Southern Fried Blues (The Officers' Ex-Wives Club)

by Jamie Farrell

  “Okay, Anna Grace?”

  Not yet. “Take me home?”

  “Be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A woman didn’t always know why she wanted a man, but when she had him, she knew she had what she needed.

  —The Temptress of Pecan Lane, by Mae Daniels

  ANNA’S VISION WAS hazy around the edges, from exhaustion, from stress, from tight neck muscles restricting blood flow to her head. She absently reached across her body and kneaded into her shoulder while Jackson steered the truck out of the parking lot. He’d been mostly quiet, but she hadn’t missed that he’d snagged her overnight bag from her car. When he spoke, his quiet voice rumbled right along with the engine. “Notice you didn’t mention whose home.”

  “All I need is a bed.”

  And his was closer.

  A lot closer.

  Neither of them talked much. When Jackson pulled off the main drag fifteen miles too early to be taking Anna to her apartment, her breathing hitched.

  “This okay with you?” he asked.

  “Mm-hmm.” More than okay.

  A couple minutes later, he killed the engine in his driveway. Her mouth was dry, her legs wobbly. Being on heels all day, she suspected, had nothing to do with it.

  She followed him into the front door. He greeted Radish with an affectionate ear scratch, then led Anna up the stairs. She didn’t want to sleep in the guest bed, but she couldn’t share his bed with him tonight.

  Not when she couldn’t guarantee Neil wouldn’t sneak into her head.

  The guest room was sparsely furnished but comfortable. A simple maroon comforter covered the double bed. The small bookcase held an assortment of science fiction novels with the occasional Mae Daniels novel tucked in between.

  Good. Switching out the three she’d borrowed had been in her plans too. That, at least, she’d follow through on. Jackson had good taste in romance novels.

  Also not something she would’ve guessed about him.

  “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he said. “Anything else I can get you?”

  Some good old-fashioned comforting sounded nice. “I’m okay.”

  He pulled two more packets of ketchup from inside his jacket and put them on the small bookshelf beside the bed. “Need anything else, I’ll be downstairs.”

  She dropped her hands before she could reach for him. He cupped the back of her head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You go on and get some sleep. Gonna need it to fix me up that big old breakfast you promised.”

  “I didn’t—”

  He flashed a gotcha grin. She sighed, but her lips curved up.

  Being in his house made the pressure in her head ease. Made all of her pressure ease.

  He was a good friend.

  “’Night, Anna Grace.”

  Then he was gone.

  She perched on the edge of the bed and peeled off her shoes. The bed creaked beneath her, the smell of Jackson’s laundry detergent wafting up from the sheets. She wondered if the noise carried downstairs.

  She retrieved her bag from beside the door. A door shut downstairs. Outside, Radish gave a single happy bark. Anna was intruding on their quality time, man and dog, their own little family unit.

  Kaci and Lance were like family, and Jules and Brad were akin to dysfunctional cousins who happened to live nearby, but Anna missed the quiet home family time. Reading a book on the couch while someone else flipped channels on the TV. Sharing meals.

  Not being alone.

  She dug into her bag for her Tylenol, then slipped down the hall for water.

  Jackson’s bathroom, like the rest of the house, was sparsely decorated. Anna suspected the green paint was original from when he’d moved in. Two navy towels dangled from the towel rack, and a navy hand towel was crinkled on a hook next to the sink.

  The image in the mirror wasn’t something she was prepared for. Her eyes were bloodshot, her mascara gooped. Her lipstick had worn off but for a single dark ring around her lips, and her cheeks were pale. Except, of course, for a baseball-sized peppering of round, purple bruises rising on her left temple.

  She gulped down the pills, then rummaged in the drawers of the vanity for a washcloth. She scrubbed her face clean and let her hair down, then rinsed with some mouthwash she’d found.

  Back in the bedroom, she dug into her overnight bag again for the T-shirt she’d intended to wear tomorrow. She lifted her arm and gave the side zipper on her dress a tug.

  It didn’t budge.

