Risking Ruin (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

“Are we going on another drive?,” asked Marisa in the naughtiest voice she could muster.

“If driving from East Memphis to my house counts as a drive, then, yes, we are going on a drive.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you are seriously impatient.  All good things in due time or however the saying goes.”

“You do know that I’m still not having sex with you, right?”

“Yes.  And Scout’s honor,” continued Trip, holding up three fingers in the Boy Scout’s sign, “we will not have sex.  I’m not asking for sex.  I’m not expecting sex.  And I’m
not
accepting it either.”

“Okay,” said Marisa, drawing out every syllable. 
Is he expecting me to beg for it?  Please.  I mean he’s hot, but that isn’t exactly my style.

“Should we swing by your place so you can pick up a few things?”

“Are you asking me to spend the night with you?”

“If you want to.”

“I don’t think me
wanting
to is the problem.”

“I get it.  You’re worried about the perception.  Well, if anyone asked, we could both place a hand on the Bible and honestly swear that we’re not having sex.  But truthfully, if you were worried so much about people finding out, then I don’t think you would have kissed me in the middle of Folk’s Folly.”

He’s right.  Either we can skulk around under cover of darkness or we can be a little more comfortable with this.

“And if you’re worried about my dad, don’t.  He even if he is on to us, and I have no reason to think he is, I apologize for outing us like that.  It’s my fault.  Completely my fault.  Apparently I’m not as suave in real life as I am in my own head.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t help but feel badly about putting you in that position.”

“Trip,” said Marisa, grabbing his hand on the gearshift and lightly tracing her fingers over his, “I’m sure you can come up with better positions to put me in.”

“You,” replied Trip.  “You really are going to ruin me.”

Trip picked up speed and wove his car through the heavy traffic on Poplar.  He pulled up outside her condo building.  “Please, just grab a few things quickly.”

“Now who is being impatient?,” teased Marisa, as she hopped out of the car.  Up in her condo she threw an outfit for tomorrow, a fresh bra and pair of panties, and her essential makeup items into her teal Longchamp Le Pliage.  She tossed the tote over her shoulder, grabbed her black Marc Jacobs bag, and headed back out the door. 
Who needs pajamas?

She climbed back in the car and Trip slipped his phone back into his interior jacket pocket.  “Anything wrong?,” she asked, dreading that he would be pulled away on business.

“Absolutely not.  Just checking in.  That was quick.”

“I think well on my feet.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Marisa screwed up her face in a knot and let out a mocking laugh.  “Har, har, har, Mr. Brannon.”

“I’m not kidding with you,” Trip said firmly.

Marisa’s arousal returned.
Oh dear God, what does he have up his sleeve?

A short few minutes later and they were wading through the jungle of bikes in Trip’s garage, making their way to the back door.  The sleek and spotless kitchen shone.  “Do you cook?  This is such a nice kitchen, but it looks like a gallery space.”

“Not really,” Trip shrugged.  “I eat oatmeal and two scrambled eggs each morning.  For lunch, I’m either scarfing down something at my desk or at a business lunch.  And I tend just to go out for dinner.”

“You eat out every night?”

“Pretty much.” 
Who does he eat with every night?  Alone by himself in restaurants?

“Do you cook?, ” he inquired.

“Not much,” Marisa admitted.  “It’s not easy to cook dinner for one and I often work late.  But that said, I bake mean desserts.”

“Desserts?  And you eat these desserts? Where do you put them?”

Marisa rolled her eyes.  “Yes, I eat them. And it’s not like I bake every day.  Just a batch of brownies or cookies every now and then.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“Do what?,” asked Marisa. 
This is a terrible come-on.  And I thought we said no sex.

“Bake.”

“Um, are you serious?  We just had dessert.”

“As a heart attack.  Now, brownies or cookies?,” said Trip as he pressed against a crisp white panel that sprung open to reveal a walk-in pantry.  Marisa followed him into the brightly lit space.

“It looks like a mini grocery store in here.  I thought you didn’t cook.”

“I don’t, but my mother can’t stand the thought of me not having food in my house in case I go hungry, so voila,” said Trip, with a sweep of his hand.

“But it’s like insanely organized, too.  I mean, the spices are alphabetized.”

“Huh.  I never noticed that.  Truthfully, I only go in here to get these,” said Trip, gesturing to cases of protein bars, PowerAde’s, and VitaminWaters that were neatly stacked on the floor.  “As for why there are even spices in my house, you’d have to ask my mom or Ophelia.  She’s my family’s housekeeper and comes here once a week or whenever my mom sends her.”

