Reviving Haven (8 page)

Maybe it’s the chase that’s driving him. It’s extremely exhausting trying to figure out Latch McKay. It occurs to me that maybe I should just acknowledge defeat and sleep with the man. Would it be so bad . . . not for me, but for him? Personally, I’m not sure my self-esteem could take the hit. To him, I must appear like a mature woman, or at least highly experienced sexually for my age. Imagine his disappointment if he were to discover that I am but a sexual novice. That in itself should quell his appetite and shut down the chase.

What if I really don’t want him to give up? What if I secretly desire sex with him? I’m somewhat flattered with the attention. After all, Latch could have any woman he wants, yet he desires me. Should I just run with this? The reality is that I’m still emotionally fragile. If I do this and get burned, it will crush whatever spirit I have left. Jared left me damaged. I shouldn’t have allowed anyone that power, but I did. And now I’m considering a torrid fling with a twenty-five year-old playboy who is only offering sex. I have to ask myself, do I really want more than that? I certainly can’t have any kind of a long-term relationship with someone twelve years younger. I’m having a hard time seeing myself in an affair with a younger man, someone who would basically be a “boy toy.” Actually, I’m finding it hard to believe that I would consider any type of affair with any man.

I don’t understand why I am so conflicted because it’s actually quite simple: have sex with him one time. I’m a challenge to him. The more I run from him, the more he will continue to chase after me. Once he has me, and realizes I’m not the experienced, older woman he had hoped for, he will return to his young, moldable plastic piranhas. And I . . . I will be free of his pursuits.

I’m mystified. Latch haunts me every waking minute and sleep is not an option either. Every time I close my eyes, I see his gorgeous face, those brilliant eyes. He is invading my every thought. All the memories of him are distracting. I find it very hard to concentrate when all I can think about are his words, the sex he promised spilling from my phone. His entire persona screams lust. And if I think about him long enough, my need will push me over the edge into climax.

I dig my heels in at work. I have quite a few books to unpack and inventory to do this week, which is good because it helps to keep my mind busy. However, somewhere deep in my self–conscious
ness, I feel a slight disappointment that I haven’t heard anything from Latch in five days. No phone calls or texts. Maybe he has given up, which is probably the best thing. Frankly, I’m not worth the effort. I can’t keep going back and forth on this. I have to make a decision and stick with it.

It’s almost the end of the workday when Denise taps lightly on my open door. I look up at her over my perched glasses.

“UPS just delivered a package addressed to you personally.”

Denise walks in with a large, elegantly wrapped package. She hands it to me. I take it, inspecting it for a card. My cheeks warm to a rosy pink, because somehow, I just know this is from Latch. So he hasn’t given up the chase. Or maybe this is my parting gift. My body fills with agitation.

“Thanks, Denise, you can call it a night. It’s almost five thirty, so go ahead and turn the sign and lock up. I’ll close out the register. Have a good night.” My hands are sweating as I hold the package.

“See you tomorrow then,
” Denise says as she eyes the package and me. She closes my door.

I stand up with the box in my arms and walk over to the sofa. I’m not one for surprises; however, Latch appears to be an expert in giving them. Hell, maybe this isn’t even from him. As I sit in my chair, I touch the ribbon and gently shake the box. It’s really light. I can hear my heart pounding. I know it’s from Latch. I want it to be from him. The box
rests on my lap and I unwrap it carefully. My eyes widen at the sight of the name Agent Provocateur on the lid, and when I lift it and pull the tissue paper back, I find a pair of exquisite, delicate panties nestled inside. They’re a rich black with small crystal beads and cut outs on both sides. The material feels decadent, exotic—cool and silky in my hands as I finger the crystals. They’re my exact size. I take a deep breath; I know this company is very expensive. These types of under garments cost several hundred dollars.

My phone dings with a text message, making my heart swell. I know it’s Latch. I flip open my phone.

Unknown:  I want you to wear the panties the next time I see you.

His text is simple and self-assured. I suppose I should reply, but I’m too flustered. What should I do? If I were sensible, or smart, I would go to Weezie and tell her everything. She would be the voice of reason right now. As I continue to caress the material of the panties, I know deep down I should just walk away from this. Why is this a hard decision? I don’t even know him. We had an intimate moment one night. That’s why they call it a one-night stand. I’m too messed up to be with anyone. Never mind the emotional problems I have, I don’t think I can handle a sexual confrontation. Shouldn’t I be over this by now? Years of therapy and medication and I am still a mess, which is obvious since I am having such inner turmoil about this man.