  She twisted her head, holding her arm aloft, and peeked inside the dress. Nothing seemed stuck, so she gave the zipper another tug.

  The zipper’s pull tab snapped off between her fingers.

  A strangled moan slipped from her lips. “Are you kidding me?”

  She glared at the zipper. It was too tiny for her fingers to grasp, but she tried anyway.

  She tried and she tried, but all she got for her effort were sore fingertips and enough frustration to heat a tincture to boiling.

  She needed to ask for help.

  The pit of her stomach twisted until it resembled the knotted rawhide bone Radish liked to carry around. Asking for a place to stay was one thing.

  Asking for help taking her clothes off…

  Scissors.

  She’d ask for scissors.

  She poked her head out the door. Nothing moved, nothing creaked. She couldn’t even hear the refrigerator running. A small bit of light drifted up the stairs, but no shadows. If Jackson and Radish were down there, they were being awful quiet.

  She went back to the bathroom and dug into the drawers again. No razors. No scissors. She had fingernail clippers in her purse, but they weren’t strong enough to split the fabric of her dress. It would take all night to trim her hem one stitch at a time with nail clippers. Who knew she needed to carry a seam ripper in her emergency kit?

  The dress was too fitted to pull over her head, but she tried.

  No luck.

  Something flashed downstairs. The TV.

  Jackson was still up.

  She took a big gulp of courage and tiptoed to the stairs. A male voice spoke over a crowd.

  Football game.

  Radish stepped onto the small landing two steps up from the ground floor and sniffed in Anna’s direction.

  Jackson said something softly. The dog looked toward his voice, then crawled another step toward Anna.

  The TV went silent.

  Radish stared up the stairs. Her soft brown eyes seemed to say, “I only wanted to make sure you’re okay, and now I’m in trouble.” Anna stood between dog and master.

  She took one step down, then another, until she reached the landing. Jackson paused, his hand on Radish’s collar. His gaze traveled up the length of her body until his ever-darkening eyes stared right into hers.

  She licked her lips and tightened her fingers around the banister. He was barefoot, in navy sweat pants and the military-issue white cotton undershirt that accentuated the olive tones in his skin. “Anna?”

  Scissors. She needed scissors. But her arm went up as if someone was up on the second floor, pulling her strings. She pointed at her zipper. “I need help.”

  His adam’s apple bobbed. Despite the quiver in his lips that told her he was trying, there was no hint of humor in his strained voice. “Not so hard to say, now, is it?”

  Her own voice wavered. “The zipper broke.”

  He stepped up to the landing and leaned in close enough for her to remember she hadn’t showered in hours. His fingers grazed her between the dress and her raised arm. At his touch, a tremor rippled from her skin all the way to her bones, then bounced back again.

  “Hold tight,” he said. “Got something that’ll work.”

  He stepped off the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. Anna scrubbed her hands over the goose bumps that popped up in the absence of his presence.

  She should’ve had a ketchup shot before she came down here.

  Radish sprawled on the
landing. Her snout rested on Anna’s foot. If it hadn’t, Anna might’ve run back upstairs and slept in the damn dress.

  Jackson returned. His loose-limbed, measured stride was completely at odds with his darkened eyes and pinched lips. Her neck and shoulders were so tight they probably had their own frequency. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. Her voice came out a husky croak. “Scissors?”

  Even scornful looked hot right now. “No reason to cut up your pretty dress.” He gently pried her fingers off her arm. “Trust me?”

  More than she trusted herself. She bit down on her lip and nodded, then raised her arm, determined not to think about the fact that he’d more than likely seen his fair share of naked women.

  He flipped open pliers on his multi-tool. His fingers slid between her dress and the skin beneath her arm, warm and sure and steady. He could’ve copped a feel, but after she’d arrived on the landing, his eyes didn’t stray beyond her face or the zipper.

