Reviving Haven

by CORY CYR

  I almost choke on my laugh. Seriously, if anyone has issues with oral sex, it’s me, not Latch. He appears to be one who relishes his oral skills. He is extremely talented in that venue, a complete master. The man should get a MVP for most valuable penetration, with a tongue no less. I smile sweetly. For a moment, and only a moment, I wish Weezie were here. She has a bitch streak in her that can rival Satan. She could tear this Barbie down to her plastic shell. Just this once, I want to channel that bitchiness.

  I start to open the door, but at the last moment, I let it swing back closed and turn toward Krystella. “It appears, Krystella, maybe Latch’s palate desires a better cuisine, and he just wasn’t hungry for fast food. He seemed more than willing to devour me, and trust me, I have no complaints.” I turn, swing the door open and walk out. I hear glass breaking as the door closes. I silently feel accomplished.

  I decide not to tell Latch about my confrontation with Krystella. I’m concerned it might make him angry again and I don’t want that to spoil the rest of our evening.

  When I return to Latch, I slip on my jacket and he takes my arm, then we go to get his coat. We meet his driver at the front of the restaurant. Latch opens the limo door for me and offers his hand to help me in.

  “I want you to come to my house. It’s only ten minutes away,” he says, as he lowers himself into the backseat and slides beside me.

  In my mind, I’m torn. What will his expectation be if I go home with him? How many women have been where I am tonight? Is this his normal routine? I have to keep admonishing myself mentally. Latch is not a boyfriend; this is an affair, nothing else. This is supposed to be us having fun, no strings. Why does this feel hazardous to my heart? I have to convince my body and my brain that my heart needs to be kept out of the equation. Maybe I should just go home and call it a night. Maybe all of this is happening too fast and I need to slow it down.

  “I should probably just go home. Going to your house is not a good idea.” I try to sound convincing to Latch and myself.

  Latch moves so close to me that he’s practically in my lap. He puts his arm around me, pulls my head onto his chest and cradles me. God, he smells good. He’s warm and I can feel his pulse. All I can think of is his bare chest rubbing against me, his hands touching my breasts, his fingers tweaking my nipples, his tongue licking every inch of me from head to toe . . . oh hell! He pushes us apart so he can look at me. Oh Jesus, not the eyes. If I look into those eyes, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

  “Just one drink, I swear—Boy Scout’s honor.” He holds up his hand and separates his fingers into a “v” shape while his thumb shoots out to its side.

  I arch my eyebrow clear up to my forehead. “Right, just one drink, you’ve never been a Boy Scout, Latch. You do know that what you just flashed was the Vulcan salute from Star Trek?” I snort, rolling my eyes.

  Latch tips his head back and lets out a belly laugh.

  “All right, one drink, I promise. And okay, I lied about being a Boy Scout, but you are so my kind of woman! You know the Vulcan hand sign—that’s so fucking hot!” He beams like a little boy.

  “You haven’t met my roommate yet. Star Trek fan from hell,” I laugh, realizing that this is going to actually happen.

  I’m actually going home with him. I honestly wish I hadn’t googled Latch. I don’t want to think about his womanizing exploits. The internet portrayed him like a manwhore. I almost feel like I should cut him some slack. It’s not really my place to judge him. I’m here because he excites me and we have chemistry. He’s the full package—every average man’s worst nightmare, every woman’s wet dream. The limo finally stops and Latch opens the door, not wanting to wait for his driver, then helps me out of the limo.

  The view absolutely leaves me breathless.

  Chapter Twelve

  My jaw drops several inches as I blink a few times in disbelief at the sight before me. Latch’s home is stunning, sitting at the top of gray stone stairs that are just a few feet from the ocean. The house is so large and decadent it almost looks like a luxury hotel. Weezie’s condominium is over 2800 square feet, but this appears at least three times that size. A three or four car garage sits underneath it. There is a huge wraparound porch and I can see a couple of balconies. The front of his home is tastefully landscaped; it’s lush with exotic plants and trees, as well as different colored rock. Whoever decorated the front area of Latch’s home did an amazing job, since the steps lead directly to the sand. Built-in lights switch on as soon as our feet hit the first step. Latch must have everything set up with sensors because the house automatically lights up inside as well. Windows adorn every side of his home, as if providing only the most fortunate a glimpse into a well-kept secret.

