Forgiving Jackson (23 page)

He was silent for a second. “I don’t know. My friends.” He closed one eye and squinted at her through the other one. “Dirk. Sammy. My brothers.” He smiled wide. “You.”

There was something about his tone of voice and his expression under that smile that made her want to bend double with pain for him. He was trying to make light and be charming but somehow she knew he was calling the roll of his band members and road crew in his head, reliving good times they’d had. And there had to have been many. Musicians like that became practically family and it had always been said that Jackson was especially tight with his people.

She couldn’t give away that she suspected what he was feeling, but found that she could hurry through brushing her teeth and changing without thinking about herself.

“Do you need anything?” she asked, her hand on the lamp switch.

He stretched out his hand to her.

She’d meant water or another pillow but that hand would do for an answer. She switched off her lamp and went into his arms.

“It’s not dark,” he said.

“That’s because you didn’t turn the lamp off on your side of the bed.”

“Yeah, that would do it.” He sat up to reach for the lamp but she stopped him.

“Wait. I want to get a look at these tattoos.” She traced the one over his heart. It was an old-fashioned, heart-shaped lock. “A lock?”

He laughed a low little laugh. “You’ll note there’s no key. I like to call that tattoo ‘Young and Stupid.’ At the time, I thought it was a very clever subliminal message that my heart was off-limits. This was directed, of course, to any young lady who had occasion to be up close and personal enough to see it. Truth is, though it wasn’t particularly cryptic or clever, no one ever got it. Which goes to show what kind of judgment I showed in my selection process.”

“Did you have a key tattooed farther south?”

He laughed. “No. I just have the two. It’s a good thing I didn’t think of that. How about you, Emory? Got any ink?”

“Only in my pen. Let me see this one.” She put her hand on his arm and he turned to give her a better view.

It was made up of flames entwined with stylized letters, though she didn’t find them difficult to read—J.M.B., L.J.B., and C.M.B.

“What a lovely tribute to your parents and sister, Jackson,” she said softly.

His head snapped up and his surprised eyes went more silver than sage. “How do you know that? I thought no one could read it except me.”

Her stomach turned to stone. “I’m sorry. I can see I said the wrong thing and that the tattoo is very private.” She felt like she’d peeped into someone’s window or read a private diary.

He remained motionless for what felt like a long time. Then he closed his eyes.

“No. It’s fine. It’s just that no one has ever been able to figure it out. It was designed to be unreadable.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He met her eyes again and they went soft. “Nothing to be sorry for. Maybe the letters have only been unreadable because I’ve never shown any better judgment in my selection—until now. I kind of like that you know what it means. No one else does.”

And then in one smooth motion, he turned off the light, pulled her close, and kissed her long, slow, and sweet.

And every emotion she’d ever felt—all the fear, anger, and pain she’d been living with since the attack turned to fire for this man. She ran a hand up his bare side and he felt so good that she did it again and again. It had been so long since she’d touched and been touched like this that she wanted it to go on forever. And then he moaned, and she froze.

“Don’t be afraid, Emory. I made you promises. I meant those promises and I mean to keep them. You’re free with me. You have the power. Don’t be afraid to let me know how you feel.”

How did he know how desperately she wanted to conceal how much she wanted him?

“It’s not wrong to want,” he said. “And wanting doesn’t mean I’m going to take. If I could give you pleasure I wouldn’t expect anything in return and it would be the biggest honor of my life. And that’s saying a lot.” A smile crept into his voice. “I’m a Grammy winner and a member of the Grand Ole Opry.”

And she began to laugh. “How is it that you always take me to the place I need to be? Where I’m not anxious?”

In the moonlight, he looked at her through his eyelashes. “’Cause I’m a Grammy winner and a member of the Grand Ole Opry? Though God knows if Ginger were here she’d say, ‘You won’t be for long if you don’t get your ass over there and perform. They’ll kick you out!’” He sounded so much like Ginger that Emory laughed again.