If I knew I could just have one night and walk away unscathed, I would do it. The problem I see is that I might get too invested. I can’t fall for someone again. I can’t. I spent years in love with someone who didn’t love me back. Latch just wants to have sex; he’s too young to want anything more than a casual “acquaintance.” What I have to figure out is . . . can I do casual? If I decide to do this, I have to come up with a plan. Something I can control. If sex is what he wants, maybe I should just do it. Eventually, after chasing me long enough, I would most likely give in anyway. Latch will eventually break me down. He is too hard to resist. What he needs is a preview of my lack of sexual expertise.

Over the next two days, I devise a plan. Probably not one of my better thought out plans, but a plan nonetheless. Latch feels I owe him. Maybe he’s chasing me to try to collect. Who knows what goes on in th
e mind of a twenty-five year-old, since I’m still trying to master what goes on in my own mind? Maybe this game he’s playing is only about oral sex, or the lack of. Somewhere in my head there’s a tiny voice telling me I’m insane, but truly, it’s the only reason I can come up with that is driving Latch to pursue me with such intensity. It’s certainly not my looks or my body; he has more than an ample amount of women from which to choose. If I do this, he'll give up his pursuit. Just the thought of it makes me queasy. I know that once I perform the actual act on him, he’ll positively walk away, hopefully not annihilating my self-esteem in the process. I’m confident that Latch is used to having the best. That includes someone with skill and talent, and I’m short on both. This would be the quickest way to turn him off for good. Can I actually do this—perform oral on a stranger? Okay, so I might have a glass of wine just to loosen me up.

After I do it, if anyone ever finds out, “loose” won’t be the only word used to describe me. After all, it was tequila that started this entire fiasco. I will have to put on my big girl panties and just do it, regardless of how disappointed I know he is going to be at my poor performance. Although, according to Weezie, all men love a blowjob—
how I despise that term
—regardless of how good it is. Just putting his dick in my mouth is enough, according to her. It is going to be humiliating, but on the other hand, I will never have to see him again. There will be extreme, intimate contact with him. All of a sudden, I feel a cross between arousal and being terrified. I look up his business address. Tomorrow will be the day . . . it will be my turn to shock him.

Now my nerves are kicking in. Should I practice, should
I google the procedure? No, that sounds too clinical. Do I do it until he comes? Do I swallow? Eww . . . I’ll try not to think about that. I suppose even if it’s bad oral, he could still come. Jared had never gone that far. If I continue to think about the act before I even do it, I will end up talking myself out of my plan. I will be controlling this. I will be running the show.

The following day I ready myself for surprising Mr. McKay. I want to make sure my attire is casual, nonsexual. I have a sense that even if I wear a potato sack, it would still encourage the tenacity of this particular twenty-five year-old. I choose some skinny black jeans, a pink beaded t-shirt and some cute pink flats. I’m going for comfort, not hotness. I twist my hair up into my normal tight bun and add a black headband. I put a minimal amount of make-up on—just some bronzer, a swipe of mascara, and a dab of lip gloss. I view myself in the mirror and I’m satisfied that I look average, casual, and extremely nonsexual.

So far, so good.

When I get to work, I busy myself with invoices and bills. At lunchtime, I grab my purse and tell Denise I will be out for an hour. Even if oral sex with him doesn’t require the entire hour, somehow I know that the after effects might demand the extra time to get myself together.

I put McKay Enterprise in my car’s GPS and arrive twenty minutes later. As soon as I pull into his company’s park
ing lot, my plan finally starts to feel real. My palms are sweaty, my hands are shaky, and I know I’m freaking out. But I refuse to back out now.

I can do this.

I will do this.

Weezie would be so proud. I let out a small chuckle, rolling my eyes. If only she knew, she would send me back to the shrink A.S.A.P.

So this is Latch’s business, McKay Enterprises . . . okay, now I’m kind of impressed. When I enter the building, I see people everywhere around me. The place appears vast and very busy. It’s definitely casual Friday around here because everyone I see has on jeans or khakis, a t-shirt and flip-flops. The women that work here appear to be in their late teens, early twenties, and they are what Weezie terms “cookie-cutter girls”: skinny, blond, tan, and carrying hefty, expensive silicone boobs. The receptionist, whose counter nameplate says “Amber”—
of course it does
—is wearing a tight, little halter dress that is more shirt than dress. I internally groan. I look old enough to be her mother. Thank God I am not wearing “mom jeans.”

The inside design of the building is plush. The floors are black marble and the walls are a rich, dark wood. Huge framed photographs depicting video games that most likely deal with mass destruction, blood and violence, accent the walls. Below the photos, there are at least thirty computer screens with joysticks lining the walls every few feet. I can only assume that they are for
testing and playing the video games Latch has designed. Black sofas and chairs rest in the center of the receptionist’s area and a juice bar is located on the left side. It actually looks like it might be a fun environment in which to work.

