Reviving Haven Page 3

  WOW! I’d forgotten just how badly that stuff burns on the way down. They can brag all they want about the smoothness, but it feels like it’s burning a hole straight through my esophagus, leading to a nice slow burn in my belly.

  Now that’s a perfect name for this drink—“Burn.” My face feels warm and rosy as calm rushes over me.

  “I’ll take another—double,” I say confidently, leaning up against the bar, almost touching the bartender’s nose to mine. I’m beginning to feel a lot less reserved. The poor bartender looks a little scared, like giving me another double might endanger his life.

  “Trust me . . . I’m way old enough to drink. I was probably drinking that stuff when you were in grammar school. Because, honey, I’m fricking . . . old.” I slam my empty shot glass down on the bar, motioning with my eyes for him to refill it.

  “Well, you look pretty good for being old,” he replies, trying to lighten my mood.

  “Are you flirting with me?” I ask.

  The bartender’s cheeks blush. He appears flustered.

  “You’re too young for me, stud,” I warn him playfully. Stud? Where the hell did that come from? Damn tequila.

  He finally pours me another double tequila, then grabs his towel and begins wiping down the bar. He keeps his eyes lowered, inspecting every swipe of the towel. I think I’ve embarrassed him, and for that, I feel somewhat embarrassed myself. I take my drink and slowly walk away.

  I carefully sip my shot as I pretend renewed interest in the wall art. I’m not going to care about that blond, big breasted, child-sized bimbo that stole Jared from me. I’m not going to let it affect me again. The alcohol is making me think too much. It’s supposed to make me forget, not recall every single detail of my pathetic life and—oh yes, lest I forget—make me feel horribly sorry for myself.

  Out of a sea of designer suits, men with slicked back hair and opulence, I see him. He’s leaning casually against the wall by the fireplace, having a conversation with three men. He’s stunning, almost painfully pretty. Okay, normally I don’t call men “pretty,” but he is, and his effect on me is instantaneous. I’ve never reacted to a man in this way—I feel breathless, and then a shudder ripples through my body. From where I’m standing, he appears to be quite tall, well-muscled, and very commanding. He looks familiar to me, though. He’s stunning enough to be an actor, maybe a model. Even though he’s dressed in plain dark jeans and a gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, he looks stylishly elegant. On top of all these attributes, his demeanor also speaks of wealth.

  He has beautifully shaped lips and a distinctive jaw line that’s sporting a heavy five o’clock shadow. His hair is a messy cap of dark brown waves that fall slightly past his shoulder. It looks somewhat unruly, as if he just rolled out of bed. The way he carries himself, it’s clear he’s self-assured, exotic and masculine—in other words, he’s perfect. One curl has fallen across his forehead, partly covering his eyes—eyes that I really want to see but can’t because of the distance between us. That wayward lock seems to beg me to push it aside.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting this way?

  Crap, one word—tequila.

  I’m staring . . . and now I’m caught. His eyes look up into mine from across the room. An amused smile grazes his lips. I feel my cheeks heat up with a nice toasty blush when I think about that delicious-looking mouth. I feel hot, and I mean really hot. I’m combusting on the spot. Sweat begins to trickle in between my breasts, and my panties suddenly feel damp. Why am I acting like this? My head is swimming, and my legs feel like rubber.

  Damn tequila.

  I need air, wonderful fresh air. I need to go outside—now. I drag my gaze away from the pretty man and make my way through the crowd until I find a sliding glass door. I open it and am immediately doused with a cooling blast of night air. It feels so good. I stroll outside, but I have to walk very carefully down a flight of steps, using the light from my cell phone to guide me. I find an enormous swimming pool swallowed up in the inky darkness. I guess the owners don’t want the party coming down here so they turned off the lights.

  Since I’m buzzed, I look around for something on which to lie down. Using my cell phone light again, I see a dozen lounge chairs surrounding the pool area. This will be a nice quiet place to relax and cool down. After I get my bearings, I’ll find Weezie. I sit down on one of the loungers and make myself comfortable.

