by Mae Wood
“But you don’t like liquor?”
“Not really. To be honest, I just don’t know much about liquor.”
“That I can fix. First, let’s eat. I know you like the shrimp and grits, and I won’t deprive you of that, but we stole a chef from Lady and Sons in Savannah this spring and he’s been experimenting with red snapper. Even if you don’t like fish, you should try it.”
This was shaping up to best date that Marisa had ever been on. Never been on. Because this isn’t a date, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. He can think this is a date all he wants, but I cannot become one of Trip Brannon’s conquests. Marisa paused her thoughts to take another sip of the lovely ale. She enjoyed the relaxation that was beginning to spread through her limbs. I can however, enjoy this evening and what promises to be a delicious meal accompanied by a delicious man.
“That sounds great. I trust your judgment. It is your restaurant, after all.”
“Snapper it is.”
Chapter Ten
The meal was one of the best in her life. Clearly dining with one of the owners had its perks. Several small plates were dropped off at their table just for sampling – Hoppin’ John, corn bread with the thick crust that only comes from being cooked in a well-seasoned cast iron skillet, oysters and demitasses of she-crab soup. As advertised, the snapper was excellent. Bert kept an eye on Marisa and Trip from the bar and made sure their glasses never ran dry.
They fell into an easy conversation, much more comfortable and causal than their first shared meal at Paulette’s. Marisa was amazed to learn that Trip had minored in art history in college and had a hand in the design of the restaurant. He talked at length about how he liked handcrafted items. Original. Not mass produced. Evidence of an artisan’s hand in the work, even in the form of a slight imperfection, made things real to him.
Marisa clutched at the amethyst necklace she wore and realized that she and Trip had similar tastes when it came to things. She’d bet his house was to die for.
His house. Okay, return to earth, she reminded herself. You do not need to be thinking about his house. If you’re in his house, you’ll only end up in his bed, get your heart broken, and potentially lose Branco as a client. But as long as you stay out of his bed, fine. Have fun. You deserve it.
The meal came to a close. Marisa glanced at her watch. It was just after ten o’clock. When was the last time she had enjoyed a nearly three-hour meal? Before she could gently excuse herself to go home and crawl into bed, Bert appeared at their table.
“Before you two scoot out of here, you’ve got to try this Burgundy we got in just this week,” he said setting down two glasses along with a decanter and empty bottle in front of them before turning back to man the bar.
Trip poured small tastings of the ruby liquid into each of their glasses and then lifted his in a toast. She lifted her glass as well. After several beers, following his suit was easy. “To an unexpected and fabulous evening,” he intoned. She touched her glass to his and their eyes caught. Her breath caught, too. They were inches apart with their faces turned to each other. She was drawn to him. She could sense how close their legs were. How close their bodies were. Her eyes moved towards his lips, a slight shadow of stubble surrounding them. She knew what was coming. Or she thought she did. Instead, he broke the moment.
“It is nice. More?”
“Yes,” she said, letting all of the air out of her body. He filled her glass and then his. Her entire world was in soft focus. The table glowed with the candles that danced overhead. The smooth leather under her legs and the soft cotton worn with age behind her back and arms were so comfortable that she never wanted to leave. The man next to her had been a delightful surprise. His dilettante nature was charming. He was passionate about authenticity in whatever form it took. And from the effort he had devoted to making Pig and Barley a reality, she knew that he wasn’t a listless trust fund kid.
“It’s been so nice to finally meet you,” he said quietly and earnestly, his gaze moving from her face coming to rest on the bottle of wine.
Finally?, she thought. Ah, he’s had more to drink than I have. He just misspoke. He lifted the bottle and inspected the label. Okay, I definitely misheard him.
While he read the French label, Marisa examined him in profile. A strong jaw and a straight nose. His sandy blonde hair was professional but slightly too long for the boardroom. However, in the bedroom, she would love to run her fingers through his hair. Trip took a long swallow of wine from his glass and his face broke into a big smile. He set the bottle down on the table with authority, turned his head toward Marisa, and kissed her.
