Forbidden Son (5 page)

He
moved away an inch, his face close to hers. His voice rasped, “I’m hotter than
a forty-dollar pistol, honey girl. I don’t want to shoot off before we’re both
ready, and I don’t want you to have any regrets afterward.”

Hugging
his shoulders, she held him tight. “Hold me.”

She
heard the sharp intake of his breath as he lifted her to mount his pulsating
hardness. She looked into his hot blue eyes as he slid his hand around her
bottom and savagely joined them together in one swift thrust.

With
each moan, their writhing bodies cried out for more. They moved as one,
clutching, grinding, panting. Time was lost. There was only the rhythm of the
surf undulating around them. With each deep thrust Honey Belle moaned with
pleasure, until she felt him explode deep inside of her.

After
a long shuddering breath, and with their bodies locked together, Tripp carried
her to the blanket they had abandoned on the beach.

Chapter
Eight

Moisture
pooled in Honey Belle’s eyes as Tripp gently laid her on the blanket. “You’re
beautiful, Honey Belle.”

“So
are you.”

“Did
I hurt you?”

She
traced the furrowed lines that formed concern in his face. “I’ve had wasp’s
stings that were worse.”

“More?”

She
drew a deep contented breath and ran her fingers through his thick blond hair.
She had never imagined, never guessed the depths of emotion that could exist
between two people.

“Yes,
more.”

Tripp
leaned up on one elbow. “I’m not too heavy for you?”

“No,
you’re perfect. We fit together like two spoons.”

She
saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes, and the hint of a smug smile. He
trailed his hand down her stomach. “I intend to explore every inch of your
exquisite body.”

Color
surged in her face and warmed her cheeks. She was glad it was dark so Tripp
couldn’t see her blushing.

To
her surprise her body stirred in response to his touch. He gathered her in his
arms, merging their bodies into one and moving inside her.

She
answered his moan with her own as he thrust deeper within her. Her loins,
abdomen, thighs were the center of a passionate white flame. And Tripp was the
fire, burning inside her, over and over, crying out above her as he seemed to
revel in the same exquisite torture.

She
snuggled up against him, her head resting on his shoulder, not speaking,
rubbing her hand across his chest, and whispered in his ear, “Tripp, I want you
to know something.”

His
voice was very tender. “What is it?”

“There’s
never been another. You’re the only man I’ve ever been with. I don’t expect you
to say the same thing, but I wanted you to know.”

Tripp
was silent as he held her closer. She pressed against him, felt his arm tighten
around her. Her body trembled in anticipation. He kissed her softly on the
lips, and she kissed him back. He kissed her neck, her cheek, her eyelids, and
she felt the moisture of his mouth linger wherever his lips had touched.

She
took his hand and led it to her breast, and a whimper rose in her throat. It
felt so right to be here, under a blanket of stars, with the man she loved.

****

The
time was well past midnight when Tripp drove toward the Barrington Street
address and parked in front of Honey Belle’s pretend two-story house with its
wide wrap around veranda decorated with urns of bird’s-nest fern and a porch
swing.

“No
light. I guess your parents got tired of waiting up for you.” Tripp leaned over
and feathered kisses on her lips.

She
rested against the BMW’s leather seat. She didn’t mean to sound indignant, but
it came out that way. “I’m nineteen and not a child whose parents should wait
for her to come home from a date.”

Her
eyes took in the shape of his nose, the fullness of his lips, the square
jaw-handsomeness.

Running
a finger down her cheek, he said, “Woman or not, you’d better go in before your
father wakes up and comes after me with a shotgun. At least let me walk you to
the door.”

Giving
Tripp a bright smile and a quick peck on the lips, she opened the car door and
scooted from the seat. “I’m a big girl, remember.”

“Now
that we’re engaged, I’d like to meet your parents, and formally ask your
father’s permission to marry you.”

Standing
on the sidewalk in the shadows of the street light, her heart plummeted to her
stomach.
I’ve really stepped in it now.
Pretending to live in a nice
house with a manicured yard in an upscale neighborhood was one thing. What was
she going to do? She certainly couldn’t go out and rent a set of parents that
would measure up to the standards of Judge and Mrs. Hartwell.

Like
Scarlett O’Hara, Honey Belle decided to think about it later.

“Goodnight,
Tripp.”

The
BMW’s engine revved and Tripp leaned toward the window and waved. “Sweet
dreams, Honey Belle. I love you.”