  After a few minutes, I decide to kick off my shoes and stretch out. After four shots of tequila and a glass of wine, I’m not feeling any pain.

  Well, at least not tonight—tomorrow will be another story.

  As I reflect on the events of the evening, the tequila finally releases every pent up emotion I’m feeling. Tears burn my eyes and drift down my cheeks. The last hours of remembering all the bitter pain with Jared and how messed up I am because of it comes to the surface . . . AGAIN! Seven years later and Jared still has a hold over my life. He mentally chokes me at every turn. Sometimes I feel as if all of my emotions, except pain and self-loathing, have been vacuumed out of my soul. I feel empty and hollow.

  As I lay back, I start to feel slightly disoriented. This is why I detest drinking. I don’t make a good drunk. I squirm as I try to find a more comfortable position on this damn chair. I briefly close my eyes, and it feels like only moments later when I sense a touch on my leg, something warm, caressing. It startles me and I sit up too fast, causing the dizziness to become worse. I gasp when I see the outline of a figure, but it’s too dark to discern. My vision is impaired from the alcohol, the tears and my damn contacts. I sniff, trying to regain my balance while struggling to sit up.

  “Should I kill the man who made you cry?” The voice is deep and has a slight accent. I’m not sure how to reply. I’m nervous, not being able to see to whom the voice belongs.

  I feel prickling on the back of my neck as the weight of his body settles on the lounge chair. He takes my right foot in his hand and massages it. I pull my foot back and out of his grasp, tucking my legs up close to my body, almost in a protective measure. What the hell?

  Who is this man? Should I be worried? Between the total darkness and the fact that we are alone, away from the house, I should be afraid, but for some reason, I’m not. Maybe it’s my meds. Maybe it’s the tequila. It’s probably both.

  “I think killing him would be very drastic, warranted as it may be,” I whisper.

  I’m not sure if I’m that drunk anymore, just anxious and dizzy. The tone of this man’s voice is like a blanket, comforting and soothing.

  “Mind if I sit?” he asks.

  “I think you’re already sitting. Maybe you’d like a chair of your own?” I reply curtly.

  He doesn’t move. He just continues to sit at the edge of the lounger, somehow reclaiming my foot with his hands. Okay, so now it’s getting a little strange. Who is this guy? Who just invites himself to my private pity party?

  One who obviously has a foot fetish.

  “You know, I’d rather be alone.” I try to pull my foot back towards me. As I tug it out of his grasp, I get a hint of his cologne. Oh my . . . this man smells good. I mean really good, like ocean air and orange blossoms. Now I know I’m drunk and most likely out of my mind. It’s probably because I mixed my anti-anxiety drugs with alcohol. Clearly, we are close to orange groves, and the sea air is blowing in. That’s what I smell, not this man.

  “I know who you are, you know,” he claims boldly.

  “Who am I?” I reply hesitantly. My voice quivers because a sudden realization hits me in a blinding moment of lucidity.

  This is the pretty man at whom I’d been staring so intensely before my poolside escape.

  “You were the sexiest woman in that room and you didn’t even know it. I kind of like the whole look—naughty librarian . . . very nice. I noticed you watching me from across the room. You appeared somewhat captivated, so I was hoping we could get acquainted and maybe take this party elsewhere.” His reply is deliberate
ly a statement rather than a question. With his looks and the way he speaks, there is no doubt he’s very arrogant; I am willing to bet that no woman has ever said “no” to him.

  Damn, this is the second time tonight that someone thought I looked like a librarian, and I didn’t even wear my glasses!

  I realize at that moment that he has been inching up the chair, closing the distance between us. I can feel his breath tickling my face with teasing puffs, and it’s warm and intoxicating as I scent a blend of minty toothpaste and liquor. My entire body begins to hum, causing a tightening in my breasts and a warming in my sex. How can a stranger be causing this reaction? I don’t even know him, but he is gorgeous and sexy. As I stare into the dark, I’m slightly terrified, yet strangely attracted to this man. I mean, just because this guy is pretty and has a sexy accent doesn’t mean he’s a good guy. Even attractive men are capable of doing bad things. Jared was a decent looking man, and he turned out to be a bastard.

