"Wine, yes. I can live without food," she replied. "But don't think you're leaving me hanging until then. I need all the details. Living vicariously through you is the only thing keeping me from going full-metal Kate Chopin andThe Yellow Wallpaper."
"I think you mean Charlotte Perkins Gilman," I replied. "You and Kate Chopin have other things in common."
Jackson dragged his fingers up my inner thighs, grinning as if he was unwrapping the gift he'd always wanted. He did that to me, he made me believe I was worth treasuring.
"Okay, whatever. Give me the literature lesson later," Brooke said. "Please get to the good parts. I'm growing old and weary over here."
With my gaze locked on Jackson, I said to her, "You were at The Galley. You saw him drag me out of there."
"Yes, kicking and screaming," she replied.
"I'm probably going to get naked in his kitchen. I might even spank him. Then we're going to bed where we plan to sleep."
"At least for a little while," Jackson murmured.
"This is completely unacceptable as far as key details go," Brooke seethed. "You better choose me as your maid of honor after all the shit you've put me through with this man. I'm going to give the sloppiest, sappiest toast at your wedding and I'm going to make those evil stepsisters of yours my bridal party bitches. And you're definitely buying the wine this weekend."
"Happily," I said, a giggle-moan ringing in my words as Jackson's thumbs brushed along the edge of my panties.
"Okay, all right, that's enough," Brooke said. "I can put up with a lot of things but I don't want to listen while he fucks you."
"He's not—"
"I don't care," she interrupted. "Something is going on over there and I don't need to be involved in it. We can talkaboutsex but we can't talkduringsex."
"Love you, babe," I said.
"Love you back," Brooke replied.
I ended the call and set my phone aside before looking up at Jackson. "What happens now?" I asked.
I meantright nowbut I also meant everything afterright now.
"Anything you want," he said, still stroking the edge of my undies. "Ask me for anything, Annette. I'll give it to you."
I brought my hands to his face, cupping his strong, square jaw and running my thumbs over his cheeks. His eyes were heavy and exhaustion pinched his brow. "It's my turn to put you to bed," I said, sealing that promise with a kiss. "And when I need it, you'll do it for me."
"That's all?" he asked.
"That's everything," I replied.
27
Strain
v. To separate solids from liquids
Annette
Two monthslater
"It happens like this every year,"I murmured, my chin tipped down as I tugged up my coat's zipper. "One day it's lovely and wonderful with cool, crisp autumn air and sunny skies"—I gestured to the dark sky overhead with my gloved hand—"and then there's a cold snap and the next ice age begins. That's the real problem with having homecoming in the fall. It needs to be a springtime deal so people aren't turning into icicles out here. I don't care if that screws up everything with football. It's what I believe."
Jackson murmured in agreement as he wrapped a flamingo scarf around my neck. He was in uniform tonight, wearing a thick, dark sweater over his tan shirt, and a coat over the sweater to ward off the wintry chill. That sweater—with the sheriff's office insignia embroidered on the arm and his name over his chest, worked like a charm for me. I wanted to rake my fingers down the knit, slide my hands under it—I wanted to peel it off him. I wanted to toss it to the floor and get my hands on his skin and keep them there until he couldn't take any more. And then I'd slip into that sweater and see how long it took him to rip it off me.
"I won't let you turn into an icicle," Jackson said, patting the scarf then untying it again. "You look cute. I like seeing you all bundled up."
"Don't get me wrong," I said. "I live for boots-and-long-sweater season but it's the transition between wearing sundresses and sandals all summer to wearing, you know, socks and jeans and then to coats and hats and scarves and mittens. The hats really get me. They fuck up my hair."
