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Well-Fitted (#2: Wet)

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He slipped the latchkey from the sodden cloth masquerading as his britches. He was completely drenched. It was his own fault; he'd been trawling the mews and lanes of Mayfair, hunting the vital piece of information that would solve he and Stoke's latest case.

He heard the sound of footsteps pattering away the moment he pushed open the door. Hopefully that meant there would be a hot bath in his dressing room shortly.

Despite being chilled right through to his bones, his blood heated with commendable - albeit painful - speed when he saw the fire lit in the parlor in which Penelope had taken to waiting when was out late at night.

He crossed his front hallway and pushed the door fully open. His wife was waiting curled in the same armchair as the first time she’d done this for him. She wore the most glorious peignoir, a luscious confection of silk and Venetian lace. His lips curved appreciatively at the sight; this was her house too now. He felt the hold slipping on his demons’ reins.

He slipped into the parlor and knelt beside her to press a kiss to her lips.