  I scan up and down the beach, but I don’t see other structures. Every photo I’ve seen of Malibu Beach homes has shown them to be expensive and beautiful, but neighbors were always within close proximity. Weezie and I had often discussed that very issue—if people were going to drop a couple million on a house, why would they want to live so close to their neighbors?

  “Just curious, but don’t you have any neighbors?” I inquire.

  Latch smiles as he walks me up the stairs, pressing his hand into my back.

  “I wanted it to be private. I fell in love with this location, designed the house, had it built, and then bought the beach,” he replies nonchalantly.

  I stop in mid-stride before we reach the top step. “You bought the entire beach?” I ask, shocked.

  He shakes his head, chuckling. “No, not the entire beach, just a mile, and the neighbors I do have are personal friends of mine.”

  We stop at the top of the stairs. He removes what appears to be a remote from his coat jacket and punches in a code. I can’t get over the amount of wealth he must have. It takes a lot of money to purchase a one-mile strip of Malibu Beach property. It baffles my mind.

  He grabs my hand and unlocks the massive front door. As we enter, Latch removes his tie and tosses it onto a chair. I look around in awe at my surroundings, absorbing every detail in the room.

  “Must be nice having an ocean front view and hand-picked neighbors,” I say as my eyes dart back and forth.

  His house reminds me of his office, classic and stylish, but comfortable too. The inside of his home reflects understated wealth. It isn't pretentious or overdone, but simple with a touch of elegance and class. The floors are made of dark stained wood. The furnishings are decorated in the same jade green he had in his office: large, overstuffed sofas with matching chairs, vintage looking pieces for end tables, and a coffee table.

  On the walls are photographs of people who look like they’re his friends, as well as a few celebrities I recognize. One wall is completely devoted to Scotland, his birthplace, with the McKay coat of arms, pictures of beautiful landscapes, and other memorabilia that reflect his heritage. On the very far side of the room, posters of Latch’s video games are mounted and framed. Along the bottom of the posters are shelves holding plaques, trophies and other awards that must be for his games. I pick up one of the trophies; it’s heavy and I think it might be made of actual gold. I read the little plaque attached to the base: Best Video Game 2012 Blood Vestige. I chuckle. That’s my date, all pretty and filled with blood vestige.

  Among the classic and vintage furnishings, there are a few modern items thrown in. The largest flat screen television I have ever seen, except at the IMAX Theater, is mounted on the wall, connected to a sound system that could no doubt rival any live concert hall, and several stick shift devices are sitting on a table in front of the flat screen. Off to the side, there are several smaller television monitors built into the walls with hundreds of video games on shelves below them.

  “Make yourself at home. I’ll go and get us some drinks.” He casually toes off his shoes as he heads toward the kitchen.

  In my mind, I’m thinking what’s next? Umm . . . he did mention stripping . . .

  I can see him in the kitchen from where I sit
. He’s un-tucked his dress shirt and looks very sexy with it loose, all casual like that in his bare feet. I smack my lips together, biting back the urge to stroll into the kitchen and ravish him right next to the Frigidaire. My mind is running rampant with ideas and I feel both exhilarated and scared. I only had two glasses of wine at dinner, so alcohol is not to blame for my thoughts.

  As I watch him out of the corner of my eye, I start to recall all of our encounters. I squeeze my legs together as moisture pools between them. My nipples become taut as they press against my dress and my breasts feel heavy with need. My skin feels flush and I’m working my way into a frenzied state.

  “No tequila, please,” I announce rather loudly, hoping to snap myself out of this self-induced erotic dream. Latch snickers.

  “Perhaps a glass of red wine?”

  “Red would be fine, but just a small glass,” I reply, smoothing my hair down with my hand.

  I stand up, wringing my hands with indecision. No matter how perplexed I am, the one thing I do know is I want this man. My feeble attempt at seduction will probably go smoother if I’m slightly intoxicated.