  I can’t make up my mind . . . should I stay or should I go? Wait and see how this plays out, or just exit before I make a mistake? I feel confused. Logic is telling me one thing, but my body has its own ideas. No matter what my body is saying, this will most likely end badly. I am not in any emotional state to make a decision. The very scary thing is I almost don’t want to walk away. Maybe I want to let myself go . . . maybe I need to let myself go. But no matter how great the need I feel right now, my steadfast logic dictates that I should just walk away.

  “I think I’ll be going now.” I attempt to stand up and straighten my skirt. Unsteady as I am right now—thanks a lot, damn tequila—I lose my footing and fall back into the chair.

  “Please don’t leave. Can we at least talk, get to know each other?” His hand touches my leg, drifting across it lightly like a feather. I inhale deeply at his touch.

  I don’t even know this man, yet he’s having a profound effect on me. Damn erotica, stupid authors, dumbass tequila—all of these things have me feeling as if I’m in the middle of one of my romance books.

  “Shouldn’t we start a conversation with your name?” I ask, blindly staring into the night.

  I’m still contemplating some kind of getaway, even if the tequila is slowing me down in my great escape. I’ve also misplaced a shoe—a nine hundred dollar shoe. Hell.

  “I don’t think names are necessary. This doesn’t have to be complicated; I just would like to sit here and maybe get to know you a little better.” He chuckles softly. “Unless you have other ideas for occupying our time.” His tone is overtly sexual and seductive, but it’s his accent that shakes me to my core.

  Why did this man leave a room filled with eager plastic piranha to find me? I don’t get it. He could have his choice of hundreds of women. Women who are young, thin, beautiful, and willing. Why me?

  Oh, this guy is smooth, no denying that. If he keeps it up with that accent, I will be joining Weezie’s Slut of the Month club. It’s like a book club, but these women get together and brag about the men they bang.

  “Listen, I have to leave, so . . . um . . . nice chatting with you. Cheerio and all that, but I really have to go. I have a friend who’s waiting for me.” Okay, the “Cheerio” may have been a bit much, but I’m sure his accent is British. I try moving, but my body betrays me; it just won’t budge.

  His weight shifts slightly. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I can see the vague outline of his body. I so want to reach out and trace his face, run my hands down his chest, move them down to his . . . OH, GOD! What in the hell is wrong with me? I never act like this.

  Not that I’ve ever had the opportunity.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. I would never take advantage of an inebriated female, unless you want me to.” His “no pressure” reply sounds light, but it feels strangely ominous, carnal. “I don’t want to fuck you. I just want to taste you.” There’s no remorse in his tone.

  I’m so startled that I can’t speak. My brain shuts down at the same time. Did he just say what I think he said? I must be really out of it because this totally smoking hot man just offered me oral. My mind and mouth may have gone completely mute, but my stupid body is in betrayal mode. I’m so wet that my panties are soaked right through. I press my legs together, hoping he can’t tell. My body ignites with want, with desire, with raging fire. These feelings are so foreign to me . . . maybe because it’s been seven years. Whatever the reason is, these sensations are new and I like them.

  “Let me give you pleasure.” His voice is a mere whisper. “Give me your hand. Let me show you how much I want you.”

  Like a woman under a spell, I hold out my hand. He gently takes it, rubbing the inside with the pad of his thumb. He places my hand in his lap, and I feel his erection straining against his zipper. His hard length is intimidating, and my breath hitches with trepidation.

  “I need you to tell me you want this. Tell me you’ll let me taste you.” His own breathing sounds shallow and choppy.

  Holy crap, is that a question? Hell yes! Wait—no, no, no! What am I thinking? This man is a stranger. I don’t do things like this. This isn’t me. How can I be sexual with a stranger? I couldn’t even be this way with Jared.

  He said no sex . . . just oral, right? Well, that wouldn’t be so bad. My mouth goes dry just thinking about it.

  If I do this, am I a slut? I can blame it on the tequila. I am pretty buzzed right now. Well, not that drunk, but still I almost can’t think straight. I’m having a hard time contemplating how to articulate my answer.

