Impersonating Brianne Ch. 03

"I can think of a few more ways to finish breaking it in," Alan said. If she could have seen his face, Marissa was sure he had a wicked glint in his eyes.

Marissa rolled over on to her stomach. She felt Alan twitch inside her and knew he was getting his second wind.

It turned out Alan had a third wind in him, too.

***************************

Rolling over lazily, Marissa hunted around for Alan. He wasn't there. She sat up. The scarves were still tied to the bedposts. Alan's shirt, which she had been wearing the night before, was on the floor, having been thrown across the room some time in the middle of the night.

The bedsheets were rumpled. The comforter was on the floor. The sun was up but she still felt like it should have just been daybreak. Her body hadn't caught up from the jetlag.

Marissa was sore, especially her shoulders, but it was a good sore.

She stretched out and called Alan's name. No response.

Trying not to move her arms too much, she stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom. Her hair was a glorious mess. She was even sporting a couple of fresh hickeys on her neck and collarbones.

The memory of the previous night's sex made her smile and blush at the same time.

I guess I won't be working for the rest of the week, she thought with a chuckle. Or at least until these marks go away.

Marissa brushed her teeth and then went back into the bedroom. She picked up Alan's shirt off the floor and put it on to ward away the morning chill.

Her bare feet on the hardwood floor, she padded out to the kitchen. Alan was no where to be found.

The pesky voice returned from her subconscious. Her heart rate doubled. She started to feel panicky.

She checked the garage and Alan's car was gone.

He can't have just left me, she thought. This is his house. It's not like he's going to stiff me completely.

Marissa went back to the bedroom and began to dress.

I told you so, the one voice said. He got up and left. You made yourself vulnerable to him and now he's just going to treat you like the whore you are.

No, he's not! the other voice said, the voice she had spent the last five years ignoring. He'll be back. There's a good explanation.

Then why didn't he leave a note? Why isn't he cooking you breakfast? Why didn't he wake up with you? He used you and fucked you.

It was all she could do not to burst into tears. Marissa put Alan's shirt in the hamper in his bathroom and found a pair of shorts and a blouse in her suitcase. She looked around to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything and then wheeled her things out to the kitchen.

Hunting through the fridge and his pantry, Marissa made herself a small breakfast and sat at the table to await Alan's return.

All the while, all her insecurities re-surfaced. Old habits die hard.

She couldn't believe that Alan would just leave her like that. Didn't he want her? He said he did. Was he lying? Or was he just now coming to his senses? After all, they had a romantic week away, and now that they were back in their regular worlds, maybe things weren't so Pollyannaish after all.

Most of her breakfast remained uneaten when Marissa heard the garage door open and Alan's car pulled in. She looked over at the stove. It was close to ten o'clock. Contractually, their relationship would end once he paid her.

What am I going to do?

The door opened quietly and Alan entered the kitchen. He saw Marissa's suitcase by the door and then his eyes fixed on her, sitting at the table where they had their first conversation.

He had two envelopes in his hands.

The expression on her face must not have been very good because he immediately started looking worried himself.

"Hi," he said meekly. "I'm sorry for leaving so early . . . I, uh, didn't think they would take so long at the bank."

"That's okay," Marissa replied, more curtly than she should have.

Alan sat down at the table. He placed the thick envelopes on the table. Both of them knew what those envelopes represented.

Neither wanted to be the first one to talk.

Finally, Alan cleared his throat. "I . . . um . . . had a great time this week, Marissa."

"I did, too," she said with a sigh. She needed a sign from him. Something to tell her that she hadn't been played.

"I—" he started. There was a long pause. "I don't suppose we could see each other again? Go out to dinner or for drinks?"

"I don't date clients," Marissa replied reflexively, and almost immediately she wished she had kept her mouth shut.

Alan fell silent. He looked away and out the window.

She searched his face for hints. There was pain there, not the same as he felt for his wife. But something new. It probably matched her own.

Her emotions struggled for control. Her once-contained feelings told her to say one thing. The business-like whore told her to say something different.

