash of heat when it arrived. Trixie trembled so badly she feared she would lose balance, but his hands were on her waist, and his eyes were on her, and she couldn't look away as the orgasm pulsed through her, the two of them slippery as his cock slid over her clit again and still again, until she could barely remember her name.
Tommy wrapped a careful arm around her, tilting her backwards gently until she lay flat on the floor of the caravan, and fucked into her again and again until he jolted, one short, "Fuck," escaping his lips as he finished inside her.
Neither moved for a long moment, and Trixie took the opportunity to savor the warmth of his chest once feeling returned to her body. He was a pleasant weight atop her, despite the way he dwarfed her in stature. "Your wife," she said, once she had caught her breath. She followed the words with a snort.
"Your husband," he retorted.
He shifted to her side, one arm still draped protectively over her belly. Trixie stole a glance at his lazy smile—it was the most unguarded she'd ever seen him. "I want to ask you something."
Tommy didn't move. "Alright."
"It's about our deal. The buyout."
That got his attention. He sat up sharply. "No," he said quietly. "Ask me anything but that."
"But—" Trixie protested. Was he really so determined to get rid of her? His come was still sticky on the insides of her thighs, he couldn't hate her that much. "Tommy—"
"Anything but that," Tommy repeated.
She shut her mouth promptly. Fine. It would be a conversation for a different time. "Well now I have to think of something else to ask," she muttered. Tommy curled back into her side, resting his head in the valley between her breasts, and Trixie combed through his hair absentmindedly as she attempted to come up with a question worthy of the opportunity. "If you weren't who you are." she dragged her nails down the nape of his neck, and he seemed to relax instinctively. "A Peaky Blinder, Prince of Birmingham. What would you be?"
Tommy reached for her other hand with his and squeezed. "Dead."
She held her breath, knowing it would shake, and that he would feel it because of where he lay on her chest. After a long moment, she exhaled. "We should go," she said. "It's getting late."
He didn't move. "Yeah," he agreed. "Funny how we run out of time."
A/N: as of right now, we have five chapters left—crazy, right? will these crazy kids get it together in time for the finale? will they triumph over their many foes? only time will tell….
my goal is to get this fic completed by its 1 year publishing anniversary in the middle of july. BUT i wanted to wager with you all as well: if we get to 300 reviews, i will post the first chapter of book 2, from embers, the same day i post the final chapter of baptism by fire for easy continuation of the story. i'll also open up a yes/no spoilers game as soon as we hit the goal, where you can comment to ask for spoilers and i will reply yes/no to your question. you guys are some of the best and most responsive readers i've had ever, and i'm so grateful for your continued support and i hope you enjoy everything to come! please let me know what you thought of this chapter if you feel so inclined and i will see you next time :)
Chapter 28 / Sweet Nothings
"I wish I could have this," Trixie confessed, and then resisted the urge to slap her hand over her mouth in shame. "A house, a loving husband."
Mrs. Proctor laughed, and jutted her head in the direction of the kitchen, where she could hear her own husband chatting with Tommy about how he took his tea, of all fucking things. "Devotion comes in many forms, my dear."