  What the hell is taking so long? Where is my glass of wine? Is he stomping the grapes? I move toward the kitchen. It’s big, rustic looking, and brightly lit like the rest of the house. Numerous windows line the walls. Copper pots and pans hang from a ceiling rack over a center island filled with spice racks and fruit bowls. The kitchen has every modern appliance on the market. Latch looks content in this room, but he appears to be lost in thought.

  “Do you cook?” I ask, leaning into the doorjamb.

  He looks up at me as he answers, “I love to cook. Surprised?” He turns toward me and hands me a glass of wine.

  “Yes, kind of, since you don’t strike me as the domestic type,” I reply, taking a huge sip of my wine and hoping it will inspire me.

  I look around the kitchen. “You appear to have a fixation for windows,” I comment, taking another generous sip of my wine.

  “I love light, but I also enjoy privacy. I had these windows made special order. You can see out, but no one can see in.” He watches me carefully as he speaks, and the heat and desire in his eyes are obvious.

  What is he trying to hide from the outside world?

  “Really,” I stare back at his hungry, smoldering, and dangerous take-me-on-the-table-right-now eyes.

  I take a third sip and finish off the wine, handing the empty glass back to him.

  “Another?” he asks, uncertain, his eyes watching every move I make.

  “Yes, please,” I answer firmly, watching him as he refills my wine glass.

  I’m beginning to feel the warmth of the wine travel from my face to my torso. I feel uninhibited, sexy.

  “You know, I can fix you a snack to go with that wine.” Latch’s voice has a slightly nervous edge to it. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll throw up and pass out again.

  I watch him take a sip of his wine. His green-blue eyes narrow, his ebony lashes intensifying his look, and his tousled dark hair curls as it licks the collar of his open shirt. High cheekbones and a strong jaw line complete his exotic visage. I watch him as those lusciously curved thick lips tease the rim of his wine glass. His tongue catches a small droplet of wine that he missed in the corner of his mouth. My body isn’t aching for him, it’s screaming. My brain begs him to touch me. I snap and move to close the distance between us. All of my conflicting thoughts are being erased by my burning need for him, for this man.

  I set my wine glass down. Latch looks at me with curiosity and a bit of surprise. I’m sure he isn’t expecting what I’m about to do. He has been the pursuer, but not anymore. Latch already has the top two buttons undone on his shirt, so I begin with the third. Very slowly, I undo it. My hands are shaking as I move to the fourth and the fifth. By the time I get to the sixth and final button, I’m ready for him to lay me out on the kitchen island.

  With the last button undone, I open up his shirt and slide it off his shoulders. My eyes focus on him as I attempt to adjust visually to the absolutely perfect chest, broad shoulders and firm biceps I’ve ever seen. He’s a celebration for my eyes, and my breath quickens as my pulse begins to race. Latch doesn’t move; he stands as still as a statue, watching me as I pull his shirt off the rest of the way. When I press my hands to his chest, I feel warm, bare, and smooth skin covering the packed, tight muscles underneath. Perfection. I rub my hands along his skin and he lets out a hiss. He leans his head back and closes his eyes as he presses his lips together tightly.

  A large tattoo stretches across his left arm and I run my fingertips over it lightly, it’s the same family crest that he has on his wall. Another tattoo of a thick cross, wrapped in black and blue colors, decorates his right bicep. I wonder if he has anymore. Will I find them if I continue my exploration?

  His skin is sleek and tan like smoked glass. I flick my fingertip across his nipple, watching it become erect with my touch, and the way he sucks in his breath fuels my fiery arousal. My hand drifts down his chest to his abdomen. This man is magnificently chiseled, and his defined abs are undoubtedly the result of good genes coupled with working out at the gym. Right below them, his narrow hips lead to a perfectly indented “V” with a sprinkling of dark hair vanishing into his waistband.

  I feel a shift in my entire being; this man has awakened something inside of me, something primal, an animalistic need. I’ve waited my entire life for this moment. I hardly recognize myself. My skin feels enflamed and my sex aches. All I can think about is being with Latch—right now, right here.

