March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 45

I wrap one of John's shirts around myself like a hug. Between the other occupants of this house, Katie's bedwetting, and Florence's penchant for hugging me with fairy-cake-hands, I've fallen behind on my laundry, and have run out of clean shirts. The fabric slips against my skin, and smells faintly of his musky soap.

I tuck it into a button-up skirt and pull a maroon cardigan over my head, fending off the first Autumnal chill. My woollen stockings are silent against the gleaming wooden floors as I move around. The kids are all in bed and I'm unable to keep still as I wait for John to come home.

I wring my hands. I drink gin. I pace.

Polly calls out to me from the other room, "A watched pot never boils."

"Clearly you've never attempted a choux pastry," I call back, but the exchange does nothing to ease my nerves.

Polly sets the table for us adults, keeping the racks of lamb covered to keep the heat in. I can't imagine having anything to eat — my stomach churns with every step.

And then I hear the car on the gravel outside, and then the sound of the front door opening, and then Tommy's raised eyebrows and Arthur's warm hug and finally, finally, John.

He sighs a little in relief and grins, holding his arms out as I launch at him. I wrap my arms around his back and sigh into him, head pressed against his chest. I inhale, and it's like the first breath I've taken in days.

He's here. And he's unhurt.

"Come on you two," Polly tells us. "Before the food gets cold."

But when John tugs my head back by my hair, and grazes his teeth across my lower lip as he kisses me, I can't help but feel food is overrated. And by the way he's growing against my hip, it seems as though he feels the same.

"I'll take your lamb then, John boy," Arthur calls from the table.

"If you want to lose your hands," John calls back, but his fingers are soft, running the length of my jaw.

"Come on," I tell him. "You need to eat. We can speak later."

We take our seats at the table. Straight away, his knee is resting against mine — an amplification of the sensation I'd experienced during our first dinner here. I grow flushed and restless, the sensation like static in a thunderstorm, resonating all the way to the top of my thighs.

The first time had been fleeting. This time, it's inescapable. In fact, I decide, as I take a sip of gin in an attempt to hide how flustered I am, it almost feels deliberate.

John's face is perfectly innocent as he tucks into his potatoes and listens to Arthur's opinions on the new train lines, but then he tilts his head to me and smirks, unable to help himself.

"I'm off," Tommy says, standing to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bye Tom," Arthur waves.

"Actually, we'd better go too," John says. "Need to check on the kids and that."

"You never check on the kids after tea," Arthur says, before flinching in a way that suggests Polly may have kicked him under the table.

"Goodnight," she bids us. As we leave, I hear Arthur mutter, "What was that all about?"

John links his fingers through my own, and when we reach the bottom of the staircase, he lifts me over his shoulder.

"John!" I gasp, laughing as I hit his back. "Put me down."

"Never," he says, his hands firm against the back of my thighs where he holds me.

He pushes open the door to our bedroom, and stops cold. I glance up, twisting to see what it is.