Reviving Haven (4 page)

I truly appreciate the darkness now since my face is lit up like a glow stick. Did he get any satisfaction out of this? Was it a turn on for him? It felt wonderful for me. Now what? What do I say?
Thanks for giving me my
first
true orgasm?
Hey, let’s do it again soon . . . Lunch, tomorrow
?

I find my voice, but it’s only a whisper. “I think you’ve rendered me speechless,” I manage to say as I try to sit up and attempt to pull my skirt down.

He leans back. I can hear the snap of a bottle cap being unscrewed.

“Drink?” he asks.

“Oh, no more alcohol for me,” I reply.

“It’s water,
” he says in a hushed tone. I can hear him as he takes long gulps from the water bottle.

“Okay, maybe a sip.” I’m grateful for the chance to moisten my lips. As I drink, I realize that I can taste myself around the rim of the bottle, and I’m surprised that it doesn’t bother me at all. I hand the water back to him and I hear him take a few more large gulps.

He takes my hands again, placing them in his lap. “So, it appears that I have been slightly neglected,” he says.

I’m a little confused . . . I’m not sure what he means. He takes my hand and brushes it across his length. He’s still blatantly hard as a rock, and clarity slams into my brain.

He wants release as well.

“You’re asking for reciprocation?” I ask. Wow, I did not see this coming, and I’m more nervous than shocked. I’m sure he can tell by the way my voice is quivering.

“Well, you can’t very well leave me like this, can you?” He presses my hand harder on his formidable bulge.

What was I thinking? Of course, he wants me to get him off—
tit for tat,
so to speak. Unfortunately, I’m not educated in what he wants, so he’d be very dissatisfied. His disappointment would crush me. This is my fault. I let this go too far, and with a stranger no less. I almost deserve this. I pull my hands back. I try standing, looking for my purse and shoes. God, the humiliation is overwhelming.

“Maybe we should have negotiated terms before you stuck your tongue in me,” I spit out
, irritated, pissed.

“I can’t dream of anything better to end this night than having your lips wrapped around my cock. Or you could use your hands. I’m good with whichever is better for you.
”

I see his shadowy hand and I hear a sound similar to the rustling of plastic, maybe even foil.

“I promise it won’t take that long for me. Bringing you to climax has pushed me almost to mine,” he replies smugly.

Suddenly I feel ill. I mean terribly sick. I can’t possibly give this guy oral sex, even if I want to. I’m inept at it. Jared had made it perfectly clear to me—I did not excel in oral sex. In fact, he constantly made sure to tell me how horrible all of my sexual skills were. My stomach feels queasy and my entire body shivers with self-loathing. This
is going to be a disaster. I’m going to be ridiculed all over again, and by a stranger this time. I’d like to believe this pretty man wouldn’t notice, but considering what he had just done to me, he’s probably a connoisseur of oral skills.
Oh hell!

He moves, his shadowy figure standing up. The next sound I hear is a zipper. I fall back in the lounge chair, trying to sit back up. I feel my stomach start to heave as I start gagging.

The sounds of rustling clothes stop as he pauses. “Normally, women make that sound
after
I’m in their mouth.”

The next thing I know, I’m spewing vomit and the darkness takes me.

I wake to a headache that feels like my skull is being drilled from side to side. I open one eye and look around.
Why am I on the sofa?
I try to sit up and the room just spins. Oh Lord, I feel like hell. I am still wearing my clothes from last night. Where is my purse, my shoes? CRAP! CRAP! CRAP! My panties?

The front door flies open and Weezie runs in behind it.

“Oh my God, what the hell? I was so worried. I looked for you at the party and you were just gone. What the fuck happened?” She glares at me, tossing her purse onto the living room chair. She also has the same clothes on from last night.

“Worried, huh? I guess not enough to come home. Thanks for caring enough to give up a night of sluttery.” I stare at her while rubbing my temples.

“To be honest, when I couldn’t find you, I just assumed you took a cab home. For all intents and purposes, you hadn’t really wanted to go, and I met this guy who was rocking a hot body, killer looks and a fabulous car.” She flops down on the chair.

“Yes, those are all valid points for abandoning your best friend. I can see that,” I reply, frowning.

“Did you drink? I mean, an actual alcoholic beverage, not that college wine cooler crap?” Weezie asks.

“As a matter of fact, I do believe I had a few shots of tequila.” I wince.

“You’re kidding! Are you insane?” she practically yells.

“Not anymore. And keep your voice down, like to whisper mode.” I fall back onto the sofa.

“You haven’t touched tequila since . . . well, since you know . . . Jared. Haven, listen to my words: TEQUILA IS NOT YOUR FRIEND.” Weezie stands up, walks into the kitchen, gathers a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water, and then re-emerges as if she’s presenting me with a magical cure for hangovers from hell.

“You think?” I reply sarcastically as she hands me the water and the pills. I swallow them down.