I turn and spy a huge portrait in the middle of the far wall. It reads “Latch McKay, CEO” and the focal point is Latch himself, smiling and looking happy while surrounded by his equally happy, smiling employees. Even seeing him in a photograph makes me grind my teeth and puts my nerves on edge, not to mention making my core ache.

I stroll casually up to Amber.

“Excuse me—
I’m here to see Mr. McKay.” I say it with a tone of authority. Maybe she’ll think I’m a client or rep.

She looks me up and down, almost examining me like a possessive girlfriend.

“Do you have an appointment, because I don’t see any on the books for today,” she replies while chewing her gum.
Ugh . . . that’s so unprofessional . . .

“No, not really, and it doesn’t matter. He’s on the fifth floor, right?” I try to sound confident as I walk to the elevators.

Amber runs out from behind her desk.

“Can I at least say who you are?” she asks, sounding annoyed as she twirls a strand of bleached blonde hair with her fingers.

“No, that’s okay, Amber. I want it to be a surprise,” I reply, stepping into the elevator.

I watch as the doors start to close on her. When they completely shut, my legs buckle, and I brace my back against the elevator wall just to stay upright. I feel high-strung and keyed up, and I nervously wring my hands together. I hope she hasn’t called ahead and told him some old crazy woman is on her way up.

Okay—time for a pep talk, Haven.
I can do this. It’s been seven long years since I tried it. Maybe it will be good. Maybe quality comes with age. Jesus, what am I thinking? It can’t be good. The entire point of this is that it’s so bad— he will want to back off. I mean, seriously . . . who wants an older woman with no experience? From what I understand, younger men go after older women for money and experience. I have neither, so this is a good thing. He’s so hot that he can have anyone he wants, and he can easily find someone else. I bet he doesn’t even have to walk in the room—he can just conference call and women all over the world will drop their panties in a heartbeat.

The elevator comes to a stop. I stand glued to the floor as the doors open. I am literally petrified, but I finally work up the nerve to move and walk out of the elevator. I’m almost terrified
to the point of turning back and forgetting this outrageous plan. The good thing is that no one is around to witness my inner coward fighting to turn me around; looking around, I’m surprised to see that this floor seems quiet and empty. I don’t see any people, not even a secretary. I slowly walk down the hall and find huge double doors to my right with a gold name plaque that reads “Latch McKay.” I can hear mumbling inside. Maybe he has clients and I should just go.

I knock lightly and a voice tells me to come in. When I open the double doors and step into the office, I spot Latch immediately. He is facing away from the door, wearing a Bluetooth over his ear that flashes every few seconds. Damn . . . he’s even gorgeous from behind. Faded blue jeans, a straight cut, mold to his perfect backside but widen to hang loosely about his long legs. A white t-shirt with McKay Enterprises on it stretches tightly across his back. His deeply tanned arms appear crossed in front of him as he continues his call, and . . .
wait a minute
. . . Is that . . . does he have a tattoo? I swear I see the edge of one peeking out from under his shirt on his right arm. He appears somewhat tense, and it shows his arms as all muscle and vein. His hair, unruly as usual, lies across his collar. Even with his back toward me, his stance is one of power.

His office looks much different from the lobby area. The outside of the building and the lobby reflect something modern, youthful. This room holds more of a classic design. The desk is large and made of ebony, Carpathian elm and glass. The only reason I know that is that it’s similar to the desk Jared had; obviously, Latch has expensive tastes. Lavish, yet comfortable-looking, overstuffed chairs sit on both sides of an elegant, dark green sofa. Two other similar chairs are placed in front of his desk. In the left-hand corner of the room is an elegant looking bar. On the right-hand side of the bar, three large flat screens have been secured to the wall. The only window in the entire room is the one Latch is facing, and it’s massive, reaching from one end of the room to another. The view must be spectacular.

“Fuck you, George, just do what I ask you to do. Sterling has the damn bids. They are aware of the costs and what I expect for my designs. If they still want this merger to be a success, they will need to follow my instructions to the letter, and no side tracking. Well . . . um . . . yes . . . but do remind them that I can bring in another goddamn company to do the merger. It doesn’t have to be them. I chose them, and by doing so, I am doing them a big fucking favor. Just do it, George, and call me back as soon as you contact Berkley.” Latch pulls the Bluetooth off and slams it down on the desk.

He turns to face me. He’s angry, and the look on his face is threatening. As soon as he sees me, a smile lights his face as our eyes meet. His gaze devastates me inside and out. The stubble on his
face is heavier, making him look like a devilish rake from a bygone era. His eyes are an alluring mix of light blue and dark green color today, and I find myself hypnotized, unable to speak. Latch inspires sexuality, and I can feel a surge of electricity crackling between us. His mouth curves into a crafty smile.