Alan appeared to be at a similar loss for words.

What are you thinking? she wanted to ask him, but couldn't.

As the two parts of her warred over what she should say, they quickly came to a consensus. Shit or get off the pot. Make a decision, Marissa. Head or heart. You can't follow us both.

"Did we have something last week, Alan?" she said finally. Her voice was so low, she wasn't sure she said it out loud. "Something real?"

"Yes," he whispered. His response was so immediate, she knew it could only be the truth.

What am I going to do?

Order or disorder. Money or love.

What am I going to do?

Marissa stood up, her chair sliding back across the floor. Alan looked up at her in alarm.

"I don't want your money, Alan," she said. Her decision was made. Her stomach churned.

Head or heart. Those were her choices. She could walk away from Alan. He was, after all, a paying client. She had buried her feelings before, she could do so again.

But at what cost? Happiness? A family? Love?

And for what? A few dollars and another decade in a profession she loathed? Was it worth it?

Not any more.

Alan had a disbelieving look on his face. His jaw dropped.

"I need to know that there was something between us," Marissa said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "We spent a whole week away. People aren't themselves on trips and vacations."

She took a deep breath. Her eyes began to water up. "I had a wonderful time with you. You truly treated me like a princess. And I appreciate that. But life isn't all passion and romance. We have lives here. You have the university. I have a job. We can't just pretend like everything is normal. At least I can't. My life isn't normal."

Marissa paused long enough to take a deep breath and wipe the tears out of her eyes. "You made me feel . . . you made me feel things I thought I had forgotten. You are the kindest man I have ever met. You never treated me like a whore, but that's what I am."

Her voice had risen almost to the point where it was about to break. "Look at me, Alan! Men pay me to have sex with them. I fuck a hundred different guys a year. How can you want that?"

She choked back sobs. Alan was trying not to cry himself.

"I don't care how many men you've had before me." Alan said, his voice gravelly. "I don't care how we met. I thought I wanted one thing from you, but I didn't. I was wrong. I don't want someone to be Brianne. I don't want a mistress and I don't want a whore. I want you."

She stood there for a long moment, trying her best to hold it together.

"Are you sure, Alan?" she whispered. "You don't know how much baggage I come with."

"Yes, I'm sure," he replied softly.

Marissa took a deep breath, then reached into her purse. She pulled out an envelope and thumbed through a stack of hundred dollar bills, her winnings from the casino.

She placed a large pile of money on the table. "There's nine thousand dollars there. That's the five you gave me at the beginning of the week, the thousand you gave me on the first day and three thousand for the Lasik. We're even."

A couple of deep breaths later, Marissa put the remaining cash back in her purse. Alan could only stare at her, dumbfounded.

"If I take your money, I'll always be your whore," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I want you, too, Alan. I want us. I want it more than anything in the world. I'm going home now. You've got my number. Call me. We're going to make a date and we're going to go out and we're going to do this right."

Make me feel like I'm worth it, she wanted to say.

"What about Laurie?" Alan managed to say once he found his voice. "At least take enough to pay her cut."

Marissa shook her head, "No, Alan. I have enough saved up to cover that."

She turned and walked towards the door that opened into the garage. Her gait was quick and deliberate. She couldn't face Alan like this. She just wanted to make it into her car and down the street before she fell apart. Somewhere that Alan couldn't see her. One hand was on the handle of her suitcase, the other reaching for the door.

"Marissa," Alan called.

Her heart skipped a beat. Her stomach flipped.

This is what I want, she thought, Isn't it?

She didn't turn around, but she paused, waiting for him. Hoping for the words she needed to hear.

"What if we just skip ahead to the part where I say, 'I love you'?"

Marissa couldn't see him, but she heard Alan's footsteps as he crossed the kitchen.

He stopped right behind her.

"I've had two years to myself. Wallowing in self-pity and anger," he said softly. "Brianne was everything I could ever want in a partner and a spouse. We were so happy together. We had dreams and hopes and love. And now she's gone. I lost one soulmate. I don't want to lose another one."

