The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

“She’s losing her mind.”

“She’s gonna come.”

“Oh God, yes, look at her. She’s on the verge.”

In an instant, every one of Jonas’ fractured poltergeists converges on top of me, uniting and solidifying into Jonas’ actual physical form.

“I love you, Sarah,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes.

“Don’t leave me, Jonas.”

He cups my face in his hands. They’re dripping in red wine. “I’ll never leave you,” he says. “I love you.” He lifts his head and addresses our audience. “I love her. I love Sarah Cruz.”

My clit, as well as everything connected to it, begins pulsing with emphatic pleasure. It’s a sensation so concentrated, so undeniable, so
subversive
, it yanks me right out of my dream and into consciousness, at which point I realize that all the delicious pulsing occurring in my dream is actually happening in real life, too, inside my physical body. Holy frickin’ ecstasy, I’m having an effing orgasm in my sleep! I can’t believe it—the girl who only recently thought she couldn’t have an orgasm at all, under any circumstance, a self-proclaimed Mount Everest Kind of Girl—is coming all by herself, powered by nothing but her own twisted imagination. Oh. My. Gawd. And what an orgasm it is. Talk about conquering the unconquerable mountain. Holy crappola. I feel like my entire pelvis, led by my clit, is going to explode right off my body and zip around the room like an errant balloon.

When my body stops pulsing, I grope feverishly behind me for Jonas’ sleeping body and press my naked backside into him. Quickly, urgently, I stroke him into hardness (which isn’t difficult to do), and, even before he’s fully awakened, I slip his full length inside me and ride him rhythmically, reaching between my legs to feel him slipping in and out of me, touching myself, touching him, rubbing myself against his hard shaft, moaning his name. In no time at all, his mind becomes aware of what his body is doing. His lips find my neck, his warm hands find my breasts and belly and hips and clit, his fingers slip inside my moaning mouth, and his movement inside me deepens and intensifies.

I close my eyes as the pleasure inside me escalates and fills me to bursting. I remember him lapping at the red wine from the sensitive folds of my skin, how the envious diners watched us—and, most of all, how Jonas proclaimed, “I love Sarah Cruz” loud enough for everyone to hear. Lo and behold, warm waves of concentrated pleasure begin warping inside me again, emanating from my epicenter, making my body tighten and clench and release and contract around Jonas’ erection.

His arms embrace me from behind and I clutch them around me, moving my body with his, coaxing him to his climax. But, much to my surprise, he pulls out of me, pushes me onto my back, and begins pleasuring me in every conceivable way. He kisses my breasts and neck and face and runs his hands over my thighs and sucks on my fingers and toes and kisses my inner thighs, and, finally, laps at me with his warm and magical tongue, licking my sweet spot with particular fervor—and in record time, I come
again
, this time like I’m exploding and melting at the same time. Holy banana cream pie, how sweet it is.

When I stop writhing and moaning, I can’t move. He turns my lifeless form onto my belly and rides his happy, exhausted, horny little pony until he comes, too. And, I’ll be damned, when he does, against all odds, I pulse and seize and vibrate yet again, right along with him. Not with eyes-rolling-back-into-my-head intensity, mind you—I’m too far gone for that—but, rather, like I’m his go-kart and he’s just revved the engine one final, shriek-inducing time.

And now we’re done, both of us completely spent.

He presses against me, holding me from behind.

And I’m a wet noodle. A sweaty wet noodle. A satisfied, sweaty wet noodle. I can’t move a single muscle. And I can’t speak, either. My vocal chords are non-functional—a couple of useless mucous membranes inside my throat.

Wow. Wow. Wow.

Mind officially blown.

Un-fricking-believable. Incredible. Delicious.

Can I get a woot woot from myself?

Woot woot!

If I could speak, which I can’t, I’d scream from the top of every mountain right now: “I’m officially a sex kitten, peeps! I’m
multi-orgasmic,
bitches! Boom!”

