The Club

by Lauren Rowe

  “Of course I do. In your eyes.”

  My voice goes quiet. “And you like that about me?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s the best part.”

  Where did this woman come from? She’s everything I was looking for when I joined The Club in the first place—what I was looking for and didn’t even realize.

  “Any other pictures?” she asks. “Anyone else in your family?”

  I’m about to say, “Just my uncle,” but instead, I shake my head. For some reason, there’s a lump in my throat. “Can I show you another time?” I manage to say. I clear my throat.

  “Of course,” she says gently. She lays her hand on my forearm.

  I nod. That lump hasn’t gone away.

  “You know what I want to do right now? I want to hold your face in my hands and pepper your beautiful cheeks and eyes and nose and lips with soft kisses.”

  I exhale. I can’t imagine anything better than that right now.

  “But seeing as how you hate peanut butter and jelly, I think that would be most unkind of me to do without first brushing my teeth.”

  Somehow, she’s managed to make me smile, just like that. “Good thinking.”

  She taps her temple with her finger. “I’m always thinking, Jonas,” she says. She winks.

  I smirk. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  Chapter 16

  Sarah

  I’m standing in Jonas Faraday’s bathroom, brushing my teeth in Jonas Faraday’s sink, staring at myself in Jonas Faraday’s mirror. How did I get here? Life is full of surprises; that’s for sure.

  I close my eyes as I scrub my teeth.

  The look on his face when I asked him about his family—that deep sadness that crept into his eyes—just about broke my heart. What happened to this poor man when he was a kid? Clearly, he’s not ready to talk about it with me.

  From my research, I know Jonas’ father, Joseph, died when Jonas was seventeen. But I didn’t see anything in particular about how his father died. And, come to think about it, I didn’t see any mention whatsoever of his mother. I guess I just assumed she was alive and sitting on the board of some children’s hospital or planning tea parties for her local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution. But based on what I saw in Jonas’ face just now, it’s clear she’s not alive and well—and whatever happened, he’s deeply pained by it.

  I place my toothbrush on the counter next to the sink and rinse my mouth out.

  There’s a soft knock on the door.

  “Sarah?” he asks.

  “Come in.”

  He does. “Will you shower with me?” he asks.

  “I’d love to.”

  He steps right up to me like a panther, his muscles taut and overwhelming.

  “But first.” I reach out and take his face in my hands. “I’ve been wanting to do this all night long.” I kiss his lips gently. It’s not a passionate kiss—it’s a nurturing one. A kiss that says, No matter how fucked up you happen to be, Jonas Faraday, I still want you.

  He closes his eyes and sighs deeply as my lips skim past his lips to his eyelids, across his eyebrows, and to the tip of his perfectly sculpted nose. I bring my fingers up to his face and trace his brow line, marveling yet again at the perfect symmetry of his features.

  He sighs again, melting into my touch. When he finally opens his eyes, he looks at me with such need—such earnest, raw, vulnerable need—I reach out and hug him to me like he’s the lost child I’ve finally recovered at a busy mall.

  He returns my fervent embrace and exhales into my hair.

  We stand, embracing for a moment in silence. When he pulls away and looks at my face again, he looks instantly concerned.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I shake my head. There’s nothing wrong, as far as I know. I’m just finding it hard to ignore the fierce emotions swirling inside me. “Nothing’s wrong,” I whisper. I attempt a smile.

  He disengages from me briefly to turn on the hot water in the shower.

  When he turns back to me, he brushes my hair out of my eyes.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I shrug. “If I answer that question, my strategy for the night will be blown to bits.”

  He half-smiles. “I mean physically. Down there.”

  Down there? This from the man who spews words like “pussy” and “cunt” as easily as “hello” and “goodbye?”

  “Wow, a kinder, gentler Jonas,” I mumble.

  He looks sheepish.

  “I like it,” I assure him. “I’m pretty sore,” I say. “You nailed me pretty good tonight, big boy.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes light up. “Twice.”

  I smirk.