“So how drunk did you get?” Weezie asks, smirking.

“Oh please. Not drunk enough to get laid, if that’s what you were hoping for. Gee, I have never known anyone who is so intensely interested in my sex life. Is there something I should know? Have you been keeping a secret from me all these years?” I want to laugh, but it would hurt my head.

“Really, how can you even go there? This girl likes cock way too much to ever switch teams. I do love you, but not like that.” Weezie giggles. She strolls back into the kitchen and opens one of the cabinets, grabbing a bag of chips.

“I think I lost my purse. I really like that purse. It had my keys and ID in it.” I moan from the sofa.

Weezie finishes the chips and grabs some water. I notice her grab a few things off the kitchen bar. She has my purse tucked under one arm and my shoes are dangling from her fingers. I can’t really see all that clearly. No glasses on and my contacts appear to be burned onto my eyeballs.

“Here’s your purse,” she says as she hands it to me. “And I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She stands back as she hands me my shoes. Tears come to my eyes. My nine hundred dollar Dolce and Gabbana shoes are covered in vomit. I mean there are stomach contents everywhere on both shoes. Well crap. The shoes are toast. Between the loss of my shoes and my panties, last night cost me about one thousand dollars and I have nothing to show for it but a splitting skull.

I take my purse and dump out the contents. My keys are inside
, along with my wallet. It had been opened and my driver’s license had been removed; I can tell because it’s facing the wrong way. I check my money and credit cards, and they haven’t been touched. How did I pay the cab driver? Had I been sober enough to give him my address? Obviously, because here I am, minus panties and expensive shoes. HELL!

I stand up carefully and walk to the kitchen bar. I lean against it, closing my eyes; I’m trying so hard to erase last night’s events. I want to pretend it never happened. I know I didn’t have sex, but I do remember the pretty man with the wicked tongue. My naked sex pulsates with memories. I try not to, but my mind wanders over the events of what I can remember of the night before. I feel mortified, disbelieving that I’d let a complete stranger go down on me, in public. I mean, who does that? Well, Weezie would, and if she finds out, I will never hear the end of it. She’d demand every single intimate detail, and my memory is a little bit hazy at the moment. I do remember the man was gorgeous and had a sexy accent. My cheeks burn and there’s a tightening in my core as I vividly recall my climax, and how satisfying it had been. I should share this with Weezie. She is my best friend.

No, I want to savor it for a bit.
I never even got his name. I vaguely remember he hadn’t wanted us to share names. It had truly been my first and probably only one-night stand ever.

I drag myself to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I undress as I try to remember and relive the moments of last night. Maybe I should have had sex with him. Now I’m kind of sorry I didn’t and feeling nostalgic about never having that chance again. As I walk into the shower, the
water hits my skin and its soothing warmth feels so good. I lather myself from head to toe and then wash my hair. When I’m finished bathing, I wrap myself in a fluffy towel and walk into my bedroom, where I see a light flashing on my phone. There’s a phone message from Denise on my voicemail. I sit on my bed and call the bookstore.

“Hey, Denise, you called?” I ask in a very soft voice, my skull still pounding.

“Um, just got an invite to a book cover shoot,” Denise replies.

“Book covers? What?” I ask
, confused.

“I don’t really know. The invitation was slipped through the mail slot. I guess there’s some kind of book cover show on Monday.” Denise pauses and then in an excited tone says, “I could go, if you don’t want to. I mean, some of those covers have hot guys on them. It’s not a bad way to spend the day.”

“Let’s see how busy we are on Monday. I have invoicing to do and I thought maybe you could inventory the historical romance section,” I say.

I think I hear a small groan. I chuckle, knowing how much Denise despises historical romance.

“Let’s just play it by ear, okay?” I ask her.

“All right, see you then,” Denise replies.

I’ve had my bookstore for almost five years, and I've never been invited to anything but boring poetry readings or the occasional local book signing. I just may want to check this out. One of these days, I just might decide to write a book. Knowing some of the ins and outs could be worthwhile.

I walk down the hall and quietly crack Weezie’s door open. She’s still dressed in her eveningwear, minus shoes, and snoring away across her bed. I close the door and go into the kitchen to make a super greasy grilled cheese sandwich. In college, greasy food always helped my hangovers. Once my sandwich is ready, I toss it on a plate, grab a bottle of water and return to my bedroom. I sit cross-legged on my bed, devour my sandwich, and then realize I’m bone tired. I decide sleep is probably the best cure for my hangover. I draw my blinds, crawl beneath my sheets and fall asleep, dreaming of the seductive man with the seriously devilish tongue.

*****

By Monday, I’m feeling better. Still slightly wrung out, but I think I’ll live. I grab a pair of black slacks, pairing them with a red flowered tank and a black blazer. Normally I would never go sleeveless, but the weather is getting quite warm. I head off to the bookstore. Denise shows up an
hour later nursing a sinus infection.

