The Club

by Lauren Rowe

“Because I’m Mount Everest, plain and simple—and you, Mr. Faraday, are an avid climber.”

  He lets out an exasperated noise. “I don’t even know what you look like and all I’ve been able to think about is finding you, touching you, hearing your voice. I’ve been going out of my mind for you, Sarah. And then I finally find you and—”

  “You sure didn’t look like you were going out of your mind for me last night.”

  “I was going out of my mind for you especially last night.”

  “Really?” I chuckle. “Was that before, during, or after you fucked Miss Purple?”

  He pauses. “Yes. All of the above. But especially during.” His voice is soft but impassioned.

  I laugh heartily. Spitefully. He wants me to believe he was losing his mind over me while having sex with another woman? Is that supposed to make me feel all mushy inside? Or turn me on? Even if it turns out I like things a bit naughtier than I realized (as I’m recently learning, thanks to His Supreme Holiness), I’m not effing deranged.

  “Listen, it’s not easy to explain.” He sighs. “And not over the phone. But, goddammit, please, please, please, just let me see you. Just let me talk to you in person.”

  “Why? Talking is just ‘prelude,’ right? Right along with eating or laughing or going to a concert or doing just about anything that isn’t ‘fucking.’ It’s all one long, drawn-out ‘prelude’ to you becoming ‘God.’”

  He makes that exasperated noise again. “This is so fucked up. There is no other circumstance where you’d know all of that. This is . . .” He grunts with frustration. “This is so fucked up.”

  I don’t say anything. He’s right. There’s no other circumstance where I’d know every single one of Jonas Faraday’s twisted thoughts before he’s had a chance to dazzle me with his smile and perfect abs. I smirk. It must be killing him that I know what I know. And thank God I do. Otherwise, I’d be in for a heart-shattering ride, I’m sure.

  “Would you please just let me take you to coffee? Or dinner? I just want to talk to you.”

  “Why go through the motions of Valentine’s Day bullshit, when I know you’d hate every minute of it?”

  He grunts. I don’t know what that sound means. “This is so fucked up,” he mumbles again.

  “And anyway, it’d be hard to have a normal conversation with you, knowing all the while you just want to ‘fuck me in the bathroom,’ anyway.”

  There’s a long pause. He’s not talking.

  “Hello?” I say. “Are you still there?”

  He lets out a shaky breath. “God, you’re everything I thought you’d be.” He swallows hard. “I want you so bad,” he finally says.

  That’s not what I expected him to say. His words hit me right between the legs. “So,” I huff, but there’s no conviction in my tone—only sudden arousal. What just happened? “So I’m right—about the bathroom thing?” I can barely get the words out. I’m not sure if I want him to admit it or deny it.

  “Halfway right. Yes, I absolutely want to fuck you. More than I’ve ever wanted to fuck any woman in my entire life. But not in a bathroom. In my bed. Nice and slow.”

  He lets that hang in the air for a second.

  The throbbing between my legs is becoming insistent.

  “When I finally get to fuck you, it’s going to be in my bed where I can take my time, where I can see your gorgeous skin against my crisp white sheets.” He lets out a ragged sigh. Oh, wow, he’s really turned on. “But that’s not why I called. I just want to see you,” he continues. “And talk to you. I have so much to tell you, but I can’t say it all in a telephone call. I mean, yes, of course, I want to do more than talk to you, much more, but if you let me see you tonight, I’ll be happy to get to touch any part of your skin—any part at all—your hand, your arm, your face. Whatever you’ll let me touch. Your ear. Your toe.” I can hear him smiling. “Your elbow.”

  I’m on fire. He’s ignited something inside me I didn’t know existed. These are not the words I expected to come out of Jonas Faraday. Especially not directed at me.

  “Sarah?”

  “Did you fuck Miss Purple last night?” My tone is even.

  “Yeah,” he says gruffly, without hesitation.

  “That was an odd thing to do if you supposedly wanted me, don’t you think?”

  My question is rhetorical—meant as a cynical, mocking barb. But he surprises me by answering in earnest.