  “Let’s recharge our batteries a little,” he suggests. “Even I need to get my second wind. You’re killing me.”

  “Old man,” I tease.

  He flashes a crooked grin. “We’re not in any rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “More than two to seven hours?” I smile so he knows I’m trying to be funny. But, honestly, I’m nervous. If I’m reading this situation wrong, if this is just a one-night, Cinderella-at-the-ball kind of thing for him, I’ll be crushed. Am I feeling the way every woman feels after experiencing the divine Jonas Faraday? Is what I’m feeling right now the precise “problem” he described in his application—the female inability to distinguish physical rapture from some kind of romantic fairytale? Are the feelings I’m having exactly what pushed him into The Club in the first place?

  “Yeah, longer than two to seven hours,” he says softly.

  It’s vague, yes, but, hey, it’s something. I’ll take it.

  “All I wanna do is touch your skin. Okay? That’s all for now.”

  I nod. Thank God. I really, really don’t want to disappoint him—and, of course, faking it is out of the question—but I just don’t think I’ve got enough gas left in the tank to attempt those butterfly flutters for the third time in one night. I’m only human, after all.

  Steam is beginning to fill the bathroom and cloud the mirrors.

  He reaches behind my back and unzips my dress. Unlike in the bathroom at the restaurant, he gently pulls it up, over my head, prompting me to instinctively hold my arms up over my head. When my dress is off, he surveys my body with fire in his eyes. With one swift motion, he reaches behind my back and unclasps my bra, freeing my breasts. His breath halts as he takes in the sight of them.

  He bites his lip.

  Without being asked, I take off my G-string and stand before him in nothing but my smile. He looks me up and down, blinking slowly, like he’s trying to control himself from tackling me.

  “You’re incredible,” he says, his voice brimming with desire.

  I reach out with a trembling hand and unbutton his shirt, slowly pulling it down, off his shoulders. Holy crap, his torso is a work of art. I can’t imagine how many hours he’s spent in the gym to sculpt his body into such a breathtaking display of the human form. He’s glorious.

  I run my fingertip over the long, tattooed inscription running down the length of his left forearm. Now that I see it in person, I can tell it’s written in the Greek alphabet. But now’s not the time to ask him about it—now’s not the time for words. And I’m pretty sure I know what it says, anyway. I run my finger down his other tattoo, too, on his right forearm—also in Greek. I don’t have a guess as to what this one says, but, again, I don’t need to know right now.

  He reaches down, pulls off his pants and briefs, and throws them across the bathroom with gusto.

  I laugh. But when he turns back to me and stands squarely in front of me, his muscles tensing and his erection at full attention, I stop laughing. Holy hell. I’ve never seen a more spectacular looking man. And he’s looking at me like I’m beauty incarnate.

  With a loud exhale, he grabs my hand and leads me into the steaming shower. The hot water pelts me in the face and runs down my chest as he stands behind me, gliding his han
ds over my wet hips, my butt, my back, nudging me with his hardness. I spread my legs slightly and brace myself for him to enter me, but he doesn’t, so I turn back around to face him, the hot water cascading around us. His lips are instantly on mine, his hands on my breasts.

  I wouldn’t have believed it possible after the rigorous sex we’ve already had tonight, but I’m yearning for him again. But just when I’m about to grab his penis and guide him into me, Jonas pulls away and grabs a washcloth. He pumps some shower gel onto it and glides it across my back and down to my butt.

  “Best ass ever,” he whispers in my ear.

  An all-consuming ache has consumed me. I want him again. I don’t care if I’m sore. And I certainly don’t care about coming. I just want to feel him inside me again—to be as close to him as humanly possible. I reach for his erection, but he gently guides my hand away.

  I glare at him and he smiles.

  He pumps some more shower gel onto his hand, and reaches down between my legs. I gasp at his gentle touch, bracing myself for more—wanting more—but he merely cleans me, ever so gently, and then pulls his hand away. He grabs the showerhead off its attachment and carefully washes the suds off every inch of my skin. When he holds the showerhead between my legs, he leaves it there for a moment, letting the warm, strong stream caress me. His kiss is becoming more and more impassioned. I lift my leg, aching for him to enter me again—and he takes the showerhead away. He turns the water off, smirking at me.

