by Knox, Abby
“If you don’t want that, we can stop.”
His eyes tell me this is everything he wants.
This time around, we go slower. We both enjoy the ride, the kissing, murmuring, giving and taking. I love his lips, the taste of his mouth, the softness of his tongue. I love the way he teases my nipples with the lightest touch of his thumbs, even as his thrusts grow deeper and more intense. This time I let his hands explore my body while I gently massage my clit.
The slow build back up is the most delicious journey I’ve ever experienced. The second time we come together is ten times as powerful.
I scream his name while Sam roars out, “God…damn! Goddamn, goddam, goddamn.”
He may apologize for the profanity later, but I don't care. To me, every sound that comes out of him sounds like love.
Finally sated for now, we tumble back onto the bed, naked, out of breath, and full up on love.
“Damn,” I say, reveling in the feeling of Sam’s hands caressing my back. “Are you sure you haven’t been with a woman in a while, because you’re good at that. I mean, amazing at that.”
Sam buries his face in my hair and inhales deeply. His kisses to the crown of my head make me feel safe and treasured.
“I was telling the truth. It’s that good because it’s love. Because you're my girl and I was built to please you and nobody else. It’s because I believe that.
I smile and squeeze my eyes shut to keep them from leaking.
“You keep talking like that and I’m going to have to attack you all over again.”
He gives me a squeeze and shushes me. “Get some rest. We have to hear closing arguments tomorrow. It’s all gonna be over soon and then we can really celebrate.”
It’s then that I remember where I am and what we’re doing here. It’s that feeling of dread, like when you don’t want to go into work the next day.
“I’d love to get you to tell me what you mean by celebrate, but I’m starting to feel sleepy,” I say with a yawn.
Sam chuckles and keeps kissing me, stroking my hair until I drift off.
“We’ve got all the time in the world, sweet girl.”
Chapter Nine
Sam
My heart is full all the way through the day’s court proceedings.
Although listening to the prosecution and the defense give closing arguments is fairly brutal, it seems pretty open and shut. The wife most definitely did it. She had a motive. She had a weapon. There was physical evidence pointing to her.
I’m especially proud that despite all the time that Wren and I have spent together, we’ve been able to keep from talking about the case. Indeed, we’ve found each other as an escape from the facts of the case. She is my refuge from this terrible, harsh world and I’m her safe harbor. We’ve managed to do our duty and provide each other with a respite.
It’s still difficult not to touch her even as she’s seated next to me in the courtroom.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see her breathing evenly, I can tell she’s concentrating on everything the prosecution is saying.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mrs. Ellen Jacobsen”—the prosecutor points to the defendant—“had motive. She and the victim were married for twenty-five years, and half of those years were known to be contentious. They quarreled frequently. You’ve heard witnesses say under oath that she told them, in no uncertain terms, that she wished her husband would drop dead. That she would do it herself if she knew she wouldn’t be caught. We know she was taking pain pills and sleeping pills, and would often wake up in the middle of the night not knowing what she was doing. You’ve heard expert testimony and seen the scientific evidence. She is a danger to society. If you let her go free, she will marry again, and the same thing will happen. Don’t let her get away with murder.”
Wren and a few of the other jurors shift uncomfortably in their seats when the crime scene photos are flashed at them again.
“The state senator’s final moments were filled with horror, confusion. He did not die surrounded by his family, but perhaps he was crying out, fighting back. Maybe he was even crying out for help from the woman he thought loved him. The woman he spent his life caring for. He died never knowing she was the one who ended his life. Carry out justice for the sake of Senator Jacobsen.”
To me, it doesn’t matter what the defense attorneys have to say at this point. That woman surely did it. There was no other explanation.
Still, I have to sit and listen.
I have to admit, the defense team makes a pretty decent argument.
“My client was asleep on the night her husband died. Had Mrs. Jacobsen been drinking?” begins the defense attorney. “Yes, by her own admission, she had had too much to drink. She knew taking her medication along with consuming alcohol would have adverse effects. Since Mrs. Jacobsen did not want to wake up her husband, she slept on the sofa that night. Did they have a bad marriage? I could not say. But we do know they had their arguments with the windows open. People heard them. Certainly neighbors called the police. Things got messy and this started a paper trail. Were they physically abusive toward each other? There’s no evidence of that. Did she ever hit or choke her husband? Also, no evidence of that. The number one way that women murder their husbands is by poison. The autopsy showed that Senator Jacobsen had taken one of his wife’s sleeping pills, but nothing more than that. That's not poison, even if it was not his prescription to take.
“The prosecution points to no forced entry. But what they didn’t tell you is this was an unseasonably warm night and the crime scene photos showed the windows were open. The family dog had been found asleep. Police never investigated to see if the dog had been tranquilized by an intruder.
“Now, the forensic evidence. Of course, the scant amount of fingerprints from the pillowcase were hers. She did his laundry, and as she stated, folded their sheets, and made their beds for twenty-five years. Of course there were traces of her own DNA on those pillowcases.