  I’m shocked to hear a whimper escape my lips, but I’ve never been as ready as I am now and I reach for his zipper. He leans into me, grabbing both of my hands. I’m so disappointed with his quick reflex move, and I look up into his face, hoping he will sense my displeasure. He looks back at me with a smirk of amusement, and, of course, I pout. He pulls me back into him and snakes his hand around to the back of my dress, gently pulling the zipper down. I probably would have been hesitant about him taking off my dress, but after a few glasses of wine, combined with lust, all thoughts of being shy go out the window.

  “I do need to explain a few things to you,” he says in a low voice.

  What . . . really? My zipper is already all the way down and he’s trying to relieve me of my dress.

  “No conversation, not now,” I reply in a voice I hardly recognize as my own.

  My sex is swollen and slick and I feel my inner walls contracting with the desperate need to be filled. I swear I will combust if I don’t have him inside me in the next thirty seconds. I have never really been a sexual person, but right now, at this moment, after a lifetime of inadequate couplings, I’m actually ready to find out what all the brouhaha is about concerning hot sex.

  Latch tugs my dress off my shoulders and it falls, pooling around my feet. He groans when I step out of my dress and stand before him in nothing but my black demi bra, black panties, and my Dolce and Gabbana shoes. I lift my eyes to meet his.

  “You are so fucking stunning.”

  He glides his hand over the swell of my breasts, and my eyes flutter close at his reverent touch. I have never been called stunning, especially without clothes on. I have too many curves— ones that make me feel self-conscious because I know I’m not a thin woman. I hope the corner of the island will block some of my body from his view.

  “You don’t have to hide from me, leannán,” he whispers as his hand caresses me from my breasts to my stomach. My cheeks heat as I look toward the ground.

  “So incredibly soft and lush, you seriously take my breath away, Haven.”

  His hand goes to the back of my hair where he pulls out the clasp that holds it in place. My hair tumbles down my back, and I shiver a little as it whispers across my sensitized skin. I watch him blink several times. His lips move, but no sound comes out.

  “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to do that,” his voice croaks.

  He gently grips my neck, pulling me into
him for a kiss. It’s definitely not like our first one—this kiss is frantic. Our tongues collide in intense urgency. His breathing quickens as he sags into me, and I can feel his arousal, hard and strained, pressing insistently against my stomach. He breaks the kiss, panting, staring.

  “Tell me it’s okay to fuck you this time. I promise all of the other times will be slower— more romantic,” he says, his raspy breaths betraying his tenuous control on himself. He rakes a hand through his hair, making it look wild in its disarray. “Enough with the foreplay, I need to be inside of you right fucking now or I’m going to explode. Just tell me it’s all right. . .” His voice cracks with need.

  “Yes, please . . . wait . . . I mean, wait . . . oh, God . . .” I’m breathless in my trepidation.

  For a brief moment, Latch’s expression drops. He almost looks defeated. He backs up a little, giving me some space, but his eyes never leave my face.

  “It’s not what you think. I want you too. I just need you to know that it’s, umm . . . been a while, well, since . . . what the hell . . . never mind. I’m being stupid—forget it.” My cheeks flush with embarrassment and the ever present rush of heat when I’m around this man.

  “Leannán, look at me.” He moves into me again. His fingertips tilt my chin upward so we’re eye to eye. “If it’s important to you, then tell me, because I want to know.” His voice sounds unsettled.

  I don’t want to spoil this moment with my personal imperfections. God, I feel very inexperienced. What must he be thinking?

  Latch stands back, unzipping his pants and stepping out of them. He goes through the pockets before tossing them aside. He stands there in nothing but God made perfection and a pair of snug, gray briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. His briefs are tented with his unmistakable arousal, and there’s even a damp spot that tells me we are both suffering right now. I had seen snippets of Latch from the office encounter, but this is different; I’m able to drink in and entirely absorb Latch from his six foot four frame all the way down to his bare feet. He’s a work of art; Michelangelo couldn’t have created anything more perfect than him.