  “Not odd at all. You deleted your email account and wrote me that handwritten note, basically telling me to fuck off. So I decided to make myself stop wanting you the only way I knew how. I paid for that stupid membership; might as well use it, right? And then, it serves me right, the whole thing with Miss Purple turned into the biggest cluster fuck—the worst sex of my life. Totally backfired. Being with her just made me want you more.” He exhales again. “So much more.”

  I’m breathless. I didn’t expect any of that.

  I know I’m supposed to be appalled and offended and skeptical, and I’m probably supposed to hurl some angry or snarky comment at him, cutting him down to size and lashing out at him for being sick and twisted. Maybe I’m supposed to say something simple and sarcastic like, “Oh, how sweet.” But the truth is, I do think what he’s said is sweet. He’s never even laid eyes on me, and he spent last night screwing an incredibly hot woman and wishing she were me? Maybe someone else wouldn’t understand—maybe someone else would judge me harshly for what I’m about to say—but I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I know I just got the equivalent of a Hallmark card from Jonas Faraday—and it makes me want him. It makes me want him bad.

  I unzip my jeans and let my hand wander in.

  “Did you make her come?” I ask, arousal seeping into my tone.

  He pauses a long time, considering. I’m sure he’s wondering if this is a trap.

  “Did you make her come?” I ask again. This time, there’s no doubt I’m totally turned on.

  He inhales sharply, obviously realizing I’m blazing hot. “No.” His answer hangs in the air for a long time. “She faked it,” he finally adds. “Just like you said.”

  After what he said in his application, I know how much her faking it must have upset him, but I’m selfishly glad she did. My fingers continue their exploration. “I’m touching myself, Jonas,” I say.

  I can hear him trembling across the phone line. “Sarah,” he whispers.

  “Did you go down on her?” I ask. I should be disgusted. Outraged. Hurt. But I’m not. Far from it. My fingers find their target. I moan. “Touch yourself, Jonas, touch yourself and tell me if you licked her,” I say.

  His breathing hitches sharply. “I started to, but the second my tongue touched her, I couldn’t do it.” He groans. “I was repulsed.”

  I should express utter indignation. I should call him a man-slut and hang up on him. I should say something about him being a pig. But instead, I fondle myself with even more enthusiasm. He was repulsed going down on that incredibly hot woman? “Tell me, Jonas.”

  As if reading my mind, he instantly adds, “Because she wasn’t you.” His voice is hoarse. I know he’s handling himself roughly.

  “More,” I say. I can’t for the life of me understand why I’m so turned on right now, but hearing him say he went down on that ridiculously good looking woman and wished she were me is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. My hand is becoming insistent inside my jeans. “Touch yourself and tell me more,” I insist. Oh God, my head is spinning. “Touch yourself, Jonas.”

  He tries to catch his breath. “I started in on her with my tongue ... and she started moaning and groaning and thrashing around right away.” His voice has taken on a tone I haven’t heard from him. It’s guttural. “She said I was ‘amazing.’”

  A deep-throated chuckle escapes my throat. I can hear him smiling on the other end of the line in reply.

  “Your laugh is sexy,” he whispers.

  “What was her name?” I ask.

  “Stacy,” he spits out
.

  “Stacy the Faker.”

  “Stacy the Faker,” he repeats quietly. “I wanted her name to be Sarah.”

  My hand is getting pretty good at this. I moan. “What happened next, Jonas?” My heart is racing.

  “I was down there for twenty seconds, practically gagging the whole time, and she acted like I was the second coming of Christ.”

  I lick my lips. “So what’d you do?” I begin sliding my fingers in and out of my wetness with surprising skill. I’m getting better and better at this.

  “Oh, Sarah,” He groans. “I love your voice.”

  “Tell me,” I say. “Tell me, Jonas.”

  “You’re driving me crazy. Let me come see you right now. I didn’t call you to—”

  “Tell me,” I say, and my tone leaves little room for argument. My fingers are finding ways to give myself pleasure I’ve never discovered before. I’m frantic.

  “I fucked her.”

  The words send a shiver down my spine. My breathing hitches.