“Finally, I would argue that in her inebriated state, Mrs. Jacobsen—a petite, impaired woman—would not have been able to asphyxiate her husband—a large man, a healthy man. A small, inebriated woman who, as evidence shows, was asleep on the sofa at the time of his death.
“Let the record show that the senator had enemies. He had passed bills that many people did not like. He received death threats via email. Some of those were investigated and those investigations resulted in a few citations and arrests, but not all. And none of those people who had threatened him in the past were interviewed in the murder investigation.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you to consider that someone laid in wait for the senator, and it was not his wife. Someone planned ahead. Someone knew she would be at her neighbor’s home at this time. They wanted it to be quick, no mess, and quiet. Climbed in through an open window. Killed the victim with great force. Got startled when she came home early and ran away the same way they came in. Do justice for the senator. Send the message to the police and to the DA that they need to go and find the real killer; he or she is still out there.”
When closing arguments are finished, we retire to the jury room to deliberate.
To my surprise, the group votes for me as foreman.
Although I don't relish it, I feel like this won't take long.
“All right then, let’s take our first vote. Raise your hand if you think the defendant is guilty.”
To my complete shock, everyone raises their hands. Everyone, but Wren.
I stare at her. My heart races. Is she messing with me?
“Ma’am?”
“All those who think the defendant is not guilty, raise your hand.”
Wren raises her hand.
People around the table mutter. A few utter curses under their breath.
“Of course that one has to disagree.”
I have to control the urge to backhand that dude. “Ms. ... I mean, Juror Number 12, explain why you think the defendant is not guilty.”
She looks
around timidly. I feel bad. But she’s got to convince us. It’s the only way to avoid a hung jury.
“Well,” she says. “It just doesn't make sense. I think she had ample opportunities to kill him, many of which would have been better. They owned guns. She had a pharmacy full of drugs in her medicine cabinet. There were any number of less personal ways for her to kill him. And she wasn’t even in a fit of rage at the time. She was drunk, and everyone she knows told us she was a happy drunk. They’d never seen her physically act out.”
Wren goes on to point out all the inconsistencies in the arguments of the prosecution.
Finally, after about an hour of back and forth, she gets one more vote.
Mine.
Everyone eyes me suspiciously.
“This was supposed to be an open and shut case,” whines Juror Number Seven.
“This is supposed to be about us using our brains and doing the right thing, Seven,” I say.
Arguments go on for another hour, until it’s time for a break and the bailiff brings us our food orders.
But neither Wren nor I can eat. I hate seeing her get verbally beaten down.
She’s right though. There’s not enough evidence to convince me beyond a reasonable doubt.
I still believe she did it. But I have enough doubt that I can’t convict her according to the instructions we’ve been given.
The deliberations continue after lunch. One by one, the jurors seem to come around to understand Wren’s arguments.
She’s one hell of an arguer. And she becomes more and more confident the more people decide she’s correct.
At 4 p.m., I call for another vote.
This time, it’s unanimous. I inform the bailiff and we are escorted back into the courtroom.
I deliver the verdict with shaking hands. “Your Honor, we, the members of the jury, find the defendant, Ellen Jacobsen, accused of the charge of murder in the first degree, not guilty.”
The defendant drops her head onto her forearms in relief and what appears to be grief. The prosecution team looks stunned. People in the courtroom gallery grumble in anger and some cry out in gratitude.
The judge pounds her gavel and demands order.
We, the jurors, are quickly escorted out of the courtroom, processed out, and told to wait together for the shuttle to take us back to the hotel so we can gather our things.
We get our phones back from Officer Max, who tells us we are free to speak to the media if we wish, but we’re not required to. Our jobs here are done.
But I have no interest in speaking to any members of the media. Instead, I call Smitty.
While we’re waiting for the shuttle van to take us back to the hotel, I realize Wren is not by my side. I have half a mind to hang up the phone and go looking for her, when she comes outside to join us. Late as always, I think.
She winks at me and I almost don’t notice Smitty has answered the phone. Before Wren is in earshot, I tell Smitty and the guys to take a few days off. I’m going to need some time to unwind and get Wren settled in at the ranch, and I want to keep her all to myself for a while.
Chapter Ten
Wren
“Whose permission do I need to get for you to marry me?”
The question comes as Sam and I are sharing peach pie for dessert.
It’s our first meal together outside of sequestration and it’s mercifully quiet. Free of the ever-present, ever-bored Officer Max.
Sam let me use his kitchen to cook us dinner, and he actually ate my stir-fried rice with tofu and vegetables, and liked it. Or so he said.
Now we’re eating pie together—one pan, two forks. It feels super cozy and romantic; I can’t remember feeling this content. Ever.
“Me,” I reply. “I’m the only one,” I reply.
“There’s gotta be somebody who looks after you besides yourself,” Sam insists.
I shrug and shove some of the pie into my face. It is the best pie I’ve ever had in my life. Apparently the guys who work for him can cook too, and left him some meals and desserts in the fridge as their way of welcoming him back home. It gives me a good feeling; he must treat his employees well if they do that kind of thing out of the goodness of their hearts. As if there was any doubt.