Still
feeling the roll of emotion within her and wondering if it showed on her face,
she waited until he was out of sight before heading in the direction of the gas
station where she’d parked the truck.

Tripp
Hartwell the Third loved her. Her feet felt as if they’d sprouted wings as she
skipped down the sidewalk.

By
the time she arrived home, her clothes had dried stiff from the salt water.
Gathering her sandals in her hands, she stood on the back steps and brushed the
dirt from her feet. She eased the door open and tiptoed into the living room.

Moonlight
lit the small area, making it possible to get to her bedroom without turning on
a lamp. Now if she could only avoid the squeaky board in the center of the
living room floor...

There
was no need to worry about waking her parents. The moment she stepped into the darkened
space, a voice stopped her cold. Lamp light filled the room.

Her
mother sat on the sofa with her arms crossed over her chest. She didn’t say a
word. All the while her gaze burned into Honey Belle. Her silence was like an
itch that wouldn’t go away. When she didn’t speak, Honey Belle said, “‘Night,
Mama.”

She
could almost see her mother’s chest heave with the heavy breath she drew in.
The air seemed to squeeze through her mother’s nostrils. Her pursed lips looked
as if she’d been sucking lemons, and her eyes were narrow, angry slits. “I told
you, didn’t I...didn’t I?”

Honey
Belle knew the storm was coming, she just didn’t know what kind of storm to
expect. Would it be the kind where the sun shone through the rain, doing little
damage, or would it be a full-blown hurricane?

She
had a feeling it was the hurricane. Her mother had gone from looking sad to
looking furious. Her gray eyes were as cold as a December morning.

Honey
Belle knew what her mother was referring to. Refusing to cower to intimidation,
she lifted her chin to show her defiance. “You tell me lots of things, Mama.
Which would you be referring to?”

Her
mother pushed from the sagging sofa. She stood in front of Honey Belle. “That
boy has done had you. It’s written all over your face.” She poked a finger
against Honey Belle’s chest. “And now that he’s had you, all the dogs in the
neighborhood will come around sniffin’. Even I can smell the musky scent of sex
on you.”

“You
have a cruel and filthy mouth, Mama.” Honey Belle tried to turn aside. At that
moment, all she wanted was to get away from her mother’s accusing scowl.

Her
mother reached out and grabbed her arm with such force it felt as if her
fingers had bruised the skin. “You’re ruined, girl. No decent man will want
you. Not now. Not ever.”

She
sank to the sofa and buried her face in to her dishwater-reddened hand. “I was
sixteen when you were born. Your life won’t be much better than mine. Always
workin’ and never getting’ nowhere.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

For
a moment, Honey Belle felt no compassion for her mother. Unable to hide her
resentment, she wanted to lash out with all the bitterness welling inside her,
against the shabbiness of the house, the couch with its sagging springs, and
the death odors from her dying father.

She
parroted her mother’s words. “
Always working and getting nowhere? My life
won’t be much better than yours?
Who was it, Mama, that forced me to quit
school and give up my future? Don’t sit there sobbing and feeling sorry for
yourself and laying blame on me for the way your life turned out.”

Her
mother’s face crumpled into more tears. “I’m sorry. I was wrong to make you
quit school. I’ve known it all along, just didn’t know how to take it back.”

Coming
from her mother, it was a gracious apology, and Honey Belle accepted it. She
knelt and lifted her mother’s chafed and work-worn hands into hers. “Don’t cry,
Mama. I know your life has been hard, and you’ve had your share of
disappointments. But I’m not one of them. Why, just tonight, Tripp asked me to
marry him. And I said yes. You’ll see, Mama. Everything is going to be okay.”

With
a heavy sigh, her mother lifted the corner of her threadbare nightgown and
dried her eyes. She rose and patted Honey Belle’s cheek. “You always did
believe in fairy tales.” She hunched her shoulders, and her feet shuffled
toward the bedroom she shared with her husband. It seemed to Honey Belle that
her mother was much older than her thirty-five years.

At
the door, Delilah Garrett turned and stood staring, her face a mixture of anger
and melancholy. “That boy will never marry you, and you’re a fool to think
otherwise, Honey Belle.”

Honey
Belle turned out the lamp. Inside the bathroom, she ran a tub of cold water and
soaked her hot body. She shampooed the salt and sand from her hair. Rinsing
off, she stepped from the tub. Wrapped in a towel, she tiptoed to her bedroom.

