Reviving Haven (7 page)

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.

My body feels warm. No matter how ashamed I feel about being with Latch, the fact is it was simply the greatest night of my life. He had released something in me I had never known existed. I liked the way it felt. No matter what my brain is telling me right now, I’m attracted to Latch McKay. But no matter what my body is dictating, logic has to be followed here. He is too young, a huge womanizer, and he obviously has too much time on his hands. His life appears to be very public. It would be hard to have a secret fling or sneak around. I mean, would I end up on Google?

I push my plate away, suddenly losing my appetite. I may be older, but am I desperate too? The truth is there are men who come into the bookstore and show interest in me. Having nice legs and big breasts that are actually real, regardless of age, goes a long way, but that will never be enough. I’m too inhibited, too inexperienced, and too broken to fathom having any kind of liaison with anyone. Jared’s words still hold me captive.

Even at twenty-five, Latch is years ahead of me sexually. I wonder if he knew that he gave me my first true orgasm. I rub my forehead, closing my eyes. If only he were older. But if he were my age, then he’d want a younger woman. That’s the way it works. I’ll most likely end up with someone who is eighty. Crap! My eyes snap open. Weezie is watching me with a very confused look on her face.

“Okay, Haven, what the hell is going on? You’ve been acting, well . . . stranger than usual the last three days. I’ve known you forever and I can tell when you’re not right. Something is bugging you. Remember, BFF right here. Spill,” Weezie demands as she tosses her napkin on top of her empty plate.

I grab my half-full plate of food. “Are you finished?” I ask Weezie.

“Yeah, I suppose,” she replies, nodding her head in disappointment.

I take her empty plate, laying it on top of mine. Then I walk into the kitchen to rinse them off and toss them into the dishwasher. I poke my head outside to see Weezie lighting up one of her clove cigarettes.

“Going to bed,” I tell her. This entire day has exhausted me.

“Wait a minute. Talk to me . . . please.” Her voice is full of genuine concern.

“I’m just exhausted with the store and stuff. It’ll pass.” I wrinkle my nose and wave my hand in front of it. “You know I hate the smoking thing.” I cross my arms and frown at her.

“It calms my nerves,” Weezie replies, which is the excuse she has used for almost twenty years. I’d like to know why her nerves are so damned frayed. If anyone should be smoking to calm down nerves, it should be me—chain-smoking cartons of those disgusting things.

I walk to my room, get undressed, wash my face and brush my teeth. I put on a pair of boy shorts and a tank top and then crawl into my bed. It feels wonderful, comforting and safe to stretch out. A yawn escapes me. Even though I’m tired, I know I’m too wound up to sleep. All I can think about is Latch McKay; everything about him screams sex. I reach over into my nightstand, pulling Earl out of his box and turning on the switch. I hear the familiar buzzing of future comfort, but then I realize how futile it is to get off with a toy when I’ve touched heaven with the real thing. I frown, turning it off and tossing it back into the drawer. Latch had tasted me and ignited every fiber in my body. I close my eyes, knowing the only relief I will get tonight will be in my dreams.

The rest of my week is occupied with plenty of customers and lots of new inventory. On Friday, I walk into my bookstore after finishing lunch and I’m bombarded with flower arrangements filling every vacant spot.

“Who died?” I question as I look at Denise.

“There’s more in your office,” she replies, looking up from her book. “Five delivery guys came in and dropped them all off. I think I was too shocked to ask who sent them,” she says with an inquisitive look as she puts her book down.

The flowers are beautiful. There are at least twelve large arrangements—eight in the store and four in my office. What the hell . . . who would send all these flowers? I don’t even recognize half of them, and there's no card anywhere. My bookstore looks like a mortuary now. There are white orchids, roses, calla lilies . . . and those are the flowers I know. I have to admit that the store does smell nice.

My phone beeps, letting me know I have a text message. I flip open my phone.

Unknown:  Get the Flowers?

Me:  Who is this?

Unknown:  1 week anniversary, 7 days ago since I first tasted you sweetheart

An amused smile curves my lips. Even his text message makes me feel hot. At least I can’t hear his seductive voice. I snap my phone closed, as if doing so would rid me of Mr. McKay.

I stand in my office admiring Latch’s choice of floral arrangements. I’m sure he’s had plenty of practice buying flowers for all the broken-hearted women he’s left by the wayside. I laugh to myself. I have never gotten flowers before. Well, Weezie had bought me some on my birthday one year, but never from a man and certainly not twelve arrangements. I could take a few home with me, but how would I explain them to Weezie? I can’t keep all of them here at my small store.