Wow, he must be really close to his mom. 

“So, brownies or cookies?  What do you want do to bake and what do we need?”

Marisa searched her brain, trying to figure out why she and Trip were about to make dessert at nine o’clock on a Thursday night.  “Hmm, well brownies I can do without looking at a recipe.  It’s nothing fancy.”

“Not asking for fancy.  Just asking what we need.”

Marisa rattled off the ingredients and Trip dug through the neat shelves to collect the various packages.  He handed them to Marisa and she placed them on the kitchen’s large white marble island.

“Okay, aprons.”  Trip dug around the drawers by the commercial gas range and pulled out two aprons.  He tied a red and white striped bartender’s apron around his waist and then looped a navy apron embroidered with a large scripted “B” over her head. 
Who has a monogrammed apron?
, thought Marisa as Trip moved behind her.

He pulled on the apron’s strings, then dropped them, moving his hands to her shoulders.  He brushed her chestnut hair aside and brushed the nape of her neck with his lips.  Marisa’s body lit up from inside as the shockwaves from the soft kiss spread through her body to her fingers and toes.  She let out a sigh and felt a tug on the back zipper of her dress.  His kisses spilled across her exposed shoulders as he pushed the straps of her emerald dress off her shoulders.  He kept pushing the dress downward, chasing it with his kisses, and soon it was a puddle around her feet. 

Oh, Christ,
thought Marisa. 
So, this is the game. 

He lifted one foot and extracted it from her silver pump.  He gently ran his tongue along her instep.  Chills ran up Marisa’s spine and her skin turned to gooseflesh.  He tossed the shoe in a corner and repeated his assertive actions on her other foot.  Marisa was dumbstruck by the sudden change of course that baking brownies had taken.   Trip stood to his full height behind her and once again grasped the apron’s strings tying them in a firm knot around her waist.

Marisa did not move.  She stood in Trip’s kitchen clad in a black lace thong, matching bra, and an apron. 

“Well,” smiled Trip.  “That’s better.  I didn’t want you to get your pretty dress messy.   What else do we need?  Bowls?  A measuring cup?  Spoons and a pan, right?”  He turned away from her and began digging under the island and through drawers and cabinets in hunt of the items.

“And a spatula,” said Marisa assuredly, regaining her composure.

“Can’t forget that,” remarked Trip in a breezy tone as he gave her a wink.

Okay, so we’re going to pretend that I’m not virtually naked and want him to fuck me.  Fine, let’s bake some damn brownies
and give him a show.
  Marisa took control and began measuring, scooping and mixing until the dark batter was smooth.  Trip stood beside her in silence as she worked.  She grabbed the square metal pan and slid it across the island toward the bowl.  She began pouring the batter in the pan and looking around the island. 

“Looking for this?,” asked Trip, holding up a white silicon spatula.  “I bet you are,” he said, smacking her in the ass with it. 

In her shock and surprise, Marisa dropped the bowl and it fell into the pan.  “Fuck,” she said harshly, looking at the mess.  Brownie batter marred the pristine marble.  She gave Trip a grimace and snatched the spatula from his hand.  She scraped all of the batter off the bowl and into the pan, which she picked up and placed in the hot oven. 

My turn
, she thought.  While bent over the oven, she stuck her butt out toward Trip and wiggled her hips slowly, giving him a full view of the thin lace that covered her.   Then she sauntered back to the island and dipped her index finger into the splattered batter.  She turned toward him, making sure he was looking at her.  She opened her mouth and inserted her chocolate coated finger into her mouth and sucked.

Trip’s eyes bugged slightly. 
Yup.  I can play, too.
  A barbaric growl emanated from Trip and he launched at her, taking her completely in his arms and forcing his mouth onto hers.  His tongue prodded her mouth and hands fondled her bottom, as he walked her over to the enormous range.  He removed his body from hers for a split second.  He quickly turned off the oven and extracted the brownie pan with a potholder he grabbed from an adjacent drawer.

“They aren’t done yet.  It takes twenty minutes,” said Marisa.

“Seems done to me,” said Trip.  Holding the warm pan in one hand, he grasped Marisa’s hand with the other and led her up the stairs.