But the laugh only lasted until he captured her mouth again, feeding her with fire as smooth as satin. When she could stand no more, she pulled away and whispered to him, “The federal government should issue a list of the only men who are allowed to kiss and you’d be on it.”

“Yeah?” His voice was heavy with want but it didn’t scare her. He ran his tongue up her jaw. “Who else would be on it?”

“Nobody,” she said automatically. “Not a damn one.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear.”

She ran her hands up and down his back and he trembled under her hands.

“Jackson?”

“What, baby?”

Did she dare? Yes. She was strong. She was brave. She had a right to her feelings. He’d said so.

“I think I want to take my shirt off,” she said softly.

He let out a long groan. “Hell’s bells and damnation, there is a God! Then do it. Or I will. Just tell me.”

“You can.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You do know that all you have to do is say
stop
and I will. That’s always going to be true.”

“I know.” And she did; there was no doubt in her mind.

And slowly, so slowly, he pulled the silk over her head.

And then nothing.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m looking.”

Was he waiting for permission? Surely, that was implied.

“You can touch me,” she said.

“I’m afraid to touch you, afraid of scaring you.” It had never occurred to her that he could be afraid, too.

She took his hand and brought it to her breast. Heaven. They sighed together.

“Jackson?”

“Yes?” He squeezed her breast gently and ran a calloused fingertip over her nipple. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.” She suspected her audible breath told him just how okay it was. “Dr—He … that person. He never touched me there so it’s okay. It’s just you.”

“Oh, Emory.” His voice was like a breath, a prayer. He covered her mouth with his as he covered her breasts with his hands. And he slowly, tentatively slid his mouth to her breast, hesitating the barest second, she knew, to give her a chance to tell him to stop.

But she didn’t want him to. She smoothed his hair back with one hand and let the other slide to the back of his neck. When she stroked him there, he let out a moan against her nipple and his hips jerked forward and the evidence of his desire pressed against her hip.

“Sorry.” He would have pulled away but she stopped him.

“I want to be close to you,” she said. “If that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay. It’s perfect. But I won’t get on top of you.” And to prove that he knew what she meant and what she needed he found a way to entwine with her until their groins were aligned.

He gently began to move against her until her body was crying out for more and she had to move with him.

“That’s my girl,” he said. “Do what feels good.”

“I should stop,” she said.

Immediately he moved away from her and she let out a groan of frustration.

“It’s okay. See? I stopped.”

“I didn’t tell you to. I said
I
should stop because at some point, I’m nothing but a tease.”

He gently pulled her head to his chest. “No. You are not. We’re very clear. There will be no sex.”

“Then what exactly is it that we’re doing?”

He hugged her closer. “We’re two bad sixteen-year-old Baptists in the back of Daddy’s SUV doing our best to live up to the chastity pledge we signed after the youth revival last spring. They always hand that pledge out in the spring when stuff is all fertile and blooming.”

Again, she began to laugh. No wonder the whole world was in love with Jackson Beauford.

“Are we good at keeping our pledge?”

“Yes, ma’am, we are. We’ve become well-versed in the ways of chaste love. How could we not be, what with all the birds laying eggs and honeybees flying around frantic for nectar?” He kissed her again, gentle and sweet. “Do you want me to let you go?” he asked.

“No. But it might be better for you.”

“Trust me. It would not. But this isn’t about me. Can you trust me to let it be about you?”

“That’s a hard proposition to turn down.”

“Then don’t. Come here.” He turned over onto his back and pulled her on top of him. “Shift just a little.” He gently pushed her thighs apart until his hard penis was situated exactly in the universe of all things good. “There. That’s right,” he said with a moan.

And they began to move together, all sweet fire and pure pleasure. His fingers drifted across her back and up her sides until she shifted to give him access to her breasts. The calloused fingertips of his left hand—his fretting hand—on her nipples were a perfect study in sensation.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he said. “I want to give you pleasure.” And with that he raised his hips and pressed her hard and fast against him. Then he thrust one, two, three times—and she began to fall apart in slow motion. The spasms came hard and deep and went on and on until she collapsed against him and began to cry.