There’s a soft knock at my door and Denise pokes her head in.

“I just want to remind you of the two o’clock with Jeffrey,” she says, appearing spellbound by the flowers.

“Thanks, Denise,” I reply thankfully as I adjust my glasses while sitting at my desk. I had almost forgotten. Jeffrey is one of my best customers, and he buys rare books, so it’s always a good sale.

“Good God!” Denise sounds astonished.

“What is it?” I stand up from behind my desk. Denise walks farther into my office, her eyes big as saucers. She walks over to one of the floral arrangements and delicately begins to stroke one of the petals. Her eyes are mixed with amazement and disbelief.

“Do you know what this is?” she asks hesitantly.

“I have no idea. Some of these flowers I’ve never seen before,” I reply honestly. I set my glasses down on my desk and walk over to her.

“It’s a
Saffron Crocus
. It’s very rare and expensive. Someone really likes you—a lot,” she says with a twinge of jealousy.

At this point, I’m not sure if I should be impressed that Mr. McKay sent me rare flowers, or that my employee actually knows what some of them are.

She looks at me smiling. “I studied Botany in college. I love flowers, trees and plants, and I always wanted to be a botanist, but I ended up in a bookstore. There wasn’t much of a demand for botanists in Los Angeles. Who knew?” Denise grins, but her tone holds a hint of regret.

“Just out of curiosity, any idea what these flowers cost?” I ask her.

“Maybe fifty dollars,” she remarks.
That isn’t so much,
I think to myself, but then she adds, “A stem.”

Fifty dollars a flower? There has to be over twenty-five flowers in just this one arrangement. It occurs to me that there has to be close to five thousand dollars in flowers here. The man is insane! What I first thought was very nice now kind of feels like stalking. Is he trying to impress me, or freak me out? I have to admit, I feel like he’s doing a little of both.

“Denise, do me a favor; call the rest home up the street and ask them to pick up all these arrangements. I’m sure their residents would appreciate their beauty and the gesture. Except this one,” I motion to the one she’s drooling over. “I want you to have it.”

Denise moves forward, and for a moment, I think she might hug me.

“Really, you’re sure?” Her face lights up like its Christmas.

I hand her the arrangement and watch her ever so gingerly take it out of my office. I can hear her humming. I watch her for a few minutes as she tests out different locations on the front counter for the arrangement. I chuckle as I close my door. Latch McKay has made someone very happy.

My cell rings five minutes later. I flip it open and see that it’s an unknown caller.

“Haven Wells speaking.”

“Ms. Wells, do you like my flowers?” A deep and deliciously sensual, accented voice asks.

My breasts grow heavy while sweet warmth flows into my sex. Instant arousal . . . just from the
sound of his voice. Why does this man have such a profound effect on me?

“Why, yes, Mr. McKay, and I’m sure the nursing facility up the s
treet will enjoy them immensely,” I reply, wishing he could see the smirk on my face.

He chuckles. Cocky jerk.

“You honestly think discarding my flowers will rid you of me?”

I pretend to yawn, hoping he can hear it.

“Can’t you just go away, take the hint? I told you, you and I are NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN! I realize you’re not used to rejection, but it is what it is.” I try to make my voice sound commanding and firm. But inside, my body is mush, and my legs are quivering like jello.

“Oh, Haven, you and I have already happened. I knew the minute—no, the second—I tasted you that I wanted you, and I am going to have you. And I always get what I want.” He sounds so arrogant, and so self-assured. It pisses me off.

It’s my turn to laugh. Somehow, I find myself feeling rather defiant.

“Oh, really, Mr. McKay, I don’t date younger men. Period. There is nothing you can say or do to change that. You can’t woo me with flowers, your money or even your charm, such as it is. I simply am not interested,” I reply firmly.

“Ms. Wells, according to what I know about you, you don’t date anyone. Period. And frankly, I’m fairly sure I challenged your entire thought process the moment I made you come.” His voice taunts me, ensnaring me in his seductive web yet again.

My breath catches. I suddenly feel disoriented, probably because my entire body feels like it’s on fire. Damn this man.

His voice suddenly drops low and whisper quiet. It’s as if I’m compelled to listen, frozen in this space and time.

“I want you, Haven. I want to lay you down in my bed, on soft, luxurious sheets, and worship you for the siren you are. Since my mouth started it all, we’ll begin there. I’m going to nibble behind those delicate little ears, running my lips slowly down your neck. I’m going to trail the tip of my tongue, ever so gently, across your collarbone. Then I’ll nip my way up your throat and graze the edges of my teeth on your chin, just to heighten the anticipation for the feast on your mouth.”