“Maybe my brother. He’s at college three hours away though.”
“We can drive up there tomorrow,” he says, as if it’s non-negotiable.
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What’s your hurry? We just came home from the most mentally exhausting week of our lives,” I reply.
He grins at me. “Because you’re pregnant, and I want to make an honest woman out of you.”
I wave him off. “There’s no way to know I’m pregnant already.”
“I can tell. You’re glowing and you’re tired.”
“I’m tired because I just spent five hours arguing in a jury room. I’m glowing because I’m happy.”
Sam sits back. I take in the full view of him. A man. A bachelor for almost too long, too tall for this tiny farmhouse kitchen.
“If I’m going to marry you, we need to make this kitchen bigger,” I say, gesturing around the room with my fork.
“Why?”
“Am I gonna be a rancher’s wife or are you just planning to keep me locked up in the bedroom?”
He grins. “A retired rancher’s wife. I’m going to sell the business to Smitty and keep some of the land on the other side of the pasture to build my log cabin. It overlooks the hills. There’s a pond, fed by a nice big stream full of fish. How does that sound to you?”
“As long as you catch and release only.”
He nods. “Whatever you want, darlin’. Hey, you want me to become a vegan, I will.”
I’m aghast. “What will people say? The retired rancher’s now a vegan? They’ll miss you down at the chophouse.”
Sam acts like this is no big deal. As if I’ve asked him to change to LED lightbulbs and not give up red meat, his favorite food. “Yeah, but I’m kinda liking the idea of trying new things.”
I smile mischievously. “Oh yeah? That have anything to do with my surprise?”
“Sure does.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Will I?”
He stands up. “Let’s find out.”
Sam doesn’t bother cleaning up the dishes before picking me up and hoisting me over his shoulder. I give a loud squeal. Nobody’s ever thrown me over their shoulder before. But then nobody’s ever claimed me so thoroughly before either. I like it.
I playfully slap his ass while he marches me up the creaky stairs and tosses me on the bed.
We laugh and giggle while we kiss and grope each other. He makes quick work of removing my leggings and panties.
“Hey,” I say, teasing him, running my fingers through his soft, silver waves. “Are you gonna let me ride you again, cowboy?”
Sam claims my mouth with a searing, juicy kiss.
“No,” he says. “I’m gonna fuck you with my mouth and make you see heaven.”
His filthy words catch me off guard, thrilling me, and I gasp at the sensations they create all over my body.
He’s so ready to get started he doesn't even remove any more of my clothes.
Sam’s lips are on my pussy before I even know what’s happening, and it’s the most over-the-top lovely feeling of my life.
Chapter Eleven
Sam
The taste of my woman is the sweetest honey, and I can’t get enough.
“Thank you for this, Wren,” I say in response to her moans.
I’m so hungry for her. So damn starving, I didn’t know I could want someone this bad until I met her. I suck her tight bud into my mouth. If perfection had a taste, it would taste like my sweet angel Wren. I take my time, enjoying all of her, every inch.
I nibble, taste, suck and kiss every inch of her, slowly, over and over again. Her hands grasp wildly at the bedsheets for purchase and she begins to buck against me
. Wren’s whole body starts to tremble and I back off of her clit and thrust my tongue into her tight heat. Her muscles pulse around me. She screams my name. I never thought I’d ever hear anyone call out for me like that, but this is really happening. She’s all mine.
I scoop my little bird up in my arms and hold her tight to me, running my hands over her back while she rides out her aftershocks.
“You’re amazing, my sweet Sam.”
She’s wrong. She’s wonderful, but she’s wrong. I’m as good of a man as I could ever hope to be because of her. She did this to me.
“You have ruined the old me, sweetheart. I’m not prepared to live another day if I don’t marry you as soon as possible.”
“Well,” she says once she’s caught her breath, “the judge will be ready whenever we have our marriage license.”
“What are you talking about?”
Wren replies, “Before we left the courthouse, I talked to her. She’s already agreed to marry us as soon as we have a marriage license. We don’t have a waiting period in this state, so when do you wanna do this?”
She looks almost offended by my amused chuckle. “Bullshit,” I say.
“Hey,” she counters. “It’s true.”
“That was supposed to be my job.”
“But you’ve been so nice to me, and I haven’t had the chance to do anything nice for you. Is that OK?”
I kiss her forehead and smile at her. I’m smiling a lot more these days. “It’s more than OK. I just thought you’d want a big wedding and an elegant reception.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want anything fancy. I wouldn’t even know where to begin planning a wedding. I just want to start my life with you.”
“Anything my little bird asks for, she gets.”
Chapter Twelve
Sam
She may have surprised me by talking to the judge, but I have an even bigger surprise waiting for her.
Before I drove her to work at the store this morning, Wren had given me access to the contacts in her phone, under the pretense that we would have to send out change of address cards to her friends and family.
