Remember When 3: The Finale (Remember Trilogy #3)

by Torrest, T.

  * * *

  Trip pulled the Porsche into the lot at the TRU and cut the engine. I was pretty impatient during the ride down from the observatory. It wasn’t an incredibly long trek, but if I didn’t get that man in bed soon, I thought I’d pass out from wanting.

  Trip must have been feeling it, too. He turned to me and said, “This is ridiculous, Lay. I’m checking you out of here. I know you said a few days, but I want you with me now. You’re staying with me.” He put a hand at my neck and pulled my lips to his. In between kisses, he said, “I want to keep my eye on you. And my hands. I want to keep my hands on you, too. And my mouth. Yeah, that too.”

  Who was I to argue?

  I packed up all my stuff from the suite as Trip stayed downstairs to check me out of the hotel. I was only slightly saddened at having to leave such a beautiful room, but I was more curious and excited to see the home of my beautiful man. I was confident that it—that he—was ready for me.

  We hopped back into the Porsche and drove through Benedict Canyon, then wound our way up Mulholland Drive. I could only catch the tiniest glimpses of the houses from the road. Most were completely hidden by large gates or trees. The few homes I could see were pretty freaking impressive, let me tell you.

  We finally pulled in front of a large, black, iron gate, and Trip hit a button on the sun visor to open it. He cruised the car up a narrow, winding driveway and suddenly, his house came into view. It was a sprawling stucco ranch with those curved clay tiles on the roof—a California version of an “authentic” Spanish villa—painted tiles around the archways, forged iron fixtures on the heavy wooden doors.

  He pulled the Porsche into the huge garage, where I could see a black Jeep, a black pickup truck, and a black… something that I didn’t recognize. “What is that?” I asked. “It’s pretty.”

  He got out of the car and came around to my side. “Layla. You don’t call a Maserati ‘pretty.’ It’s a beautiful piece of machinery.”

  I was well aware of another beautiful piece of machinery in the garage at that moment. But I put that out of my mind long enough to respond, “It looks like the Batmobile.”

  He snickered at that as he closed the garage door and led me into the house. “Wow,” I said. “If your house is as nice as the garage, I think I’m officially astounded.”

  He backed me against the closed door and pressed his body full-length against mine. “Oh yeah? Well, wait until I get you to my bedroom, sweetheart. That’ll astound the hell out of you.”

  Chapter 15

  GIRL PLAY

  I woke up, gave a good stretch, and rolled over to look out the window. I hadn’t noticed it previously, but the entire second floor of his house looked out over the city of Los Angeles. Kinda goes to show you where my focus was the night before, because that view was hard to miss; two entire walls of his bedroom were made of glass.

  I could see the impressive setup out back—cypress trees bordering two edges of the lawn, obscuring the iron fencing that I knew surrounded the property on three sides. The back line of his yard was nothing more than a drop-off, creating the desired effect for his infinity pool. There was no need for a fence along the rear border; Spiderman himself wouldn’t be able to scale the cliff leading up to it.

  Trip had reached a point in his notoriety where he needed such safeguards from the outside world. As he’d explained during the tour, he wasn’t going to be made to feel unsafe in his own home.

  He lived in a veritable fortress, but it was a gilded cage, at least. The house was absolutely incredible. It wasn’t what I had expected, but it suited him somehow.

  I let out with an exaggerated yawn, then settled myself under the cool, white, gazillion-thread-count sheets. Everything at Trip’s house was just so much nicer than in an average home, and I was definitely more than a little freaked out about it. I wasn’t used to such extravagance. It even smelled better. I reached over to his empty side of the bed, curled his pillow into my arms, and took a whiff. It smelled like him.

  I finally made myself get out of bed and start my day. I cleaned up in his million-jet shower, then dried off with the fluffiest towel known to man. I swiped the steam off the mirror and took a look at the middle-class Jersey girl in the reflection, trying to reconcile that image with the opulence presently surrounding me.

  Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

  By the time I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, Trip’s housekeeper had arrived. I introduced myself to Mrs. Elena, who very sweetly offered to make me breakfast. I declined, however, seeing as I was going dress shopping and didn’t want a food baby popping out while I tried on designer gowns.

  Trip left directions for me to his friend’s boutique downtown. He also left me the keys to the Jeep and a black American Express card with a post-it note advising me to “USE THIS! No arguments.”

  Well, if you insist…

  I had to fiddle with the garage door openers until I found the right one, then slipped behind the wheel of Trip’s Wrangler Sport. Nice. Thank God he didn’t expect me to drive that Batmobile. The finer things with which he’d surrounded himself were overwhelming enough. I didn’t need to be responsible for one of them on top of it.

  I assumed navigating the roads of Los Angeles wouldn’t be very difficult. The place is pretty much laid out like a grid, not unlike New York, sans the conveniently numbered streets. But hell. I figured since my driving chops had been tempered in the city from the time I was a teenager, L.A. would be a piece of cake.

  I only lost my bearings once on my way out of the Hollywood Hills, but a very nice homeless man directed me to La Cienega. I tossed him a fiver and made it the rest of the way without incident.

  Siobhan’s was an elegant but quirky shop right in the heart of Melrose. I was expecting more of a Rodeo Drive snob-fest, and I loved that Trip had sent me to this place instead. It wasn’t far from the hotel in Beverly Hills, but the neighborhood looked like a completely different world. Way less snooty, way more hip.

  The parking gods were smiling down upon me that day, because I managed to find a spot right out front of the building.

  When I walked through the door, Siobhan herself greeted me. She was tall and beautiful, with perfectly highlighted, wavy hair that fell almost to her skinny waist.

  “Hello, Miss Warren! I’ve been expecting you.” I looked down at my shirt to see if I had a nametag on or something, and Siobhan gave a knowing smile as she clarified, “Trip called earlier to let me know you were coming.”

  I suddenly became cognizant of two things:

  1. I was an uncultured dork. And

  2. This gorgeous woman had just referred to my boyfriend as “Trip” instead of “Mr. Wiley.”

  Friend my arse.

  Ex sex-slave, maybe. But there was no way this chick was just a “friend.” It was like being in a bad, real-life version of Pretty Woman. Only I was not the hooker in this scenario.

  She showed me around the store, asking questions about my likes and dislikes in regards to fashion. When she asked me who my favorite designer was, I scrambled through my mental inventory, trying to come up with a name. Drawing a blank, I joked, “Umm, Macy’s?”

  She laughed jovially at my complete fashion-impairment and threw me into a dressing room, telling me to strip down so she could take my measurements. She logged them on a yellow legal pad that smelled like lavender, then darted out into the store while I stood there, passing the time by staring at the walls while hanging out in my underwear. I had just started to wonder if I should get dressed and go pick out some stuff to try on when she came barging back into the room carrying half a dozen dresses over her arm. I guessed she’d be deciding for me.

  Gown after gown was flung in my direction, while my modesty was forced out the window. I was surprised at how quickly I got over it. She was incredibly professional, and thank God, never once acknowledged that my bra and undies didn’t match. I started to feel guilty for my initial evil thoughts about the woman, consid
ering she was going out of her way to be perfectly accommodating and wonderful.

  She was very sweet and attentive and obviously knew her stuff. After I nixed the first three selections, she’d narrowed down my taste enough to zero in on a few beautiful dresses. I’d really liked almost all of them, but it wasn’t until I tried on a shimmery cream ball gown that I finally fell in love.

  Siobhan heard the gasp and immediately stopped fiddling with the hangers to put her hand to her heart, looking at me as if her baby had just taken its first steps.

  The gown was exquisite; Grecian-styled bustier that cinched my waist and pushed my boobs up in an almost obscene, yet still tasteful way, with gathered folds of bunched fabric that billowed down to my ankles, a scandalous slit up one leg. It practically screamed “Oscar.” It was a bit out of my comfort zone, but it really was a fabulous gown.