I stretch myself out against his body and feel myself slipping into total relaxation. I’ve never felt quite like this before, so fulfilled, so satisfied—and so frickin’ powerful, too. Tonight, I’m reborn, for the second time in my life—the prior time being that magical night in Belize when Mount Everest first toppled—and it’s all thanks to this hunky-monkey-magic-man boyfriend of mine, Mr. Fuck Wizard himself. Mr. Most Beautiful Man I’ve Ever Seen. Mr. Heart as Big as the Grand Canyon. Mr. Sad Eyes. Mr. Tortured Soul. Mr. Divine Original. Mr. Manly Man-ness-y Manly Man.

Mr. Jonas Faraday.

My sweet Jonas.

Oh God, how I love this man.

I close my eyes. My mind yawns and instantly begins drifting into blackness . . .

“Sarah,” Jonas whispers, and my mind lurches back to full attention. Something in his voice makes me think he’s about to say something important. “Sarah, I . . .” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, anticipating what he’s about to say. He pauses a really long time—an excruciating amount of time—but he doesn’t finish his thought.

He inhales sharply and his tone shifts direction. “My Magnificent Sarah,” he finally says, stroking the curve of my hip. “Are you awake?” he whispers.

“Mmm hmm.” Barely.

“That was a nice wake-up call.”

I touch his hand on my hip. He grabs my hand and squeezes it.

“I had a dream that made me a wee bit horny,” I mumble softly.

“Apparently. What did you dream about?”

“You. Making love to you. I had an orgasm in the dream, and then I woke up and I was actually having an orgasm.”

His breathing halts in surprise. “Oh, wow.” He presses himself into me and runs his hands over my belly.

I turn onto my opposite side and face him. “Before you, I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought I was born without some magic button everyone else has.”

He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to calm himself. He brushes a hair away from my face. But he doesn’t speak.

“And now look at me. I’m kicking ass and taking names—I’m a sexual superhero.”

He puts on a low movie-announcer voice. “They call her...
Orgasma
.” He smiles and nuzzles his nose into mine. “Orgasma the All-Powerful.”

I mimic his announcer voice. “Able to leap tall cocks in a single bound.”

“No.” He’s stern. “Able to leap one and only one tall
cock
in a single bound. Only mine.”

“Well, of course.” I roll my eyes. “That’s the biggest ‘duh’ of the century, Jonas.”

He laughs. He nuzzles my nose again.

“You big dummy,” I add.

He shoots me a crooked half-smile. “I just wanted to be clear about that.”

“Got it.”

We lie in the dark, staring at each other for a moment. I can’t remember ever feeling this happy before.

“Thank you,” I say simply. “Thank you for helping me discover my magic button. I don’t feel like I’m defective anymore. I feel powerful.”

He kisses me gently. “You are powerful.”

“I had no idea sex could feel so good. You really are good at this.”

“No, I’m fucking awesome at this, I told you. But I can’t take all the credit. Your body is
designed
to do exactly what it did tonight—get off again and again and again. It’s not magic—women don’t need a refractory period after orgasm the way men do.”

“Refractory period?”

“A period of recovery. Women don’t need to recover after orgasm—they can climax again and again, almost instantly after the first time, as long as they get the right stimulation.”

I’m blown away. “Are you sure? I always thought some small percentage of women were multi-orgasmic, like porn stars or whatever, and a small percentage of women on the other end of the spectrum can’t come at all, and then everyone else falls somewhere in the middle.”

“Nah, that’s a myth. All women are
designed
to come over and over. Just because most women haven’t accomplished it—because they don’t know how to do it, don’t know it’s possible, their boyfriends suck at sex, they’ve never masturbated and figured out what gets them off, whatever—it doesn’t mean they’re not
built
to do it. All the parts are there, even if they don’t know how to use them.”

His eyes are so animated when he talks about this stuff. I could fall asleep at the drop of a hat right now, and he’s just getting more and more excited as we talk.

“Your first orgasm is like priming the pump,” he continues, fully awake. “The first one might take a while, as we’ve discovered, my little Mount Everest, but once you’re there, once you’ve reached the peak, your body is ready to do it again and again if you keep yourself open. And the great thing is, it’s much easier to get there the second and third times.”

I shake my head. Why does he know more about my own sexuality than I do? Why has no one ever told me any of this stuff?

“At the end of the day, female orgasm is always about your head—getting rid of your psychological hang-ups. After you get off the first time, you’ve just gotta keep your mind open and get the right stimulation—from someone who knows how—and you’ll be off to the races every time.”

