Reviving Haven

by CORY CYR

  I was at the party by myself. I enjoyed being surrounded by plenty of women, booze and the occasional party favors. I noticed a woman in green out of the corner of my eye, and she was definitely checking me out. She’s beautiful, but not in the Hollywood way—nothing about her looks was fake. She seemed out of place, though, and a little bit sad. Her clothes were sensible, almost secretarial. My dick actually twitched because she looked like a hot version of a very naughty librarian. In the entire room of silicone, Botox and lipo, she looked like the only real thing of beauty. Her hair, assorted shades of blond, looked like it might be long, but it’s wrapped in one of those bun hairstyles, so it’s difficult to tell. I took a hard look at her. I could tell she’s hiding a nice body under those clothes.

  I was staring intensely and I think my dick was about to jump out of my pants. I caught her eye and tilted my beer to her in recognition. I almost choked as she blushed. I only looked away for a moment, and then she was gone. Since I was hammered, the easiest thing for me to do was to take one or two of these girls up to a bedroom—double the pleasure, double the fun—but I didn’t want easy. I wanted a challenge. I wanted that naughty librarian.

  I walked outside, but I heard her before I found her. Her soft, shallow crying seemed to echo off the mountain backdrop. I followed the sound down to the pool. I knew fucking was out of the question. Not only had she been drinking, but also someone had hurt her badly—enough to make her cry. I wasn’t a saint, but even I wasn’t that big of a jerk that I would have taken advantage of the situation. Of course, I had a raging hard-on and she was sexy as hell, but even I had no explanation for what I did.

  Typically, men love going down on women. Rule of nature—I had a particularly bad first experience when I was fifteen and swore never to repeat it. The women I had fucked never really complained about my issues. As I’ve said before, there was always one thing at which people excelled, and my one thing had always been fucking. Now, I didn’t know if it was the three scotches, two beers and assorted party favors, but I had this sudden urge to taste this librarian. My mouth began to water at the thought of my tongue in her. I couldn’t think about anything else. I just knew that tasting her would be a religious experience. As I approached her, I saw that I was right about one thing—she was slightly drunk. And even though I was horny as hell, I never found pleasure in taking a woman if she wasn’t receptive.

  Well, wasn’t I pleasantly surprised?

  She appeared pensive at first, but then she relinquished herself to me. To be honest, she seemed to be out of her element, which was okay with me, since this wasn’t something I ever thought I’d do again, until her.

  I was lucky my naughty little librarian was just ripe for the picking. Very responsive to everything I offered. I swore I saw God. I had never tasted anything so sweet. I couldn’t get enough. Did all women taste like this, or was it just her? She felt inexperienced and uptight. I hadn’t considered myself an expert on going down on women—not my forte—but when I made her come, she came hard. I was sure that some of my hair follicles were M.I.A.

  I knew I could be charming and cocky. I also knew I could be a complete asshole. As I finished feasting on her, I felt the asshole part of me rise up. And in his true form, he wanted . . . no, expected this woman to give him head. I wanted to come so badly, and all I thought about was her lips wrapped around my dick. My self-control had snapped, but she put me in my place, effectively deflating my hard-on—the hot librarian chick threw up and passed out. So much for a blowjob. Normally, I’d have just walked away, my inner asshole taking the lead, but I wasn’t going to leave her unconscious on a fucking chair.

  I ended up rifling through her purse, found her driver’s license with her address, and then took her home. I almost left my business card on her kitchen bar, but I was worried that she would really freak out. No names—that’s what we had said. However, it didn’t stop me from writing down her information from her driver’s license. I had to admit, I was actually shocked to find out that she’s twelve years older. She looked amazing for a thirty-seven year-old. I never dated older women.

  Wait . . . I’m not going to date her. I don’t date.

  I think about her the entire weekend. I should have fucked her, because now it’s the only thing on my mind. I have all her info and I am Latch McKay. I always get what I want—always. And right now, what I want is Haven Wells.

