Forbidden Son

by Loretta C. Rogers

  Tripp chuckled and tweaked her nose. “Okay, so we won’t swim. What if we settle for holding hands and wading in the surf?”

  How could she resist his lopsided grin? She couldn’t. Like warm tongues, the waves lapped their ankles as they walked in the opposite direction from the fishing pier.

  Without warning, the atmosphere seemed to fill with heavy tension. Aware of his arm around her waist, Honey Belle felt his fingers flex against her midriff. He turned her in his arms. She lifted her lips. To her surprise the kiss didn’t come.

  “Are you disappointed in me, Tripp?”

  He stepped back. “Honey Belle Garrett, marry me.” It was a simple statement—not a question.

  Standing in the warm surf and bathed in moonlight, she searched his eyes, afraid this entire night was a figment of her imagination. Had she heard him correctly? Had Tripp Hartwell the Third really asked her to marry him?

  “Honey Belle?”

  She placed her arms around his neck and squealed as she rained kisses all over his face. “Yes…yes…yes.” Without warning the practical side of her brain kicked in. “What will your parents say, where will we live, and what about law school?”

  He met her concerns with a chuckle. “My parents will adore you. Besides don’t worry about them. I’ll enter law school as planned. In a few years, I’ll pass the bar and work at the family law firm.

  “School starts in three weeks. Next Friday, I’m flying to Massachusetts to take care of a registration glitch. While I’m there, I’ll check out of the dorm and look for an apartment near campus. Does that answer all your questions?”

  She cupped her hands on either side of his face. “Then I’ll enroll in college, too. I’ll learn how to walk and talk and dress properly. Oh, Tripp, I never want you to be ashamed of me.”

  In all these many weeks, she’d never told Tripp she hadn’t finished high school. Unsure of their future together, she’d thought it unimportant—until now. She had to admit there was a secret part of her that was afraid of losing him if he thought she wasn’t smart.

  He pulled her against his chest. “I’ve never been ashamed of you, Honey Belle. Not now—not ever.”

  The scent of ocean salt filled the air, and while the night seemed to stretch on forever, the sky was littered with thousands of winking stars. Without quite realizing it, Honey Belle and Tripp had waded hip-deep into the water.

  Her breath felt lodged in her throat as his dark eyes travelled from her hair, to her face, and lower to linger on her cleavage.

  “You are as enticing as a moon goddess. I need you, Honey Belle. I need you in the worst way.”

  Perhaps it was the way he looked at her with those electric-blue eyes of his, or perhaps it was the way the warm waves caressed her thighs, or maybe it was how the rise and fall of the surf matched the beating of her heart. Whatever it was, she knew neither Tripp nor herself were able to resist the tidal wave of desire washing over them.

  No longer rigid in his encircling arms, she leaned against his broad chest, her body gently trembling, allowing him to bear her weight.

  Her breasts seemed to blossom and flower at his touch, the nipples ready and eager for his fluttering fingers against their hardening peaks. All thoughts of resistance ebbed away.

  “Don’t be afraid, Honey Belle.”

  “I’m not afraid. I need you, too, Tripp.”

  His one hand supported her back while he used his other hand to move slowly down, smoothing its way over the curve of her hip, leaving her on the knife-edge of need. Her body felt hot and fluid in anticipation of his exploring touch.

  Her nipples ached, on fire with pleasure. She wanted him to kiss them, to experience the balm of his tongue.

  Parting her thighs for his exploration, she whispered his name as he lifted her skirt and slid her cotton undies down her hips and tossed them toward the shore. “Tripp?”

  “Shh. Trust me.” He let her go long enough to yank at his denims and briefs as if desperate to be rid of them. She drew her dress over her head, standing bathed in moonlight and passion.

  “Put your legs around my waist, Honey Belle.”

  “Our clothes. They’ll wash away.”

  She didn’t know if he chuckled or snorted in aggravation when he gathered their floating garments into a dripping ball and sailed them to the wet sand. “Now, put your legs around me.”

  Buoyed by the water, unbelievable sensations arrowed through her body as Tripp suckled one breast before he turned his attention to the other dusky peak.

  He didn’t hurry. He suckled and licked and at the same time his searching fingers found the hot wet center of her feminine cortex.

  She gripped his broad shoulders with both hands, loving the feel of the corded muscles in his neck. She heard the sharp intake of his breath as she moved her hand down between them. She trailed her fingers down the hard length of his erection, curling her slender fingers around him.

  “No.” His hoarsely spoken command and his hand capturing hers stopped the investigation.

  “Did I do something wrong?” She tried to keep the worry from her voice. More than anything, she wanted to please him.

  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. H
e 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 Ma
e, 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.”