  The zipper he was separating tooth by tooth, millimeter by millimeter. His breathing hitched. Anna’s own lungs couldn’t find a steady rhythm. When she inhaled, she noted something spicier, richer, about his scent. She’d never noticed the few strands of silver among the subtle swirls that hinted at the curls in his close-cropped hair, or the way his ears crinkled tightly at the edges.

  Jackson slid the zipper farther down. Cool air drifted between the panels of her dress. His lashes were lowered to his task, his lips taut in concentration.

  Unzipping a zipper wasn’t that hard, not with tools.

  Her heart thudded like a gong announcing dinnertime. Jackson pulled back. His eyes were black as the night outside, his nostrils flaring unsteadily. “That far enough?”

  With him on the step below her, they were at eye level. Anna clumsily felt her dress, unable to tear her gaze from his. She licked her lips again. “Should be.”

  He gave a brief nod. “Need anything else, give a holler.”

  Before he could step down, Anna put her hands to his shoulders. “Jackson.”

  His eyes flickered. His chest rose and fell as rapidly as hers. “Yes, ma’am?”

  She felt his breath everywhere on her skin. Her head still ached, her feet wanted rest, but her body, her femininity, everything else about her didn’t want to break the chemical bonds holding them in this weird equilibrium.

  “This is where I wanted to be,” she said.

  His unsteady hands settled on her hips. “Here now, Anna Grace.”

  She tilted her head and leaned into him. The friction between their bodies held her against him stronger than the zipper had sealed her dress shut.

  His eyes flicked over her face, his gaze searching for something. “You sure?”

  She brushed her lips over his. His fingers tightened into her hips, his eyes slipped shut, and then he was kissing her back, slow and steady, soft and smooth. His lips tasted like skin and cake. His stubbled jaw was the right bit of scratchy.

  Anna slid all the way into the kiss. The day, her head, everything but Jackson faded away behind the way their mouths fit together. His hand, so courteous and respectful moments ago, slid into the opening in her dress. The other wrapped around her neck, his fingers magically easing away her tension and replacing it with a primal excitement so long forgotten, her body felt as if it were coming to life for the first time.

  But her thighs remembered this tune. Between his skilled mouth and capable hands, soon her breasts were humming along as well. She deepened the kiss, pressed closer to him, and scraped her fingers down his back. She felt a bulge against her pelvis, and another zing of excitement surged over her skin.

  He didn’t owe her anything. No obligation, no responsibility, no commitment.

  His tongue flicked over her lower lip. The heat that erupted in her veins had to be against the laws of thermodynamics.

  She wanted to feel his skin, and she wanted another peek at that tattoo, but she couldn’t bear the thought of his hands not on her skin for a single second.

  Especially not when he had his fingers splayed across her back, slowly, slowly, slowly sinking lower, lower, lower until his fingertips brushed the silk of her panties.

  And stopped.

  She whimpered.

  He threaded his other hand through her hair, her scalp tingling beneath his fingers, and let his tongue leisurely explore her mouth. She rocked her body harder against his, felt his erection jerk against her, while his other hand stayed firmly planted on the border between that’s good and ohmigod.

  She pushed up on her tiptoes.

  He shifted with her.

  Her whimpers turned into a groan. She snaked her hand down his arm to his hand, and pushed it down.

  Right onto her ass.

  He pulled out of the kiss, his voice the smoke to the fire in his eyes. “Anna Grace, quit being so bossy.”

  “I—”

  He silenced her with his mouth, slipped a finger beneath her panties, and all rational thought fled her mind. Another finger caressed her hidden skin. Then a third.

  She wrapped her leg around his waist, pressing his erection as intimately close as she could while they were both still clothed. She tugged at his shirt. He broke the kiss again, this time with a chuckle. He dropped his hands long enough to pull his shirt off, then stepped onto the landing with her, dislodging her leg. “You going somewhere tonight?”

  To the top of Mount Orgasm if he’d stop dawdling in the foothills. “N-no.”

  He crinkled her dress in his fists, pulling it up with his signature slowness. He backed her up another step and brushed his jaw against hers on his way to nibbling at her collarbone. “Feeling better?”