  What the hell?

  He exits the shower, leaving me standing there, dripping and panting. He grabs a thick, white towel off the rack.

  Not at all what I expected.

  With great care, he wraps the towel around me and grabs one for himself. Without a word, he takes my hand and leads me out of the shower.

  What the effing hell? He actually wanted to take a shower in the shower?

  “Slow burn, baby,” he whispers, reading my thoughts. He winks. He dries us both off and leads me out of the bathroom to his bed. “Please.” He motions to his bed.

  I’m happy to comply. With great fanfare, I crawl onto his bed like a minx—arching my back and sticking out my butt like I’m a wildcat stalking my prey. After a moment, I swing my face back to look at him, smiling broadly.

  But he’s not smiling. No, he’s staring at me, his eyes smoldering, his erection straining. His eyes could cut glass.

  Oh man, just that look from him, and I’m on fire. I flip over onto my back and spread myself out, inviting him to join me.

  But he doesn’t join me in the bed.

  I glance up at him.

  His eyes are fixed on me.

  I raise my arms above my head and spread my legs out wide. “I’m all yours,” I say.

  His erection twitches, but he stands stock still, not taking his eyes off me.

  What’s he waiting for?

  He takes a deep breath and strides purposefully to his laptop across the room. “I Melt With You” by Modern English—one of my all-time favorite songs—begins playing. My heart soars. This is the last song in the world I’d expect him to play for me. I would have figured him to be a Nine Inch Nails kind of guy.

  Jonas is a jungle cat. I’m his prey. He crawls slowly over to me on the bed as the singer from Modern English croons about us melting together. In a flash, Jonas’ commanding body hovers over mine, his muscles bulging and tensing as he rests on his forearms on either side of my head.

  The song is seducing me, swirling around me, captivating me.

  “I love this song,” I murmur as his lips press into mine.

  “Best song ever,” he says, kissing me slowly.

  Here I thought he was going to fuck me like a beast again, and he wants to stop this perfect moment and melt with me? My heart is bursting.

  He kisses me deeply. His hands are touching me, every inch of me.

  He groans with pleasure. “Sarah,” he mumbles into my lips. “Oh my God.”

  I close my eyes. The song lyrics, his strong body pressing into mine, his hands on my skin, his soft lips tenderly kissing me—it’s all swirling around me and over me and through me, transporting me to another dimension. This might be the most sublime moment of my entire life.

  “You’re perfect,” he says.

  I can’t respond. I’m floating, reeling, flying.

  His hand finds the wetness between my legs and gently caresses me with the softest, barely-there touch. A soft moan escapes my mouth.

  I follow his lead and touch him slowly, gently.

  He lets out a long, shaky breath.

  I’m suddenly anxious. This is it. He’s going to try to make me come, and I know in my heart it’s not going to happen right now. I’m sore and exhausted. I’ve never had this much sex in my life. Even if having an orgasm were possible for me, which is not a sure thing at all, what if my body’s just not up to it right now? I’ll never know if I failed because of my body’s current state of exhaustion or if I’m just not capable of it, period.

  “Just relax,” he coos. “We’re not trying to accomplish anything. We’re just touching each other, that’s all.”

  He kisses me and I wrap my legs around him, pressing my body into his.

  “No pressure,” he whispers, pressing against me, nipping at my ear. “We’ll just make out.”

  I don’t want this magical night to end in disappointment for him—or for me. I want to be the live wire he thinks I am. But I’ve never had sex three times in one night in my life, and I’m losing steam. If he finally goes down on me now—the thing he loves to do more than anything—and absolutely nothing happens for me, then what? Other guys have tried, and other guys have failed. What if I just can’t? I want to give it the ol’ college try when I can give it my best.

  His hand strokes my cheek. “We’ll just pretend we’re teenagers tonight. We’ll just make out.”