The hand closest to the door knob pulled back. The tears came again. This time, Marissa could not stop them.

"Don't walk out that door, Marissa." Alan's voice was almost pleading. "Not like this. I guess it would be patronising for me to say that I'll support you but . . . but . . . That call you took at the airport. . . . It was about another job, wasn't it?"

Marissa's heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

"I can't stand the thought of you being with anyone else—"

I can't either.

"—And I can't stand the thought of you not being the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning."

I can't either.

When Alan's hand touched her shoulder, she spun around and tried to look her lover in the eyes. She couldn't see anything her vision was so blurry. Marissa fell into his arms. They kissed hungrily. The tears flowed freely from both of them.

"Tell me you love me, too," he whispered, and for the first time since she met Alan, the voices within her were not struggling for control.

Marissa felt as if a weight were being lifted from her shoulders, and that her soul was suddenly freed from the cage she had built for herself over the past five years. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Marissa had finally found herself. All of her barriers were down.

Waves of suppressed emotion washed over her and she found she liked the feeling. She knew that the man holding her would never hurt her. He would never use her. He would love her as she deserved. As she needed. And she would love him back, without reservation.

"I love you, Alan," she said as her voice broke. The words came so easily now. "I love you. . . IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou . . ."

Where would they go from here? How could she walk away from Laurie? What was she going to do with the rest of her life? Sure, Marissa had some money saved up, but how long would it last? What skills did she have? She needed something other than just being Alan's mistress.

Marissa pushed those nagging questions out of her mind. Alan's embrace promised safety.

And in this moment, that was all that mattered.

***************************

"Hamada-san," Marissa called. "What can we do for you?"

Surveying the kitchen with an aura of imperturbable command, the short Japanese man was the proverbial eye at the center of the storm. He never used more words than he had to, was an excellent chef and had a wry sense of humour about him. Amidst all the mayhem, he was right in his element.

He gave her a slight smile that only barely showed his teeth. He was obviously enjoying himself. He had a slight accent, but spoke very clearly. "Everything is under control."

A little over two years had passed since Alan and Marissa returned from Las Vegas.

Somehow, they made it work.

When they compared notes, they were surprised to find out how much they were worth together. Alan still had some of his inheritance left from his parents's death and had made some smart investments with his book sales and university salary. Marissa had a good chunk of change saved up for the day when she would no longer be a call girl. Most of her money was in several investment accounts that were to have been her retirement. Plus, Alan had a fair amount of equity in his house, and Marissa's was paid off.

That didn't count the thirty-two thousand dollars Marissa had refused to accept from Alan for their first week together (twenty thousand he was paying her for the week, a twenty percent tip, the one thousand he had given her when they first met, the three thousand for the Lasik, and four thousand for the money Marissa saved him on the TGR kitchen equipment deal) and the sixty-five thousand dollars worth of kitchen equipment that was sitting in a warehouse waiting to be delivered.

Alan continued to teach at the university and lacking any other direction, Marissa threw herself into the restaurant. She had a good head for business, but knew nothing about cooking. What she did know was the art of making a deal. She quickly learned how to negotiate with contractors, navigate the health department's bureaucracy, talk to the IRS and all about managing employees in a small business.

First of all, Alan and Marissa incorporated themselves as BAM Food Services, Inc. (Brianne, Alan and Marissa) and then liquidated some of their investment accounts, pouring them into the restaurant. They calculated their start-up costs and took out a couple of low-interest small business loans. Yes, they could have paid cash, but they wanted to have some savings left in case there was an emergency.

They couldn't find a building they liked, so they built a new one, and made it look exactly how they—and Brianne—wanted.

Then they went looking for an executive chef. That's how they landed Hamada Takateru. He was the best Italian chef they could find in the area. Sure it was strange having a Japanese man running the kitchen at an Italian restaurant, but not quite as strange as one of the co-owners being an ex-hooker who looked just like the other co-owner's first wife. They placed their entire kitchen in Hamada-san's capable hands and then built their business around the cuisine.