  “I closed my eyes and imagined she was you, and I fucked her. Hard. I didn’t care if she came—I didn’t want her to come. All I cared about was fucking her and imagining she was you.” He lets out an animalistic sound that makes me want to leap through the phone and straddle him.

  “Tell me how you imagined she was me.”

  “I imagined she was the woman behind the menu—I imagined you were the woman behind the menu.”

  I’m flabbergasted. How the hell did he make that connection? I was tucked away in the corner of a crowded bar, my face hidden. Why did he even notice me in that bar, let alone make the connection? “Why?”

  He doesn’t answer. I can tell he’s busy on the other end of the call.

  “Jonas,” I whisper. “Tell me.”

  “Your skin, Sarah.” His voice halts, like his pleasure just escalated on his end. “Your hair. Your hands. That ring on your thumb.” He lets out a low groan. “Oh my God, that ring.”

  “You like that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he moans. “I like that. And your big brown eyes over the top of the menu, glaring at me. You were so pissed at me. I liked it.”

  My hand is frantic now. I touch my thumb ring with my index finger and imagine he’s the one touching it. If he were here right now, I’d take him into me and ride him as deeply as my body could manage. “What else did you imagine?”

  “Your breasts. I imagined licking your nipples and making them hard.” He moans again.

  “What about my face?” The hair on my neck is standing up.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you look like, I want you.”

  I am so aroused I’m almost in pain. “I’m so wet,” I whisper. The nerve endings between my legs are frantic for him. I throw my head back and moan into the phone.

  I hear him come on the other end of the call. It’s an unmistakable sound. Wow, it’s a total turn-on. Oh God, he makes me feel wild, like I can say or do anything, no matter how depraved. I feel like such a bad, bad girl with him. And I like it.

  My fingers continue their assault on myself. I want to join him in his climax so badly, and I’ve never been so hot in all my life. Maybe this is finally the moment, right here, right now, with him. Maybe discovering this bad girl inside me is what I’ve needed all along to finally let go, to finally let it happen . . .

  I keep trying, insistently.

  But after a moment, I realize it’s not going to happen, no matter how crazy-aroused I am. It’s just not going to happen. As usual.

  And if not now, then probably never.

  I pull my hand out of my pants.

  He’s quiet on the other end of the line.

  There’s a long pause.

  That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life, and I still didn’t come. I’m hopeless. If I couldn’t let go and let my deepest desires overtake me when I was having dirty phone sex with an outrageously sexy man who hacked into U Dub’s server to find me, when I was feeling tingles and waves of pleasure I’ve never felt before, when his husky voice described fucking another woman and imagining she was me, sight unseen, then I’m obviously never going to get off.

  I just have to face it.

  And that’s not good. In fact, when it comes to Jonas Faraday, it’s a frickin’ disaster. Getting women off is all this man cares about. If I can’t get off, then what can I offer him? Frustration and disappointment. For both of us. Plus, quite possibly, a little heartbreak, too, at least on my end.

  This is a no-win situation for me, I suddenly realize. If I never come with him (most likely outcome), he’ll move along quickly to someone who will. And if I do eventually come—glory be!—he’ll move along quickly then, too, just like he said he would on his application. Either way, this story ends with him moving along quickly—whether I want him to or not.

  He’s been honest about his disdain for messy female emotions—but I’m not sure my heart is capable of distinguishing the feelings he invokes in me from my perhaps naïve but sincere belief in love and hope and meaningful human connection. I don’t need weekend trips to IKEA, mind you—I’ve got a whole lot of living to do before I start picking out end tables with anyone—but I certainly don’t want to knowingly enter into some kind of meaningless fuckfest with a man who tells me right from the start he’s going to toss me into the trash right after he gets what he wants. (Or doesn’t, as the case may be.)

  My high has crashed down around my ears. My brain has elbowed its way to the front of this parade, past my heart, way past my crotch, and taken over.

