Reviving Haven (15 page)

“She probably wouldn’t be such a twat if she’d eat a fucking sandwich now and then,” he frowns.

“Well, then you’ll be so happy with me, because I love food and I love to eat,” I say, knowing that he probably already noticed I ate most of my dinner and was now eyeing the dessert menu.

Latch pulls me into him with that soul stealing, heartbreaking, lose my sense of speech smile; the one no woman could ever resist.

“I’m quite happy that you eat. I can’t tell you how sick I am of these pole thin women nibbling on salad greens, then quietly sneaking off to the toilet for a little poke and hurl.”

“Let me ask you a question, Latch,” I say in my utmost serious tone, trying to bite back a laugh. I want to get his mind away from what just happened.

He faces me. Our noses almost touch as he tries to appear equally as serious.

“Continue,” he replies.

“Do you make all your dates take off their panties?” I ask mischievously.

His thick, rich lips turn upward into a devious smile. His eyes flicker with a greenish blue depth to them as he bends toward me to whisper, “Only the ones who eat.” He lets out a quiet chuckle.

After Latch and I finish dessert, we prepare to leave. Latch stands up and calls his driver to retrieve us. Since we both had wine, he feels it’s better to leave his car and have his driver take us to our next destination. Latch looks over at me as I stand and grab my clutch.

“Perhaps you should put these back on?” His voice is seductive as he hands me my panties.

“Oh really, and why is that when you were so adamant about having me take them off?” I question as I snatch my panties out of his hand and stuff them into my clutch.

“You might need them at our next destination,” he replies as he signs the bill.

He finishes his glass of wine and wipes his mouth on a napkin. I’m confused. I look at him and wonder what he has planned for the rest of the evening. I look around, trying to locate the restroom. I definitely wasn’t going to stand in front of Latch and wrestle my panties back on. I excuse myself and finally find the restrooms.

Even the bathroom is magnificent, from the marble sinks to the art collection hanging on the walls. It’s rich and decadent, with a tasteful blend of European design. I slide into a stall and take the panties from my clutch. I groan inwardly. I still can’t believe I did that. Once I’m finished, I check my dress and my hair. I decide to put some fresh lipstick on since mine had been torridly kissed off. I touch up my lips, my fingers lingering on the memory of how delicious it had been. I begin to have some rather indecent thoughts pop into my head. If this man makes love like the way he kisses, I could lose all my ability to think. I wouldn’t be able to form a single sentence. I smile into the mirror. Basically, Latch could screw me senseless and I would be happy to die with the IQ and the attention span of a gnat.

After finishing my lipstick, I do one last check of my hair. All of a sudden, Krystella strolls in, looking confident and superior. I nod to her politely. She rolls her eyes in return. All I can think of is her kneeling in a stall doing the poke and puke. I almost laugh.

“So, you’re his newest fuck buddy?” she asks, flipping and fluffing her hair.

I try to ignore her. I take my lipstick and toss it back into my clutch, snapping it shut.

“Don’t get too comfortable. Latch gets bored easily and he’s used to much younger, sweeter flesh. The man loves variety. Although, sadly, sometimes he’s only a one trick pony,” she says, as she turns toward me, glaring.

She’s younger, thinner and prettier. She’s more the standard for Latch than I ever will be, despite her atrocious personality. I feel old and out of my league.

“I’m just telling you woman to woman, you’re just the flavor of the week. He fucked me just last week on that very balcony.” She grins as she adjusts her enormous breasts into her dress.

I do my best not to make a retort. I’m attempting not to appear shaken, but I am. Did Latch really bring her here last week? Had he been with her? Had he kissed her? Did he take her right there where we had just eaten, where he had kissed me, whispering to me? Had he done all that while he was in constant pursuit of me? I feel sick and a little sad.

I start to move toward the door as Krystella grabs my arm. “I’m sure a woman of your particular age has certain acquired sexual needs. I’m just telling you all this as a
head’s up
. Latch is very opposed to doing specific sexual acts.”

What the hell?
Exactly why is a complete stranger telling me this? She certainly isn’t an old girlfriend of Latch’s. He more or less said they had just slept together. He seemed quite angry at her for showing up, so there was no love lost there. Obviously, I appear to be a threat. Is she jealous?

I take my free hand and place it on hers, removing it from my arm. “And you’re telling me this . . . why?” I glare straight at her face.

Krystella shrugs as she turns and begins to primp her make-up. “Just thought you’d be interested in the 4-1-1 before you get invested.” She turns around to face me. “He has issues with oral. You do know what oral is, right?” Her tone is condescending.

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.

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 . . . w
ait . . . 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.