  All I can come up with is, “Please.” It comes as a squeak, almost childlike.

  I am so overcome with need that I’m not even sure if it’s the alcohol that’s making me burn, or this man that’s making me feel impassioned. His voice, his touch—everything brings my lust to its knees.

  I’ve spent the last seven years wanting to forget one man, while running away from all others. I read soft porn all day long, going through the motions of believing in love. But then I bury myself in my work so I can hide in the bookstore, and then I go home to Earl, my battery boy toy. I actually had begun to believe that I was past my wants and desires for a man. Now, after Jared, I dread feeling any kind of response, especially one towards the opposite sex. The pain is still too deep, and my bleeding is emotionally draining. This man has revived something, a burning deep inside, making me feel things that I didn't think I could feel again. It’s as if my body is craving him. I can feel my blood rushing through my veins. I can hear my heart pounding insistently in my chest. My skin feels electrified. My body feels alive. I want him.

  “I need you to scoot up towards me as far as you can.” His tone sounds clipped, as if he’s trying to control his own arousal.

  I move toward his voice, my arms and legs shaking. He takes both my legs, placing them on his lap. I can still feel his erection pressing against his jeans, hard, pulsating.

  “Fuck, you have mouthwatering toes,” he says as he lifts my foot to his mouth and his lips caress my sensitive digits.

  His hands lightly fondle my feet and ankles. I feel my sex throb and it drums like a tribal beat. He takes his hands away from my feet, passing them over the hem of my skirt. When he stops at the edge and begins pushing it up, I suddenly feel flustered, embarrassed, shameful, and very excited. Once he has pushed my skirt up, practically to my bra, he runs his hands along my stomach and settles them on my panties. I close my eyes, and the only sound I perceive is our heavy breathing. I feel his fingers press against my mound and I let out a small gasp.

  “Your panties feel pretty. I wish I could see them. I wish I could see you.” The sound of his voice mesmerizes me, and I almost wish he could see them too. These panties are special—ninety-dollar La Perla, thank you very much. Evidently, they’re lucky as well.

  His thumbs catch the sides of my thong, pulling it down. My face is heated now and I’m glad it’s dark. What I’m doing is so far out of my comfort zone, I hardly recognize who I am. I a
m actually letting this man drag my panties all the way down to my ankles. He lifts my feet, one trembling foot at a time, and effectively pulls them off, leaving them on the cushion of the chair. Laying his hands on my thighs, he pushes them apart, lifts one of my legs and anchors it on his shoulder. His hands are strong, his skin so hot, and my stupid legs just fall open with no resistance, like some wanton hussy from a historical romance novel. I’m so embarrassed with my reaction to him, but I can’t help it—I feel like a horny fly caught in his lusty web.

  His hand grazes the flesh of my thigh as his fingers make their way to my sex. He pauses at the outer edges of my core, just for a brief second, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to build up the anticipation or giving me one last chance to back out of his promise of pleasure. It doesn’t matter anyway—there’s no way I can break his spell over me, and I stay silent. His questing fingers trace my swollen lips and then they separate my folds, allowing a whisper of cooler air to caress my heated tissue. I swear, I can feel the wetness coating my naked sex, and as he penetrates me with one finger, the sucking sound that accompanies that amazing finger is all the evidence I need in regards to my own carnal needs. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and release it with a soft moan.

  “You’re so wet, so tight.” His voice sounds deeper, huskier. No one has ever spoken to me like that before.

  I feel something building up inside me. More than anything, I want to touch this man, drown in him—be consumed by him.

  “I can tell you’re a little anxious.” He chuckles softly when my inner muscles automatically clench and hug his finger. “Baby, trust me, I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you come harder than anyone ever has. I take pride in my work.”

  Wow . . . he is pretty, but cocky much?

  So, this is normal for him? Obviously, any man who looks like him must have tons of women—experienced, sexy, young women. Why me? He teases me with a second finger, running it up and down my slit, and then pressing on my clit. Oh God, I’ve never felt anything like this. He suddenly removes his fingers. I feel slightly deprived, surprisingly saddened at the loss.