Oh. My. God . . . breathe . . . focus . . . just a voice on the phone . . .

“Mmmm . . . those plump, succulent lips . . . they’re wet and shiny and begging for my hungry mouth. I’ll trace your delicious lips with the tip of my tongue and lick along the seam to tease them open for me. I will brush my eager lips against yours slowly to incite your passion, your need—for
me. That’s when I will plunder your sweet mouth with a kiss that will be nothing short of electrifying. Intoxicating. Devastating. My tongue will slip into your mouth and explore every moist inch. Your tongue will meld into mine as we sink into each other—into bliss.”

I can’t stop the ragged moan that tears from my throat, and I pray that no one can hear me trying to catch the breath that he is effectively stealing from me—through a goddamn phone.

Then I hear a low growl in my ear, and I can honestly swear that I feel the inner muscles of my sex clench in response.
Dear Lord, what is he doing to me?

“Then I’ll kiss my way down to your ample, firm breasts. I imagine your nipples are pink, almost a dusky rose—especially when aroused, as I’m sure they are now. My tongue will swirl around your beaded nipples, and my lips will kiss them, suckle them, and draw them into my mouth, taking my time with each one, until they’re both pearly and glistening. And as I have you panting beneath me, with your soft cries and sexy moans permeating the air around us, I will use my teeth to nip gently at the buds.”

I let out a soft gasp at the images he’s painting in my mind with his words. I hear a low hiss, as if he’s sucking in air through a tightly clenched jaw. When I hear another growl from him, the thought of him touching himself pops into my head. I don’t blame him, because my nipples are so hard that they’re painful, and I really want to touch my breasts. And pretend that his hands are on them.

“I can hear you panting . . . you like what I’m saying to you, don’t you? Baby, I can actually feel the weight of your gorgeous breasts on my tongue, and it makes me so hard for you,” he murmurs in that low, seductive tone that has me so entranced.

“Oh . . .
yes
. . .” I whisper. I close my eyes and conjure an image of us together, using his wicked words to torment myself. He chuckles knowingly, and I realize that he’s not done tantalizing me yet.

“Then I’ll flip you over onto your stomach so I can trail my tongue along your back, from the top of your spine, past that sweet curve at its base, to that creamy, luscious ass of yours—the one I know you’re hiding under that prim, librarian-style skirt. My mouth will explore that delicate crease in your ass with a feathery touch that will leave you wet with want. I’ll sample and taste every single crevice from your ears to your toes. No place will be untouched by my mouth, my tongue or my hands. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be so drenched that you’ll be begging me . . . no . . .
pleading
for me to fuck you, but I won’t. Not yet.

“I’ll turn you back over and feel your wetness with my fingers, massaging the swollen flesh of
your lips until I finally ease one finger, maybe two, into your hot, tight, greedy pussy. You’ll be drenched and your hoarse cries will implore me for release. You’ll be aching for me to be inside you and my eager cock will respond. And once I slide into your drenched heat, your back will bow, and you’ll arch upward to meet every hard thrust. I promise you, the first time I take you will be primal on all levels, and I
will
claim all of you—hard. Make no mistake about it. When I finally fuck you, your climax will be legendary.”

My sex aches; I can literally feel it pulsing. I feel wet everywhere and my whole body is feverish. My desire is so immobilizing that I can’t even will myself to move . . . it’s as if my feet are cemented to the floor. My mouth is dry and my throat is raw from my harsh breaths, and beads of sweat are trickling between my heaving breasts. I know I should disconnect, but he holds me here, powerless to do anything but listen to his sensual voice. I shudder, licking my lips, ready to combust from my arousal. Then I hear the sound of a zipper through the phone. I know it’s his, and his harsh panting tells me that he’s pretty much in the same state that I am.

“Fuck, Haven, my dick is so hard that it could cut glass. I’m picturing you right now as I stroke myself. I guarantee your panties are soaked right through. Maybe we should come together,” he croons. His breathing sounds like soft, rhythmic grunts now, and I can hear faint, muffled thuds that sound like . . .
Damn, I wish I could see him right now . . .

I’m unnerved—my hands are shaking. His wicked words and carnal promises have practically brought me to my knees. There’s only one thing I can do to save my sanity and myself.

“Goodbye, Mr. McKay.”

I snap the phone shut, wanting to bury it in a drawer, in the trash—anywhere—just so it’s away from me. Latch McKay scares the hell out of me, and if I let him into my bed, he will be my undoing.