“From
someone
who knows how?”

“Well, from
me
, of course—fuck, don’t misunderstand that part. Let me be perfectly clear, yet again: Only from
me
. Always me.”

I smile at him. “Jonas Faraday.”

“The one and only.”

“The sexual samurai.”

He laughs. “Ah, you’ve seen my book collection.”

“No, Kat did. She wants to make all your books required reading for her next boyfriend.”

He chuckles. “Well, a guy can
read
about this stuff all he wants, but if he doesn’t have some God-given talent to start with, it’s pointless. It’s like being a musician—you can be classically trained to play all the right notes, but no one can teach you to
feel
the music with your soul. Muddy Waters
felt
the music. Bob Dylan
felt
the music. No one can learn how to do that—it’s true artistry.”

“Ah, so you’re a sexual
arteest,
are you?”

He squeezes me. “I am. And you’re my canvas.” He kisses my neck and grabs my ass at the same time.

“I’ll be your canvas any time, big boy.”

He’s thinking about something. “My whole life, I’ve had this innate
understanding
. It’s like this weird empathy; I don’t know what else to call it.” He pauses. “I’ve never told anyone this . . .”

I wait. There’s absolutely nothing better than a sentence that starts with, “I’ve never told anyone this . . .”

“It started when I was little. My mother used to get these horrible headaches, and I was the only one who could make them go away, just by massaging her head the right way . . .” He stops talking.

“It’s okay,” I finally say. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head.

“Tell me, baby. I’m listening.”

He shifts internal gears. Clearly, there will be no more talking about his mother. “When I touch you, or fuck you, or taste you—oh fuck, I’m turning myself on again, baby—” He kisses me deeply, his hands firmly on my ass again.
“Albóndigas,”
he whispers.
Meatballs.

I laugh. “
Siempre tus albóndigas
.”
Always your meatballs.

He smiles at me.

“Tell me,” I coax him.

“When I fuck you or taste you or touch you, whatever, it’s like I can
feel
what you’re feeling—I mean, like, literally
feel
it, you know? And, holy fuck, it gets me off.” He grunts, obviously imagining whatever sensation he’s talking about.

“I told you—you’re a woman wizard, baby. You’ve got magical, mystical powers.”

He sighs and touches my cheek. “I can’t wait to keep exploring the depths of you, Sarah Cruz. You’re a vast and uncharted ocean, you know that?” He pauses. “You’re
my
ocean.”

I’m filled with the sudden urge to tell him I love him. He’s better than any dream. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel loved. He makes me feel
good—
so, so, so
frickin’
good. He makes me feel special. I love him. And, oh my God, I want to tell him, in exactly those words.

But, nope. I can’t. No way. It’s a non-starter.

And that’s okay.
I’m his ocean,
he says
.
Not too shabby. It’s enough. It really is.

“Yet again, you’re a poet,” I whisper.

“Only with you.”

He wraps his arms around me and squeezes me. “Sarah . . .,” he whispers, “I  . . .” He clears his throat. But he doesn’t say anything more.

I can feel myself drifting off to sleep. Whatever else he’s going to say, it will have to wait until morning.

“Madness,” I whisper. And then I close my eyes and slip into a deep and blissful sleep.

Chapter 7

Jonas

Thinking is just the soul talking with itself, or so Plato says. If that’s true, then for the last few hours, while everyone else in the house has been fast asleep, my soul’s been chatting up a fucking storm with itself. It’s okay, though, because while my soul’s been pontificating its ass off, my body’s been getting shit done.

I washed and ironed Sarah’s clothes from her suitcase (all of which were covered in Belizian mud and mosquito repellant). I worked out like a demon (powered by Rx Bandit’s awesome new album). I went to Whole Foods and picked up breakfast for everyone (organic berries and Greek yogurt and zucchini-quinoa muffins). I went through my emails (and ignored every one of them except those pertaining to my new rock climbing gyms). I registered and loaded the laptops I bought for Sarah and Kat (which, thanks to my assistant, were delivered to my house first thing this morning). Bringing order and clarity to my environment has allowed me to bring order and clarity to my mind, too—and now, I’m pretty confident about my strategy going forward.