“You could have just called in. I’m pretty sure I can handle today by myself,” I say as I hand her a box of tissues.

“It’s just my allergies. I’d feel crappy even at home. Might as well work and get paid for feeling like crap.” She grins.

“Oh, I’m sure it will be awful. Sexy, hot men undressed, oiled and posing,” Denise replies.

“God, Denise, way to make me not want to go. Oiled? I hope not.” I laugh as I grab my purse and the invitation and then head to my car.

I drive along the coastline and end up in Santa Monica. I check the address and find myself in front of an enormous building. I pull into a parking space, check my lipstick and grab my blazer from the back seat. As I step out of my car, I notice a security guard walking towards me.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Hello,” I reply, handing him my invitation.

“Towards the back, left hand side,
numbers are on the outer doors.” He points as he begins to walk away, so I thank him and begin my journey to the far end of the lot.

I finally find suite 300 and open the double doors. It’s nothing like I had envisioned. The space is gigantic and people are hustling everywhere. Racks of clothing are being drawn across the room. There are mirrors, chairs, what looks like household furnishings including a bed and a sofa, bright lights on moveable stands, and I actually see what appears to be a shower with running water. Each corner of this large space seems to have a theme going on, I suppose, for specific book covers.

“Excuse me,” I say to one of the men standing nearby. He turns and looks at me from head to toe. It’s creepy because he does it with a toothpick dangling from his lips. He pulls it out and licks his lips.

“Something I can help you with, miss?” He pushes his dark glasses up closer to his eyes.

“I’m Haven Wells. I own the Book Haven. I was invited to a book cover shoot today.” I hand him the invitation.

He grins and nods.

“Yeah, let’s take a look-see. Here you are.” He points to his clipboard. I can’t actually see my name on it, but I assume he can. “You need to head over to area B-3. That’s right over there with all the make-up people.”

“Thanks so much,” I reply politely as I walk away. I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my backside.
Dirty old man.

As I draw closer to the B-3 area, I can see a tall, blond-haired man. He is so stunning he could rival the Greek god, Apollo. A woman is rubbing him down with some kind of oil.

I can’t believe Denise was right about the oil. Oh, man . . .

I stifle a giggle, because h
onestly, the Greek god does not at all—it would be safe to say he’s extremely annoyed. As I get closer, I can see the blue of his eyes. His chest is amazing, corded, tight and ripped. Someone had forced his huge, muscled body into the smallest flesh-colored briefs known to humankind, and it gives him the appearance of being nude. I try not to stare, but the Greek god is either well endowed, or they have stuffed a big sock down there.

He walks over to a chair and sits, frowning while a couple of young girls powder him. He actually looks pissed.

“He really is quite fabulous, don’t you think?” I turn around, greeted by a woman who looks like she could be my grandmother. I feel knocked off guard and blush slightly. Grandma here is checking out the hottie.
Oh my.

I smile at her. “Yes, he is quite lovely,” I reply.

“I’m Bertrice. I do all the garments and what not for all these kinds of shoots. Been doing this for over twenty-four years, and these book cover shoots just get more and more spicy.”

“I totally have to agree with you on that, Bertrice.” We both laugh.

“So much has changed. Years ago, I was making quite a bit more clothing. Now I have to make clothes that make men like this look naked, which seems strange to me,” Bertrice tells me.

I laugh again, this time at the paradox she presents. She’s right, though—it really doesn’t make much sense, but I suppose book models don’t want their goods
really
hanging out for the whole world to see.

“Well
, at least you’ll have amazing memories, if you ever retire,” I say, patting her hand.

“Oh no, dear, this job keeps me young, and my husband likes it because I come home wanting to ride the pony,” she says seriously.

My eyes pop out of my head and I hope she doesn’t notice.

“I’m old, dear, not dead. I’ve been with the hubby for over thirty-five years and he does so enjoy the ride. You know it keeps your—she points to below h
er waist—‘down there’ young too.” She says all of this with a no-nonsense, straight face. I want to high-five her and run away screaming at the same time.

All I can do is attempt to wipe the picture of Bertrice and her hubby having sex out my mind so that it doesn’t get tattooed on my brain. I don’t know what to say. Should I bless her heart, or feel depressed since she is seeing more action than I am?

It isn’t fair!

I look around and I am not seeing any other people with whom I’m familiar, the ones I normally see at book events.

“Bertrice, do you know anything about invitations for a book shoot or a book signing?” I ask. “I’m not really sure which one it actually is. The invitation is rather vague.”

“I’m not sure about that, dear, but those make-up artists or the models would know more than I would. Just go over there; they’ll get you to the right place,” she replies, pointing over to where the Greek god is sitting.

I stroll over to where Greek god and the make-up people are, and, I swear, I honestly try not to stare. I attempt to keep my eyes straight ahead, but they seem to gravitate toward Greek god’s briefs. My ocular reflexes are embarrassing me.