It took almost two and a half years to get everything finished, from a cold start to opening night.

And then, of course, there was the wedding Alan and Marissa somehow found time to fit in.

There were licenses to apply for, construction to oversee, permits to obtain. Some days were good. Some days were complete cluster-fucks. Yet, somehow, the good days outnumbered the bad and the restaurant opened on a crisp autumn day, using the name Brianne had picked out, "A Taste of Italy."

Marissa didn't want anything to do with the restaurant side of the operation. She was the (self-trained) accountant and handled all the numbers. Alan told her what he wanted or needed. She told him how much he could spend.

They hired the kitchen and service staff a couple of months ago, and the week before they had a dry run for friends and family. It was a disaster. Orders were mixed up. Food was cold. They ran out of meatballs. The soda fountains wouldn't mix the Diet Pepsi syrup with the water and CO₂. One of the gas ovens wouldn't light. Mr. Murphy paid one hell of a visit.

Through it all, Alan and Marissa remained calm and everything got fixed (they hoped).

This was the night of their grand opening. They received a fair amount of buzz in the local press and there was a good crowd in addition to the people who had received special invitations.

Alan was running around nervously, checking on all the little things. Of course, Hamada-san had the kitchen working at 110% capacity, the service manager Anastasia had things under control out front and John-Marc had the bar staff working under his careful supervision.

Marissa made sure to say hi to some of their high-profile clients, like the city councilmen at table 53 and the food critic from the local paper who was just getting seated. She roamed the restaurant, taking pictures of the staff and some of the patrons, especially Alan's friends from the university. Even Laurie came by to see how her former working girl was doing.

After checking in with some of the staff, Marissa retreated back into the office. The opening was out of her hands now. She and Alan had poured their hearts and souls—not to mention a whole lot of money—into this venture over the past two and a half years. They had hired good people. They bought the best equipment. They marketed their business the right way. They had a good menu, fresh ingredients, a healthy wine list and reasonable prices.

Now they just needed people to come.

She took off her jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. She picked up her phone and sent Alan a text message. Then she moved a couple of things around the desk, walked around to the other side and waited.

A few minutes later, he burst through the door. There was a crease in his brow that came only when he was under intense stress. She had an amused smile on her face.

"You worry too much," she chided him gently. "Lock the door."

"What are you doing?" Alan asked abruptly. Since they had met, Alan had only grown more handsome. Their relationship blossomed, strengthened by their mutual commitment and all the time they spent together. "Have you seen—"

Marissa turned, bent over the desk and spread her legs. Her ass stuck out for Alan. She flipped up her skirt to show him that she wasn't wearing any panties.

"Shut up and fuck me."

"We don't have time—"

"We do if you hurry." Marissa looked over her shoulder with an alluring smile.

Alan was torn. He wanted to get back to the restaurant. At the same time, he couldn't pass up his wife. He had never passed up his wife. And he didn't intend on starting now.

With two steps he was behind her. She heard him fumbling with his belt buckle and soon his pants fell to the floor.

One hand was on her ass. She felt the head of Alan's cock rubbing against the slit of her pussy, which was already wet for him.

"What are you waiting for, Alan?" Marissa said with a huff. "Fuck me. Fuck my pussy. We haven't christened the restaurant yet."

That was all he needed.

With one hard and fast push, his cock was buried deep inside her.

Marissa braced herself against the sturdy solid-oak desk. This was one of the reasons she had bought it. And with the pounding Alan gave her, it was worth every penny.

He didn't last long, but she didn't want him to. This was what they called a "fuck and run". They may have been married for close to two years, but the passion never faded.

She still loved it when Alan took her. Sometimes she did it to him, too, but more often than not, it was Alan who would spontaneously strip her down, mount her and get off. Sometimes she would orgasm. Most of the time, she didn't, and that was okay. She loved walking around with Alan's cum inside her. It made her feel as if he was always with her.