  Jonas Faraday is a climber. And, yes, right now, he’s climbing me—which of course feels pretty damned good. Intoxicating, like a drug. But I’ve got to get off the drug. For my own sanity. Once he’s had me and gone on to tomorrow’s purple-bracelet-wearing hottie, I’ll be left in a state of pathetic withdrawal, like a junkie in a back alley hankering for my next fix—and wishing to God I’d never taken that first hit of Jonas Faraday in the first place. I might think I’m ready to give free reign to the bad girl I’ve recently discovered inside of me, but the good girl who’s been in charge a helluva lot longer knows that even one hit of this addictive man will probably lead to irreversible, regrettable, heartbreaking pain. If not brain damage. And it’s just not worth it. Look at what he’s already done to me! For the love of God, I just masturbated to him telling me how he licked and screwed another woman last night. What’s happening to me? I’m becoming just as sick and twisted as he is. Why, oh why does he make me so crazy?

  I sigh. I’m resigned. “Did you come?” I ask him. My tone is matter-of-fact, though my intention is cruel.

  I hear him smile. He sighs. “Mmm. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve wanted to hear your voice for so long. You’ve got that little bit of gravel in your voice—”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  There’s a long pause as he figures out what to say. “Shit,” he finally says, reality dawning on him. “I’m so sorry.” His distress is palpable. “Sarah—”

  “No need to be sorry. That’s just the way it is with me, like I’ve been telling you.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t call you with the intention of—”

  “Don’t apologize. You’ve been clear about what you want, and I can’t give it to you. The reality of me just doesn’t live up to the fantasy, as it turns out.”

  “You’re better than any fantasy.” His voice breaks with sudden emotion.

  “No.”

  “Why are you doing this? Tell me what’s going on inside that beautiful head of yours right now.”

  “Beautiful head? You’ve never even seen my ‘beautiful head.’”

  “I’ll come over right now and fix that.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’ve got a lot of studying to do,” I finally say.

  He
remains quiet.

  “So, I’m gonna go.”

  “Why are you withdrawing all of a sudden? You don’t have to do that. Just let me come see you. If you’d just talk to me in person, I know—”

  “What’s the point? Don’t you see? What just happened is a gigantic metaphor—a metaphor for how it would be for you and me. Neither of us satisfied in the end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I don’t answer him. I can’t figure out how to explain what I’m feeling.

  His voice suddenly flashes acute anger. “Oh, I get it. Not enough upside for you, huh?” He lets out an angry blast of air.

  I pause, giving the matter due consideration. Well, that’s one way to put it.

  “Correct,” I say evenly. “Honestly, when it comes to you, I don’t see any upside at all.”

  Chapter 11

  Jonas

  I blew it. I fucking blew it. I’m such an idiot. She already thinks I’m chasing her with my dick and nothing else, and I just proved her point in spades. Fuck! I didn’t call her intending to have phone sex with her! I actually wanted to talk to her—to tell her I can’t stop thinking about her, that I’ve been going fucking crazy over her, to tell her she kicks my ass and I love it, that I moved mountains to find her, sight unseen, because she’s worth it. I even wanted to tell her she’s made me start to rethink a few things, that I might even have been wrong about a thing or two, and that’s a hard thing for me to admit to anyone. I wanted to tell her I want to make her come more than words can say—and I haven’t even seen her yet. So what does that say? It says she’s driven me goddamned crazy, that’s what. And then, despite all my good intentions, I just went right ahead and jacked the fuck off on our phone call—exactly what she would have expected me to do—and left her hanging out to dry with her hand in her own ice-cold pants, feeling like a cheap phone operator at 1-877-SEXTALK.

  Why didn’t I stop and think before I reached down and started jerking off like a jackass? This is a girl who’s never, ever had an orgasm in her entire life. Why can’t I get that through my thick head? I can’t assume anything. I have to handle her with kid gloves so she doesn’t freak out and get all up inside her own overthinking head and start getting some kind of complex about not being able to “give me what I need.” If she would just trust me, learn to let go and trust me, I know I could deliver her to Nirvana. I know I could. But she doesn’t know that—and that’s the point. I can’t even begin to understand how it must screw with her mind to have sex, time after time, without coming even once—to not even believe there’s a possibility of coming. I can’t even fathom it. I mean, I’ve never had sex and not gotten off. Ever. Literally. Not even with fucking Stacy the Faker.