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“No.”
The word spins from her lips before she can stop it, and when it is out the world seems to tilt upon its access, everything built anew around her. For she realises then that this is what she needs – this is the proof – this is his desire for her stamped and torn and bitten into her body where she cannot mistake it for anything else. Here it is: incontrovertible; undeniable. For him to want her like this – to the point of madness, beyond reason, to the point of such wickedness – a wickedness she would never want in earnest, of course, and a wickedness her sweet, loving husband would never enact upon her.
And yet – this is a game. Both of them have slipped into new skins – him the debauched rake, her the innocent debutante. Wolf and lamb; he bears his teeth, and she shows him her soft belly. Tonight they wear these new clothes; tomorrow they shall shed them, and be Colin and Pen once more.
OR - Penelope wears one of her old yellow dresses
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🥵❤️