  Chapter Five

  Haven

  After leaving the orchestrated book cover shoot, I sit in my car debating if I should just go home or go back to my store. I’m annoyed, so I call Denise and tell her I’m calling it a day and going home. I drive to the condo feeling confused and frustrated. It is still incredibly hard to believe that someone I had just met, regardless of the sexual circumstances, had concocted an elaborate scheme just to see me again. I don’t know if I should be impressed or afraid.

  I am appalled that Mr. McKay is only twenty-five years old. How did I not know he was younger? Maybe because he had his face buried in my crotch the entire time I was with him at the party, and it was dark . . . and I was impaired. Oh, so many excuses I have. I had never even contemplated a younger man. I hadn’t planned on any man, let alone some arrogant twenty-five year-old. There’s no denying that he had brought some feelings to the surface I never knew existed, but that could have happened with any man. Maybe it was time, and seven years has been long enough to go without any physical contact.

  Latch is gorgeous. I know I’m being shallow, but his eyes could bring me to my knees. He has some kind of power over me, but it feels different from the power Jared had held.

  About fifteen minutes later, I pull up into the drive. It feels good to be home, and as luck would have it, Weezie’s car is gone. I dislike not confiding in her, but she would have a drama field day with the events of “that” night and what had just happened. And to top it off, she would be furious with me for not telling her right away. Weezie hates secrets. We tell each other everything. I have known her for almost twenty years. We met in college as roommates. Those were our party years. We were inseparable for the most part, except when Weezie had her nights with the boys, which involved six days out of the week. I have to admire her—the girl had stamina. Even now, she can hold her own every night.

  She held me up and listened to me cry when Jared and I broke up—even though she had clearly loathed him, she never tried to sway me away from him. I was with her through her parents’ deaths. We had shared years of drama, mostly mine, life and memories. I can’t even justify it to myself why I hadn’t told her any of this. Well, Latch is out of my life now. I can pretend that night never happened, which gives me full permission to keep silent instead of spilling my guts.

  I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and kick off my heels. In my bare feet, I leisurely stroll to my bedroom. On second thought . . . I put down my water on my nightstand and head for my home office. I grab my laptop and head back to my bedroom. Closing the door, I sit on my bed and turn the laptop on. I take small sips of water while the laptop hums to life. I have decided—rather, I feel compelled—to google Latch McKay. I don’t have any idea what to expect, but maybe there will be some drool worthy pictures. Seriously, that man has now turned me into a voyeur.

  I type in his name and press enter. Damn! Page after page comes up. I choose to check him out on Wikipedia. Lachlan Latch McKay was born in Scotland, so he isn’t British. Who can tell those accents apart anyway? After his father died, he and his mother moved to America when he was ten. I check out his birth date. Much to my chagrin, he really is twenty-five years old. I had hoped that wasn’t true. He’s six feet four inches, an inch taller than I thought, has hazel green eyes and his marital status is single. He is an award winning video game designer who has created a gaming empire and accumulated a fortune. Half of what is written is so technical that I have no clue what it means. What I do understand is that Latch McKay has brains to back up his beauty.

  He has been arrested two times—
once for battery, and the other for being a public nuisance. Uh huh, I can believe that. It appears Mr. McKay can be a very bad boy. Some of the pages talk about his womanizing; he’s a player, a major player. No mention of girlfriends, just lots of women. Latch McKay is exactly what they quoted him as—a manwhore.

  I decide to click on the images page of him. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of photographs of him, many with beautiful young women. There are also photos of him at different events. Ah, and there it is… photos of Latch McKay and his best friend, Keenan Stone. Many of these photos look like they have been taken recently, but some are clearly of him in his teens. He has been womanizing for many years. Why not? He is young, rich, has killer looks and oral skills that should be documented in the Kama Sutra.

  I stare at his photographs, clicking and then enlarging them. Everything about him screams devastating and sexual. Dark, sensual eyelashes and curved brows frame his eyes; in some photographs, his eyes appear blue, but in others they look almost iridescent. The curve of his jaw line outlines his enticing mouth that I never even got to touch or taste. I find myself tracing his outline on my monitor.