The world fell away. Marisa heard no sounds and saw no visions. All she could sense in the world was Trip’s kiss. She was deaf, mute, and dumb. His lips on hers moved slowly and gently, but with a firm insistence. She returned his attention and her tongue caressed his lips. She could taste the velvety Pinot Noir they were drinking. He tasted like heaven. His tongue pressed deeply into hers and his hands scooped her head further towards him. Under the table their knees touched and she placed a hand on his muscular thigh, running her hand along the rough texture of his seersucker shorts. They were melting into each other, pausing only to catch a breath or take another mouthful of wine.
“So, the Ponsot Clos de la Roche was good, eh?,” said Bert.
Marisa’s world slammed into place and came into sharp focus.
“Sorry to interrupt, but it’s nearly eleven and I’ve closed up,” continued Bert nonchalantly. He swiped the empty decanter and bottle of wine from the table top and sauntered off, tossing the bottle in a bin behind the bar before hitting the wooden front door.
“There is car waiting outside. Lock up after yourselves,” he called over his shoulder seconds before the door closed firmly behind him.
Marisa was heady from the wine and lust. The restaurant was completely still and very dark. She looked up and noticed that most of the votive candles floating above their heads had burnt out. Fuck it, thought Marisa, diving back towards Trip’s face and running her fingers through his soft golden hair.
“Marisa,” he murmured with his mouth pressed against her neck. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s not,” she whimpered, praying that their exquisite cocoon would continue endlessly.
“No, really, let’s go,” he said, grabbing her hand and moving to stand. He swayed slightly and she giggled. We are so trashed. He tugged her out of the banquette, up to her feet, and pulled her tightly to him. “As much as I’d love to take you right here, I don’t want to keep the driver waiting.”
Marisa tingled all over. “You are much too considerate, Trip,” she whispered huskily.
“You haven’t seen considerate, Marisa,” he muttered in her ear, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear and his teeth gently tugging on her lobe. Her legs gave out. He lifted her off her feet and returned her gently to earth. He took her right arm, threaded it through his left, and led her out of the restaurant. Without letting Marisa out of his hold, he awkwardly and roughly inserted and turned a key in the brass lock and then escorted her to the waiting black town car.
“Hey, George,” said Trip, greeting the driver who stood by the opened back car door.
“Evening, sir.”
“Home,” said Trip simply as he released Marisa from his arm and guided her into the car with a steady hand on the small of her back.
Marisa found herself in the back of the car, sitting on a grey leather seat with Trip snuggled next to her, his hand slowly crawling up her exposed thigh, pushing the hem of her dress higher. He was faced forward, clearly trying to maintain some sort of decorum in front of the driver who had his back to them as they drove through the dark night.
Marisa yearned for Trip’s hand to explore further and find the blush colored lace panties she had put on after her shower. Damn, damn, damn, I should probably ask to be dropped off at my condo, thought Marisa blurrily. Then all of her thoughts were brought to a dead halt when Trip’s finge
rs gently grazed the edge of her panties. Marisa let out a soft low groan of pleasure and then slapped her hand over her mouth. Either the driver hadn’t noticed or he was intentionally ignoring the antics occurring a mere two feet behind his back. “Shhh. . . Patience,” whispered Trip into her hair, simultaneously squeezing her thigh and then returning his face to the windshield like nothing had happened.
The car seemed to move like molasses in December down Riverside Boulevard. She remembered Trip also lived downtown somewhere and she feverishly prayed that the short drive would quickly end. The car took a right through the gates of South Bluffs. He’s taking me home, thought Marisa slightly saddened that the night may be ending. But instead of turning toward her building, the car wove through the tree lined streets to the million dollar houses that Marisa knew from her runs.
“I think he’s lost,” Marisa said quietly to Trip out of the side of her mouth. His hand had neither advanced nor retreated, but remained tauntingly poised at the edge of her panties. “I live in the condos.”
“I know, and he’s not lost. I live in South Bluffs, too,” said Trip, turning to Marisa and nibbling her ear. She felt him brush the outside of her panties with his thumb and a chill shot up her spine. Yup, I’m toast.