“Emory! What’s wrong?” Jackson sounded alarmed.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she cried. “You can’t know. I thought I would never … You just don’t know what you’ve given me.”

His arms went around her. “Then I’m glad.” His voice was raspy and his penis still throbbed against her. Overcome with relief and pleasure, she knew she had to return what she’d been given.

She framed his face with her hands. “It may seem silly, but I still can’t … ”

He shook his head and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Of course not. I told you this is about you. And you’ve honored me by trusting yourself to me.”

Her heart was so full. How could she
not
trust him?

“I want it to be about you, too.” And feeling like a caterpillar escaping from her cocoon, she slid downward, letting her tongue trail as she went.

He raised her face. “Emory, you don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” she said. “I am a strong, powerful woman—strong enough to say what I want and I want this.” She opened his boxer shorts and reached inside.

“Then far be it from me to deny a lady.”

It was one of life’s perfect moments when she closed her mouth around his beautiful penis and he cried out at her mercy. It didn’t take long.

Then she made the journey back up the length of his body, lifted his head, and kissed the back of his neck. He tasted just like she thought he would.

When he lay back and pulled her into his arms, she ran her hand over his chest.

“Tim McGraw, my ass,” he said in a sleepy voice.

June was almost gone.

Since that first night on the sofa, Jackson had spent three nights in Emory’s bed. The last two nights, he hadn’t even asked. He’d just shown up soon after she’d gone back to her house after work. They’d made simple meals—fried bologna sandwiches and salads mostly—and eaten while watching movies. They had laughed a lot and spent a lot of time in each other’s arms, talking about nothing very serious. In bed, he’d been even sweeter and more tender, never pressing her to go to that final place she couldn’t go.

In turn, she had not pressed him about the concert, reasoning that he’d make up his mind when he was ready. She still didn’t know what that “something else” was that he’d said he had to do before deciding, but she suspected it had something to do with tonight. He’d asked if she’d go with him to The Café Down On The Corner, which served breakfast and plate lunches daily but had bar fare and live music on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.

Which was why she’d left him asleep in her bed and was at her desk before 7:00 a.m.—to get her work done so she’d be free tonight.

There was a debutante luncheon for forty today, a bridal tea tomorrow afternoon, and a wedding Saturday. And that was all, until after the holiday. Back in January, she’d blanked out ten days around the Fourth of July and the concert, as Amelia had always done. At that time she’d believed that if Jackson even came to Beauford Bend when he came in for the concert, he would have forgotten he’d told her to close Around the Bend.

And that might have been true if not for the fire in L.A.

Time was bearing down on her but she refused to think about it. She’d given herself until July fifteenth to take action. If Jackson had shown no signs of leaving by then, she’d cancel the fall bookings and start making an alternate plan—though she didn’t know what that would be.

But there was no point in thinking about it until after the concert. Somehow, she knew everything hinged on that. If he did the show, and it went well, it was a safe bet that he’d be gone within the week—back to his old life.

Jackson gone.
A bittersweet pain went through her at the thought.
Odd to think that not long ago, that was all she’d wanted. She straightened her spine. And she wanted it now—truly. It was what was best for him and what was best for Around the Bend, therefore best for Firefly Hall and the town.

Of course, he might not do the show—and then what? Did that mean he’d just stay here, doing what he’d been doing, which was pretty much nothing? Of course, he’d only be doing what he’d been doing up to a point, because she’d be gone.

Gone.
And where? She might tell herself she was a strong, brave woman when she was lying in Jackson’s arms, but that only went so far.

Drake Winterbourne was still out there. He might be in New York but there were plenty just like him. And if things went well for Jackson—and she hoped they did; she
hoped
it and
prayed
it with all her being—he would be gone and she wouldn’t feel so safe anymore.