“Ms. Wells, did you get the panties?” He grins with a gleam in his eyes, which almost makes me stop breathing. He doesn’t give me any time to reply. “Are you wearing them?” he asks, coming out from behind the desk. He leans against it and crosses his arms as he stares at my jeans.

I just stand there, gazing at every glorious inch of him, licking my lips, considering whether I can still go through with the plan or not. I clear my throat.

“Yes, I did. And no, I didn’t.” I throw him a smirk for good measure.

Confusion spreads across his face; he’s trying to figure out why I’ve come and what his next move should be. He appears to be scrutinizing me from head to toe and his lips purse with his thoughts.

“Lunch then?” he asks. His voice sounds uncertain.

“Well, actually,” I say, walking back to both doors and locking them. I turn back to face him. He has uncrossed his arms and is running his hand through his hair, looking extremely perplexed.

“We could do lunch I suppose, but I have a feeling once I tell you why I’m here, you’ll want to order in.” I try so hard to sound unruffled even though inside I’m a mess.

“Don’t feel like you have to come up with a reason to see me. I’m actually flattered and somewhat shocked that you came here. It gives me a small bit of hope.” He smiles.

“I came here because you seem to feel like I owe you, and maybe I do. Regardless, I’m here to pay in full.”

I’m still trying not to stammer my words as I shudder inside. I almost pray for him to think I’m crazy, laugh at me, and then tell me to go away. I walk over to the bar and grab what looks to be scotch in a crystal decanter. I pour myself some in one of the matching tumblers and chug it down. I set my empty glass down and turn to look at him. Suddenly, Latch’s face reflects his realization of my purpose. I think I managed to stun him with my admission, if his wide eyes and slack jaw are any indication, even if it’s for a brief moment. He suddenly regains his composure.

“So, let me get this straight. You drove all the way to my office to specifically give me a
blowjob?” His voice teeters on amusement while his face expresses doubt.

“Oh God, please don’t use that word. I loathe that term; seriously, it’s crude and revolting.” I feel somewhat nauseated because I’m terrified and a little buzzed, but I still might require some
more scotch to follow through.

“Sweetheart, I truly enjoy seeing you squirm. You truly are a naughty librarian, aren’t you? I have to be honest though—you do seem a little too tightly wrapped to do what you’re proposing,” he quips. He moves over to the bar and makes a drink for himself.

“Another, sweetheart?” he asks.

I shake my head. It’s going to be humiliating enough to do this without worrying about the possibility of me vomiting again. At least I’m wearing cheap shoes this time.

“So, about this blowjob . . .” He looks right at me with a smug smile while taking a sip of his drink.

I roll my eyes, shifting my body from one side to the other. His terminology is disgusting. He strolls back over to his desk, settling his gorgeous ass against the front edge. His eyes bore into mine.

“I’ll tell you what . . . rename it anything you want. Call it by any name you choose, sweetheart. I don’t really care as long as it still means you’re sucking my dick.” His eyes burn me with a hot gaze as he’s throwing down a gauntlet of challenge.

“You think I’m joking? You probably assume you can freak m
e out by saying the word ‘dick.’” Why don’t we just call it by its other name, huh? Is “cock” good for you?”

I lift my brow a
s a salute to him, accepting his challenge. The alcohol has made me fearless all of a sudden.

“As I said, call it another name. I don’t care. You honestly didn’t really come down here to give me head, did you?” He’s chuckling with amusement. DAMN HIM! He thinks this is a joke. He thinks I really won’t go through with it. He’s toying with me.

I look directly into his amazing eyes. “Whatever. Can we just refer to it as a
puff chore
?” I am dead serious.

Latch just stares at me, shocked once again. I can tell he wants to laugh, but he’s trying hard to stifle it. He sets his glass down on his desk and smirks.

“Oh, sweetheart, really, you’re actually going to go through with this? Jesus, even my gay mates would think that term is hilarious,” he replies, chuckling. The humor appears too hard for him to contain.

This is not going according to my plan
; Latch thinks I’m bluffing and will never go through with it. I suppose why I came here is a little insane, but now that I’m here and buzzing on lust and scotch, I can either follow through with my plan or run from him—again. And every time I run, it makes him more persistent.

“Latch.” I almost exhale his name.

“Fuck, I love it when you say my name.” His smoldering gaze rakes me from head to toe, penetrating every part of my body. “Haven, I truly don’t believe anything will actually happen today, as much as I would love to encourage it.” He shakes his head slightly and puts his glass down on his desk.

I walk over to the sofa and put my purse down on it.

“You know, I really love your new label for the word ‘blowjob.’ Kind of just rolls off the tongue, so to speak.” He laughs.