  Her words slipped out on a satisfyingly frustrated sigh. “Oh, yeah.”

  Something furry brushed her calf. They had an audience.

  Jackson’s fists lifted past her hips. Cool air rushed between her thighs. “Radish,” he said into her shoulder. “Get.”

  The dog huffed. She left the stairs, tags jingling. Jackson’s hands grazed Anna’s waist. More cool air swirled around her skin. Everywhere his hands went, though, she felt branded by fire.

  “Bedroom?” she said on a gasp.

  He chuckled.

  His fists inched higher. And higher. Until the backs of his fingers brushed the sides of her breasts. Anna lifted her arms. He pulled the fabric over her head and tossed it up the stairs, then gazed down at her. “Better?”

  “Getting there.” She pushed up on her toes, claimed his mouth, let her hands roam free over his solid body. He traced the lace of her bra, dipped his fingers under her panties again, and backed her against the wall. She waved a hand toward the walls between the stairwell and his bedroom. “Should we—”

  “You just enjoy yourself, Anna Grace.”

  She was definitely enjoying herself. In fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever had quite this much ecstasy out of being nearly naked. It had to have happened sometime, but his body, his movements, his mannerisms, they were all uniquely Jackson. All perfect, all thrilling.

  For tonight, they were all hers.

  She tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants, and felt his smile against her lips. “You sure you wanna do that?”

  “Not planning on waiting for you to get to it.”

  He pulled a foil packet out of his pocket, making her thank God he was optimistic. Then he nuzzled her neck beneath her ear. “All right then.” He pressed a trail of kisses along her jawbone while she pushed his pants down, slowly, but not as slowly as he would’ve.

  Just slowly enough to listen to his breathing accelerate when her fingers came into contact with the skin on his hips.

  Just slowly enough to feel his heart pound faster against her chest.

  Just slowly enough to realize he wasn’t wearing anything beneath.

  “Oh,” she breathed. Her thighs clenched. Her fingers wavered.

  She suddenly felt overdressed. And they really needed to get to the bedroom.

  “Taking your sweet time, da
rlin’?”

  Her bra released with a flick of his fingers. She gave his sweatpants one more tug, and they fell to the floor. Her hands roamed over his hot skin. Her hips thrust against his. Her body remembered the rhythms, but this tune was different.

  In a good way.

  She slipped out of her bra, and Jackson’s eyes went darker, ringed by blue fire. Her unhurried, savoring lover slipped away in a tangle of hot, eager kisses. Slow perusals became heated, impatient strokes until Anna found herself seated on the stairs, legs spread wide sans panties, while Jackson showed her exactly how much he liked her girly parts.

  With his tongue.

  And after he’d helped her to the top of Mount O once, he eased her down to the landing, where she rolled on top of him.

  She hovered with her hips above his. She wanted him to feel as right as she did, but she suddenly felt shy. Inexperienced. Almost virginal.

  He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Okay, Anna Grace?”

  Oh, yes. Very okay. Except—

  “I don’t know what you like,” she whispered.

  She caught a hint of a dimple. His warm hand left a trail of hypersensitive, happy-tingly skin down her back.

  “You,” he said, and he didn’t need to say more.

  The affection in his gaze, the timbre of his voice, the feel of his body beneath her, foreign and familiar at the same time, the rightness of it all swirled around her insecurities and swept them away. She lowered herself onto him, taking his solid length into her already swollen, satisfied body…all the way in…feeling him, enjoying him, watching his eyelashes flutter as she pleasured him, pleasured herself. And nothing else mattered, because they were right.

  Maybe not forever, but for now, they were oh, so right.

  So right, and so easy to make love to him, to come with him again, until she collapsed against him, the two of them a pile of rubbery limbs, satisfied down to their bones.

  At least, Anna assumed Jackson was satisfied. She snuggled onto his chest, feeling the rise and fall even out while his fingers tangled in her hair. His lips pressed into her ear.

  He didn’t say it, but she heard it all the same. Real good progress there, Anna Grace.