  I feel a yearning deep inside of me. I wish I had kissed him. I need to know how his lips would feel against mine. How does he kiss . . . are his lips warm and supple? Would his tongue tease the corners of my mouth then delve in, exploring, caressing, and consuming every inch? What does his body feel like? I want to run my fingertips down his chest, tracing every muscle, every indentation. Brushing ever so slightly across his “V” where a very dark dusting of hair would direct me to what I imagine is as breathtaking as the rest of him. My body betrays me once again, as a rush of heat floods to my lower half. What the hell am I doing? What am I thinking? I can’t go there; he’s too young. Latch McKay is a walking advertisement for heartbreak and STD’s.

  The front door slams and I hear Weezie’s footsteps coming down the hall towards my room. I quickly close my laptop. I hope I can hide the fact that my cheeks are flushed and I feel warm.

  “What’s happening, chica?” she asks coming into my room.

  “Oh not much, just got home from some wild book cover shoot thing. It was strange—don’t ask. It’s been a bizarre day.” I pick up my water and take a sip.

  “So . . . was it exciting?” She flops down on the bed.

  “No, not really the word I’d use to describe it. Let’s just say that it was interesting,” I reply, looking anywhere but at her.

  “Just models, make-up people, etcetera . . . nothing to write home about.” If she only knew I was being stalked by Latch McKay, wonder boy of video games and Mr. Sex-on-a-stick.

  “Sounds rough,” Weezie laughs, rolling her eyes.

  “You have NO idea,” I respond. I’m holding onto my laptop for dear life, not sure where this conversation will lead. I don’t like keeping secrets, but I know Weezie, and this is something she would want me to pursue.

  “Any hot half-naked guys there?” Weezie asks with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, one of the models was the guy that did all those romance covers a few years back, Keenan something,” I mention dismissively.

  “No shit.” Weezie jumps up. “Keenan fucking Stone?” She is almost screaming and her eyes look crazed.

  “Yeah, that guy. Know him?” I ask, pretending to be oblivious while looking at my nails that need a manicure badly.

  “No, I don’t know him personally, but I would love to. What woman wouldn’t want to know him—and do him? I can’t believe you met Keenan Stone and you’re acting like he was just some random dude, no big deal . . . la la la.” She is almost breathless.

  “You know I don’t read those rag magazines.” I’m trying to defend my lack of star knowledge. I’d never even heard of Latch McKay until a few hours ago.

  “Haven, he’s not that kind of a model anymore. Keenan Stone does huge runway shows and big print ad campaigns. I mean, he’s in Vogue. Tell me again, why are we BFF’s? Because my best gal pal would so know THAT! So he’s hot, right? It’s not just air brushing . . . how big is his co—?”

  I hold my hand up to cut off her dirty inquisition. “Weeze, for God’s sake, do you think I was there to measure his goods? Gee, you have that on your mind every five minutes. Statistically, I’m thinking you think about that as often as men do.” I chuckle at the expression on her face.

  Weezie looks at me, frowning. And there it is—the pouty face.

  “Come on BFF, just give me some . . . details . . . please . . .” She appears to be begging. I almost laugh, but that would piss her off. I basically owe her, considering I am not revealing certain things.

  “Yes, he’s hot. Yes, he’s a blond Greek god. And yes, he appears to have a HUGE—I open my arms wide—package. Happy?” I roll my eyes and snort.

  “Ecstatic,” Weezie proclaims, beaming.

  “Did you take pictures?” she asks, hopeful for a visual. I glare at her. She is giving me a headache.

  “No, I didn’t take pictures. Weeze, it wasn’t a porno shoot.” I huff.

  She starts laughing. “I know, just asking. I can get all the pictures I want on the web, even nude ones anyway,” she announces proudly.

  “I’m kind of surprised he’s doing a book cover. I didn’t think he did covers anymore, not since he got signed up with that huge French modeling agency.”