The car stopped in front of a massive white modern stucco house with sweeping multi-level wrap around porches. “Thanks, man,” articulated Trip to the driver. “Sorry for bothering you so late. I’ll take it from here.” Trip pushed open a door and the hand that had been affixed to Marisa’s leg was now clutching her hand. The city’s lights twinkled to the north and the Mississippi River lay like a black ribbon across the horizon, interrupted by the house.
Trip lived on Magnolia Mound, the most exclusive street in the gated South Bluffs community. His house was perched on the bluff that overlooked both downtown Memphis and the river. Marisa knew this street. She knew the house from the outside. She regularly jogged past it, admiring the architecture and imagining savoring a morning coffee from a back balcony facing the river.
Trip tugged at her hand and led her up the brick walkway, never letting go. “Thanks for being patient,” he said as he traced his thumb along the back of her hand. He opened the geometric leaded glass front door and stepped into a large white space with a wall of windows overlooking the dark Mississippi. The room was brimming with art. Typical Brannon, she immediately thought.
Before she could even look at the paintings, drawings, and sculptures, Trip took her face in both of his hands and gently kissed her lips. “I’m glad you’re here,” said Trip, moving his mouth from hers and trailing a line of hungry kisses down her neck. Marisa reached up and burrowed her face in the crook between his shoulder and neck and bit him playfully. Marisa could feel Trip’s moan reverberate through his body and into hers. She also felt his dick stiffen and lurch. His hands moved from her hips to her breast and gently squeezed, pinching her nipples between his index and middle fingers on both hands. A current of electricity shot through her.
Dear God, please, Trip, please were the only semi-coherent thoughts Marisa could marshal.
They groped, kissed, licked and nipped at each other as Trip led them up the wide curved staircase. Marisa became vaguely aware that the end-point in this Trip-lead tour was his bedroom, but her Pinot Noir-colored attention was only focused on removing everything that was keeping them apart. One of Trip’s hands had rematerialized under her dress, and he was fluttering his fingers on the outside of her panties, the thin lace being the only thing separating them. Marisa’s head spun even more and she gasped. Before she could exhale, he pushed aside the panties and traced a finger down her midline. “You’re dripping,” he mumbled into her mouth, his words obscured by their intense kisses, tongues pushing and exploring.
Marisa had enough. She wrested his shirt off of him, forcing him to release his hold on her for a split second to permit his white shirt to fall to the floor. In turn, he forced her panties down to her knees. She gladly kicked them off, not caring where they landed. His hand returned under her dress and found her again. He parted her with his index and ring fingers, using his long middle finger to caress, taunt, and prod her.
Marisa’s hands unclutched from around his head and in one swift movement, she swept her hand down to his groin and up his long strong mass. He quivered and hardened, straining at the fabric of his shorts. Marisa returned his earlier attention by running her hand slowly up and down the line of his zipper until she felt moisture seep through his shorts at his tip. “Now who’s dripping?,” she asked playfully, pulling her mouth away from his and giving him a teasing smile.
“Fuck, Marisa. Fuck,” drawled Trip, elongating every single syllable. His hands shifted to her back and he found the zipper to her dress, yanking it down and pulling the material over her head. They shuffled backwards until Marisa felt the bed hit the back of her legs. She unfastened his belt and tugged at the button and zipper on his fly until she released him. She pushed forcefully at the shunned clothes and his shorts and boxers tumbled to the floor.
Trip lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Clad in only her blush lace bra, Marisa craved to be free from the restraints. Trip clearly read her mind, as he pushed down the straps on her bra and nibbled on her right breast, while clutching her midair in his arms. His fingers released her from the bra, and he nibbled hungrily on her erect nipples. Marisa shuddered again. She did not think she had ever wanted a man the way she wanted Trip.
He laid her down on the bed, which was covered in an ancient quilt, smooth and cool with age. “Yes?,” asked Trip, pausing for a moment to break contact and look into Marisa’s eyes.