  But then I checked the price tag.

  Nope. Nuh-uh. No way.

  I shook my head, explaining that while the dress was beautiful, there was no way I was spending that kind of cash on an item of clothing I was only going to wear once. I mean, the thing cost more than Lisa’s wedding gown! I didn’t even care if I looked like a pathetic rube. My conscience would just never let me indulge in such an extravagance, especially while shopping with Trip’s money. Maybe I should have checked out some of the prices before trying on a dozen gowns. My poor, clueless boyfriend obviously had no idea where he’d sent me.

  I put my clothes back on, apologized to Siobhan and thanked her for her time. She looked disheartened, and I felt bad about that, but there was just no way.

  She said a graceful goodbye, and I zipped around the corner to the Beverly Center. I managed to find a beautiful, copper-colored dress at Nordstrom that was almost as nice as the one at Siobhan’s for about a third of the price. It was still expensive, but compared to the cream one, it was a bargain. I bought some awesome coordinating heels that cost more than my first car and a small, clutch handbag to match (both with my own money) and was really proud of myself that I’d managed to find an appropriate ensemble. I had to pay extra for rush alterations on the dress, but the cost was still coming in way under Siobhan’s, so I practically skipped out of the store.

  I took advantage of my newfound free time and drove around the city like a big fat tourist. I was scoping the streets for a surgically-enhanced, California blonde walking a pair of Afghan doggies or some other clichéd movie scene I could find. No luck. I did see a little girl wearing a tiara, but without the Jon Benet frou-frou dress to go with it, she didn’t look that different from my goddaughter, Julia.

  Denied.

  I made a few extra stops, took care of a few errands, and decided to head back to Trip’s.

  His backyard, aside from being a covert fortress, was also designed for entertaining. Not only was it private, but it was totally cool. He had this fabulous outdoor kitchen area; a stone and granite workspace with a monstrous grill, covered under a roof eave that jutted out over the six or so stools surrounding the adjoining snack bar.

  That area abutted the massive patio which sported a few tables and chairs that looked brand, spanking new. It’s as if they were placed there, not for their function, but because the patio called for them. I wondered if they’d ever been sat on.

  I was in the pool when Trip came home. He walked outside, looking beautifully professional in his dark slacks and white button-down shirt. Just another day at the office.

  “Honey, I’m home!” he called out playfully, thumbing through the mail and asking, “How’d it go at Siobhan’s?”

  I resisted the urge to pull him into the pool and attack him. “Okay. She was really nice.” And pretty.

  “Did you find a dress?”

  I decided not to tell him about my cheapskate mentality. “No. Not at Siobhan’s. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. She really gave it her all. I found something at Nordstrom’s, though.”

  “Great. Can’t wait to see it. Hey. What do you want to do for dinner?”

  “Already covered. I cooked.”

  He tossed the mail onto a nearby patio table. “Oh, you did, huh? Hmm. In that case, lemme just change into a bathing suit and I’ll meet you in the pool.”

  “Please do.”

  I managed a few laps before Trip made his way out of the house and onto the diving board. It was hard to take my eyes off him when he was practically naked, strutting around the yard with that damned body of his. I mean, it was hard to keep my eyes off him normally. But in nothing but a pair of board shorts? I wanted to lay more than my sights on that man.

  He dove in, emerging near me in the low end, wrapping his arms around me and backing me against the pool’s wall. He planted one hell of a kiss on me, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling through it. It was sickeningly adorable, just being able to hang around Trip’s house, waiting there for him after he came home from a long, hard day of work.

  When we finally came up for air, I saw the huge grin he was wearing on his face. I was sure I looked just as dorky, smiling back at him. There was a huge part of me that still couldn’t quite believe I was there with him, playing house, tangled in his arms. But I didn’t question it. For the first time in my life, I’d gone for it. And the payoff had been even greater than I could’ve ever imagined. More importantly, Trip was happy, too.