Her
body no longer hummed with desire. She tried to conjure up the elation she’d
felt when Tripp had asked her to marry him, but the attempt failed. She didn’t
want to think about her mother’s harsh accusations.

Outside,
the rain frogs croaked for rain. As she lay in bed, their song echoed inside
Honey Belle’s head—
that boy will never marry you.

A
moment of
déjà vu
washed over her. What if her mother and the frogs were
right?

****

Monday
morning Tripp stood at the top of the staircase, fighting a case of nerves that
matched any he’d met on college exam days. Dressed in a pair of crisp white
slacks and a blue golfing shirt that accentuated the color of his eyes, he
folded his hands together and stretched them forward cracking his knuckles. He
shook off the nerves as he descended the stairs.

Placing
his hands inside his pants pockets, he whistled a tune as he strolled into the
large airy dining room. “Good morning, Mother.” He bent and kissed her on the
cheek.

The
maid hustled over to fill his coffee cup. “How would you like your eggs this
morning, Mr. Tripp?”

“Sunnyside
up, and load the grits with butter.”

The
woman offered him a wide grin. “Just the way you like ’em, Mr. Tripp.”

“Oh,
and Pearlie Mae, is that hot biscuits I smell?”

“I
’s’pose you want ’em loaded with butter, too?”

“Yes,
ma’am, and dripping with honey.”

Tripp’s
father folded the newspaper and laid it next to his plate. “Pearlie Mae, you do
spoil us with your cooking.” He patted his stomach.

With
a giggle, the maid bounced off toward the kitchen.

“She’s
a jewel, that Pearlie Mae. Don’t know what I’d do without her.” Tripp’s mother
flashed a smile across the table toward her son.

Tripp
stirred sugar into his coffee. The spoon clattered against the sides of the
cup. His throat felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. Without waiting for the
coffee to cool, he gulped a large sip, not expecting to scorch the back of his
throat. He grabbed the white linen napkin and pressed it to his mouth to keep
from spewing hot liquid across the table.

Stricken
with a coughing spasm, Tripp’s eyes dripped with tears and his face suffused
red as his father pounded him on the back. Between sputters, Tripp managed to
say, “Now I know what a piece of bacon must feel like when it hits the frying
pan.”

His
mother fussed and fidgeted. “Merciful heaven, Pearlie Mae, bring a glass of
cold buttermilk, and be quick about your slow self.”

The
maid bustled in as fast as her short fat legs would carry her. “Lawsy sakes,
Mr. Tripp, maybe I’d better make you a bowl of oatmeal with honey, ’stead of
grits and eggs.”

Tripp
accepted the glass of milk, and allowed the cold liquid to slide down his
aching throat. The words came out disjointed when he attempted to speak. “Thank
you.”

“He’ll
need more than oatmeal to shore him up if he expects to beat me at golf this
morning.”

Tripp
cleared his throat and gave his father a half-hearted laugh. “Bring on the eggs
and grits, biscuits and bacon, Pearlie Mae. I have a golf game to win.”

Tripp
smiled to himself. At least he’d gotten over his case of nerves. He downed the
rest of the buttermilk, allowing his mother to reach over and wipe away the
white mustache above his top lip as if he were still her little boy.

He
focused his attention on her, knowing his father would be the one to reckon
with. “Mother, how would you like to put together a little party? Nothing
fancy, just family and a few of our closest friends.”

She
pulled her overly painted lips into a pout, reminding him of an unhappy clown.
“
La
, I simply refuse to give you a going-away party. Why, you’ve only
been home from college a few weeks, and here you are, off again to hide
yourself away in a stuffy old library filled with dust-laden law books. It just
breaks my heart.”

Tripp
leaned forward on his elbows. “It isn’t a going-away party, Mother.” He cut his
eyes toward his father. “Remember the young woman I told you about, the one
with the sweet name?”

He
watched his mother’s shoulders stiffen. “Yes, I do. Garrett, and I recalled how
the Garretts were sharecroppers from Tennessee.”

Tripp
held her gaze as he reached out and removed the cup from a hand that reminded
him of tissue paper, fragile. “Honey Belle and her parents live on Barrington
Street, Mother. They’ve never lived in Tennessee.”

She
seemed to brighten. “Well, in that case, is it her birthday, is that why you
want me to host a party?”

“No,
it’s—” He took a fortifying breath and started again. What did he know about
Honey Belle, what could he tell his parents about her? He could pacify his
mother; his father would have questions. “It’s to announce my engagement. I’ve
asked Honey Belle to be my wife.”