“Indubitably,” she countered. Trip’s bedroom eyes and lust-filled face unfolded into a broad smile.
“You have no idea, Marisa. No idea,” he said. She let her hands fall over her head, completely exposing her body to him. He rocked back to stand on his feet, looming over her. “Condom?”
“Test four months ago. I’m clean, on the pill, and no one since Ryan. You?,” said Marisa, not fully listening or caring. She was too focused on Trip’s firm naked body standing at the foot of the bed.
“Check-up about six months ago and no one since then. Your call.”
“Trip,” said Marisa popping up on her elbows. “Do I look like I give a fuck?,” she spat with a smile. She sat up, grabbed his hands, and pulled him towards her naked body.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trip said, his smile evident from his tone even though his face was buried in her breast. Trip’s mouth found her right breast and his tongue caressed her nipple. Marisa arched her back to press into him more. His hands greedily explored her body, as he slid down her quickly and was once again standing at the end of the bed. He knelt slowly, dragging his hands down her body. He lifted her right leg, gently kissed the bone on the inside of her ankle and worked his way upwards. When he reached her apex, he retreated, taking her left leg and repeating his path.
Trip grabbed Marisa’s ankles and pushed them toward her hips, exposing her to him and the Mississippi River that slid by in the darkness outside. Without letting go, he ran his tongue down Marisa’s sensitive parts. Marisa let out a moan, emanating from deep within her body. Marisa moved her hands from over her head and reached down to touch Trip’s blonde head that was burrowed in her. As soon as her hands grazed his scalp, he moved them next to her ankles and held her firm. She was pinned and completely bare to him.
He entered her swiftly and her breath caught as he filled her. A few sure deep thrusts and he released her from his grasps. He fell towards her, catching himself in a hover a few inches above her face. Marisa brought her face up to meet his. She consumed him with a kiss and wrapped her limbs around his torso. They moved as a single being. All grunts, and moans, and occasional giggles of pleasure bursting through to the surface.
Chapter Eleven
I’m so dizzy and I think I’m going to throw up. How much did I drink? Marisa’s first thoughts of the day were blurry, and her head hurt. She ext
ended her hand in search of her favorite down pillow, intending to snuggle with it until the world made sense. Her fingers found an arm. Shit! Marisa’s eyes flew up and she shot to a sitting position. What the fuck? Oh God. Oh God. Trip Brannon. Fuck. Marisa hit full panic mode. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I didn’t have sex with Trip. No no no no. Denial mode ended. She had to leave. What was I thinking? How much did I drink? Marisa clumsily stood, wrapped a quilt around herself and began a frantic search for her clothes and shoes. She looked anxiously at Trip, who was comatose. Please let him stay asleep. Do not wake up, Trip. Keep sleeping. Never in her life had Marisa hoped that mind control would work.
She located her panties, bra, and dress. She bundled them in her arms and continued to hunt for her shoes. Shit! Marisa nearly tripped over a strappy gold sandal. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. She repeated her new mantra as she looked for her other shoe. She found it sticking out from underneath Trip’s dresser. Marisa didn’t even want to think about how it ended up there. She just wanted to leave as quickly and silently as possible. She slipped out of the bedroom and dressed quickly in the hallway, trying to make as little sound as possible. She left the quilt where she’d dressed. Like hell I’m going back in there. My luck I’d trip over my own feet and wake him up. She snuck down the staircase and out the front door, closing it slowly and quietly behind her. On Trip’s front porch, she let out all the air she’d been holding. She slipped on her sandals, and as the warm summer sun made its appearance, she began her walk home, utterly consumed by her thoughts.
Great. I’m doing the walk of shame in my own friggin’ neighborhood. Can’t wait for the neighbors to see this. Way to be a grown-up, Marisa berated herself. Trip fucking Brannon. Randomly screwing some guy from the gym or from Match.com would have been a better choice. I’ve totally fucked up. Lawyers aren’t supposed to have sex with their clients. I could get in trouble with the bar association and get suspended from practice. I could get in trouble with my law partners. I could lose Branco as a client. Best idea ever, Marisa.