Chapter Thirty-three

Marisa awoke Friday morning feeling dazed and slightly sticky.  She attempted to brush some stray tendrils out of her face and found her hair plastered to her skin.  The crisp white sheets on Trip’s bed were soiled with brownie batter.  Even though he had done his damnedest to lick her clean, she was certain there was chocolate on her.

Marisa rolled out of bed wearing only a huge smile and strode toward the master bathroom.  She turned on the shower and looked in the full length mirror.  Yup, she was basted in dried chocolate and Trip.  Marisa couldn’t remember being this dirty in her life and she loved it.

She stepped into the glass-walled shower and lathered up a mesh sponge with some shower gel. 
Jo Malone?  French Lime Blossom?  Does mother buy everything for him?
  She ran the sponge over her body, letting her mind return to the night’s fun with Trip.   She had never played with food in that way before.  She’d never even imagined pairing sex and food. 
Or, no
, Marisa shook her said. 
Not-sex.  Pairing not-sex with food.

Trip had lazily dripped the chocolate batter over her entire body, spreading it smoothly all over her body with his fingers, before methodically licking it off her.  It was his leisurely pace and diligence at the task that had excited Marisa the most.   He had dragged across her taught stomach and pert breasts, sweeping circles around her nipples, and making her moan with longing.   When his mouth reached her toes, she caught sight of his face and started giggling. 

“What?,” he’d asked, as he knelt at her feet.  Marisa hadn’t been able hold it back any longer and let loose a large laugh, pointing at him. 

“Do I have something on my face?”  He winked at her, chocolate coating his strong masculine face.

“Your nose,” gasped Marisa between laughs.  “You’ve even got it on the end of your nose.”

Trip had smiled and brought his face an inch away from hers.  “Can you give me some help with that?”

Marisa had extended her tongue and licked off the brownie batter.  Trip’s eyes became hooded and he began a leisurely descent down her body.  He had wedged himself between her legs, asking without words for her to open for him.  She spread herself open and his mouth fell upon her, blowing, licking, and sucking her until her body shook and the world went dark.  As she recovered, he had kissed her mouth, sharing her taste, while holding a hand firmly over her sensitive parts.

He had stood up from the bed, untied his apron, peeled all of his ruined clothes off his tight body, and placed a firm hand over her opening.  She had gazed at him, awed at the strength and beauty of this man before her.  He had propped his frame over hers, hovering as he reclaimed her lips.  She had reached down and grabbed his solid thick dick and began stroking him firmly up and down.  She nudged his hand aside and ran her other hand across her wetness.  Swapping hands on him, she had increased her pace.  Trip groaned.  Marisa had smiled with pride at her ability to wring pleasure from him.  He had chanted her name as his body stiffened, his dick twitched, and he spilled on to her chest.  He had lowered his body on to the bed next to her and pulled her to him, spooning as they had fallen asleep.

Marisa reached for the shampoo and lathered her hair. 
That was really good. He’s damn talented. l wonder what having actual sex with him will be like. I mean, actual sex with him when I’m sober enough to appreciate it. 
Marisa rinsed her hair and began to hunt through the shower in search of conditioner.  When she found it, she froze. 
Bumble and bumble thickening conditioner?
 
This isn’t Trip’s.
 
No man has expensive conditioner like this.

Marisa turned off the shower, wrapped a fluffy white bath sheet around her, and started rummaging through drawers.  She found what she feared -- a half empty jar of La Mer eye cream, two Chanel lipsticks, a box of tampons, and a straightening iron
.
 
What the fuck is this?  Whose is this? 
Marisa’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the small white jar.   She left the bathroom and found Trip still asleep in the hideously messy bed.  She marched past him, found her bag in the kitchen, dressed in her clean clothes and walked back up the stairs.

He began to stir as she entered the room.  “Good morning, beautiful,” he said, sitting up with a smile in his voice.

“Go fuck yourself, Trip,” said Marisa coolly.

Trip’s face became bewildered and he shook his head.  “What?”

“Go. Fuck. Yourself.  We’re done.  My only - and I mean only - contact with you from this point forward is as the company’s lawyer.”

“Marisa, what” started Trip, his voice groggy, confused, and pleading.

She cut him off.  In her steeliest tone she informed him of what was going to happen. “I’m taking your car and will leave it outside my building. The keys will be with the doorman.”  She lobbed the ridiculously expensive eye cream at him, smirked, and then hastily fled, leaving his car as promised parked at the curb in front of her building.

Locked in the safety of her bedroom, Marisa began sobbing. 
It’s just like Paul all over again.  He doesn’t really like me.