  Most importantly, we were happy together.

  I looped my arms over his shoulders and asked, “How was your day?”

  His perfect, white teeth were still grinning at me, his eyes squinting from the sun. “It was good. Except that I missed you.”

  “Awww.”

  “The meeting took forever. Man, that guy can talk.”

  I knew his meeting was with some industry people that had been wooing him to be a part of their next production, but Trip didn’t tell me much more beyond that. He was trying to focus more on his upcoming hockey film, and he was more irritated than flattered that they required his attention in the days leading up to it. Guess they wanted to nail him down as early as possible.

  I knew the feeling.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Alright, I guess. I’m not the biggest fan of the director they’ve got lined up, but the script is pretty phenomenal. It could be big. I don’t know.” He released his hold on me to lounge out on the steps, his elbows thrown over the edge of the pool. “I told them I’d think about it in any case.”

  He seemed almost embarrassed talking about it. I guessed he was still getting used to the idea that he was so actively pursued by people other than horny women.

  Although, I was one such horny woman at the moment. He wasn’t quite out of those woods yet.

  I sluiced through the water to where he was sitting and straddled him against the steps. “I’m guessing you’ve got time on this. You still have an entire movie to film before you could even commit to starting it, right? Did they say they’d wait for you?”

  I lowered my lips to his neck. I couldn’t help it.

  I felt his throat vibrate against my mouth as he answered with a contented, “Hmmm.”

  “Was that a yes?”

  He put his hands at my hips and squirmed a little underneath me. “Babe? You really think I’ve got my mind on work right now?”

  Before I knew it, he’d wrapped an arm under my backside as he grabbed for the railing and hauled us both out of the water. I was giggling, my legs locked around his waist as he walked the few steps over to a chaise and laid me down on it, settling himself between my knees and lowering himself on top of me.

  He kissed his way down my body and back up to my neck again, pulling my wet bikini top to the side of my breasts.

  Release the hounds!

  He kissed me there, too, before trailing a line of kisses down my stomach, over my sides, his hair trickling droplets across my skin. He hooked his fingers into my bikini bottoms and slid them off… and then stopped dead in his tracks.

  Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about the wax job on the way home.

&n
bsp; His jaw gaped slightly as he stared at my nether regions, ironing a palm across the smooth skin at my pelvis. His eyes met mine in wonder. “Holy shit.”

  I laughed, but Trip looked rather serious, immediately pushing my thighs apart and closing his mouth over the space in between, as if he couldn’t wait another second to lick me into oblivion.

  Which he did.

  Twice.

  After a considerable amount of time spent making beautiful mouth-love to me on my pinkest parts, I lay there, my legs shaking, begging for him to stop. One more Tripgasm, and I was sure the neighbors would call the cops on us for disturbing the peace.

  Because pieces of me were rather disturbed, let me tell you.

  Ba-dum-dum. Tsss.

  He was rather pleased with himself, sliding his body back up the length of mine, a wide, proud grin on his face. He raised an eyebrow and noted, “You were speaking Swahili there for a second.” He sat back on his feet, cupping the front of his shorts with an expectant smirk. “Now what are we gonna do about this thing?”

  I didn’t wait to be asked twice. I threw him onto his back and barely made with the preliminaries. I may have landed a few kisses down his torso on the way to his shorts, reaching in and pulling him out. I know the typical Blowjob 101 Handbook recommends starting with some ice-cream-cone maneuvers, but I didn’t bother with such trivialities. I opened my jaw over that thing and took him as far as my mouth would allow, sliding my lips back up as I suctioned my cheeks, gripping him with my hand at the base.

  “What the… Wha- Fuck! Lay!”

  Ha! I repeated the motion, and Trip almost floundered off the chaise. I saw his fingers in a white-knuckle grip against the cushion, felt his hips rising to match the movements of my mouth. He was hard as a rock, that beautiful, magical limb of his pointing north like a sundial. I estimated it to be close to six o’clock.