  It’s like he can read my mind. I nod and close my eyes.

  The song enraptures me.

  I feel his lips on my neck and then on my breasts. He licks my nipples and I can’t help but arch my back with pleasure. His tongue is warm, confident. His hands rub my thighs, my belly, and my butt (which he squeezes with enthusiasm). His fingers return to lightly caress the increasing wetness between my legs.

  Another soft moan escapes me. I’m suddenly aching for him, longing for him to slip his fingers inside me—I don’t care if I’m raw and sore from our previous escapades. I gyrate with pleasure, straining toward him. I reach down and gently fondle him.

  He moans.

  My head is spinning. I like the feel of his erection in my hand. I like the feel of his warm, taut muscles against my body. I like the feel of his lips on my body, his fingers. Oh God, his fingers have just found the exact spot that drives me wild. I moan. Lord have mercy, he is so effing good at this.

  His tongue flickers onto my breasts, my nipples, and then moves south, down to my belly. His tongue visits my belly button and heads to the inside of my thigh. I strain toward the warmth of his tongue, willing him to move to the left and find my epicenter, but his tongue remains on my inner thigh, teasing me. My body is throbbing, yearning for him, apparently oblivious to the self-doubt wracking my brain.

  Jonas exhales audibly. His face is perched between my legs. I can feel his warm breath on me. I spread my legs wider, yearning for him. He pauses, his mouth hovering right next to me. Oh my God, I’m throbbing for him. Forget what I said about holding off. I shift, positioning myself, making it easy for him. I tilt my hips up to him.

  I’m trembling.

  He sighs audibly.

  I open my eyes and look up at him.

  His face is hovering between my legs. His eyes are on fire. He exhales again and a puff of air teases me.

  He licks his lips. He looks like a big cat right now. “There’s no rush.” Clearly, he’s saying that more to himself than to me. He brings his hand to my clit and brushes it ever so gently again.

  I shudder. But I don’t want his fingers anymore.
I want his tongue.

  He licks his lips. “I’ve got to taste you, just once. I have to know what you taste like or else I’m gonna have a fucking stroke.”

  I nod and close my eyes. Since I first read his words describing his allegedly mind-boggling lingual talents, I’ve fantasized repeatedly about him using his nimble tongue on me, his somber eyes gazing up at me from between my legs.

  “Just one taste.”

  I nod again. I can’t breathe. I’m panting.

  Nothing.

  Why isn’t he doing it? I open my eyes and look down. He’s staring at me, clearly waging some kind of internal battle. “I want to lick you so bad,” he says.

  “So do it already. Jeez.”

  He exhales like a boxer about to go into the ring. He makes a big show of loosening his jaw. “This isn’t it, okay? I’m gonna do this for real later when you’re not sore and tired. This is just for me—because I’m an idiot and I can’t resist you. Don’t get a complex about it, okay? You’re not gonna come right now, so don’t get all fucked-up in the head about it, okay? This isn’t it.”

  I nod. No pressure. Just a little taste. Got it.

  “Don’t think.”

  I nod again and lean back, closing my eyes. “Hit me.”

  Without warning, his tongue licks me in one clean swoop like I’m a melting, dripping ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

  I cry out. Holy fuck, that feels good. My entire body jerks violently at the shock of it.

  He makes a low, guttural sound, and then his warm tongue is penetrating me, his lips devouring me. And, just like that, I’m losing my fucking mind. Forget butterfly wings fluttering at a distance—a fighter jet just revved its engines somewhere deep inside me. Holy motherfucking shit.

  His mouth abruptly stops its assault and his face is suddenly an inch away from mine.

  “Taste yourself,” he whispers, pressing his lips to mine. “So good.” He plunges his tongue into my mouth, and my entire body bursts into flames. I’ve never tasted myself before. I’m barely there on his tongue, but I’m there. And I’m undeniably delicious.

  The song tells me again how much he wants to stop everything and melt his body into mine.

  “I want you inside me,” I breathe.