  In my mind, I’m thinking: Okay, so that’s why Mr. Stone was not very happy. Obviously, he and Latch are truly the best of friends and he was pushed to do the shoot. Maybe that’s what he meant by coercion.

  “I just can’t believe you didn’t know who he was,” Weezie says, still shaking her head in amazement.

  “To be honest, he did look vaguely familiar, and I finally did recognize him from his book covers. But you know me; blonds have never been my thing.”

  “Well, I’m an equal opportunity kind of gal—I give equal opportunity to any and all men. Well, except for Thomas . . . never going to hit that again.” She starts moving towards the door.

  “God, Weezie, you sound like a guy—‘never going to hit that again.’ What’s next the word, ‘Bone’?”

  Weezie laughs and shakes her head. “Haven, you’re just too tightly wound. We need to get you laid, or at least shaken and stirred,” she says and grins.

  My face blushes deeply. I already feel like I’ve been shaken to my core and extremely stirred . . . damn that Latch McKay.

  *****

  I decide to make dinner for Weezie and myself. It’s still pleasant outdoors, even with the sun just now beginning to set. I fire up my grill on the back veranda and put a meatless burger on the rack with wrapped veggies in foil. I let Weezie know it’s time for her to cook her chicken.

  “Tell me again why I have to use my own grill instead of just making my life easier by tossing my chicken on your grill?” she complains, dragging her portable grill outside and plugging it in.

  “I do not want your disgusting flesh on my grill,” I reply calmly, tossing some salad greens.

  “Okay, whatever, Mother Nature.” Weezie laughs.

  I put the fresh greens in a bowl with some red beans, red onions, cherry tomatoes and radishes. I wipe my hands on a towel and snap Weezie with it.

  “Ouch, that stings . . . wench,” she squeals.

  “Let’s eat.” I grab the salad bowl and some dressing and head outside. Weezie follows me with beverages. We sit at the table and eat in silence. I have quite a bit churning in my brain.

  “Are you sure nothing is bothering you, Haven?” Weezie asks. “I mean seriously, I can’t put my finger on it, but you’re kind of off—call it my sixth sense.” She spears a piece of chicken with her fork and pops it into her mouth.

  “You’re seeing dead people now?” I ask jokingly while looking at her. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m just tired. And what do you mean ‘off’?” I question.

  I know exactly what she means because I have been feeling it too. I should just tell her, but I’m somewhat embarrassed. What had I been thinking, let
ting a strange man go down there? Now, she would be actually thrilled for me, until she found out it was Latch McKay, young genius of computer games and womanizing manwhore of Google fame. That would have Weezie salivating. Knowing her and the circle she works in, she already knows all about Latch McKay. She reads that grocery store trash and looks at all that internet gossip. And judging from what was posted on the internet, that man has done some serious partying and conquesting—God, is that even a word? Weezie would have a field day if she knew Latch McKay was the one who ravished me. Oh God— I need to stop reading romance novels. Ravish? Where did that come from? Ugh!

  I had made it clear to Latch at the book shoot that seeing him was out of the question, not to mention I was still pretty pissed about the whole purse thing. Even though I know Latch McKay is a bad idea, in my mind, I’m fantasizing on coming up with several different scenarios where I can be with him sexually under the radar as friends with benefits. Why am I even entertaining these thoughts? I suppose this is more of a daydream or wish than something that might actually happen. A girl can dream, can’t she? He’s twenty-five. I’m thirty-seven, on the cusp of forty. Judging from what I had read on the internet, Latch McKay certainly isn’t the relationship type, and that could work in my favor. He obviously is interested since he went through so much trouble just to get me in a room with him. I did say no to him, but it’s probably a word he’s not used to hearing . . . from women, at least.

  I still can’t fathom the reason why this man wants me. Why didn’t he just come into the bookstore? Wait . . . that would have been humiliating as hell, him showing up at my business. My customers and Denise know me to be proper, poised, educated, quiet and reserved. That wasn’t me the other night, drinking and spreading my legs for a complete stranger.