The Redemption (19 page)

“I think I might be a wee bit crazy.”

“Sarah, my precious baby, you never need to apologize to me about your crazy. I love every inch of you, inside and out—even your crazy parts.”

Her breath catches sharply. She kisses me. “I love you, Jonas.” She’s trembling in my arms.

Without warning, the black curtain rises and we both stare at our masked reflections in the mirror again, red lights shining in our eyes. When the curtain drops again, I kiss her softly.

“You ready to go back to the hotel and let me make love to you?”

She nods. “Absolutely.”

I sigh with relief.

Yet again, Sir Mix-A-Lot professes his abiding affection for ample behinds.

“Right after you take me dancing.”

I throw up my hands. “Oh come on!”

She laughs. “I’m kidding.” She shoots me a sideways smirk. “But I
do
want to swing by that tattoo parlor on our way back.” She winks.

Sarah
 

“I love it,” he says, his lips an inch away from my new tattoo, his warm breath teasing my skin. “It’s so fucking sexy.” He kisses my tattoo gently, his soft lips sending a shiver up my spine, and then he licks it. “Is it too sensitive to lick?”

“No.” I can barely talk. “Do it again.”

He licks it again and goose bumps erupt over my entire body.

“God, it turns me on,” he says, licking it again and again. “It’s like a buried treasure—and I’m the only guy with the treasure map
.
” His tongue begins sliding downward from my tattoo, making my clit tingle with anticipation.

“Press play on the music,” I breathe. “I’ve got a song cued up for us.” I’m already deliriously turned on.

When he gets up to play the song, I touch myself, aching for his return.

The song begins—the song I’ve been dying to play for him while making love to him. It’s “Take me to Church” by the Irish musician, Hozier. The first time I heard the song, I instantly thought
Jonas.
Something about Hozier’s combination of intelligence and vulnerability and passion and angst and masculinity perfectly captures Jonas’ essence for me—so much so, I’ve tricked myself into thinking Jonas himself is singing the song. Surely, if Jonas were a songwriter, this is the song he’d write—not just about me but about everything he’s been through in his life.

Jonas comes back and begins trailing kisses from my tattoo downward again, closing in on my sweet spot, making me writhe, but quickly, he’s too enraptured by the song to continue his concentrated assault on me.

“What is this?” Jonas says after listening for a moment. “Holy fuck.”

I smile at him. I know how much music means to him.

“I love it,” he says softly. He closes his eyes for a moment, apparently moved by the unmistakable sound of his own soul singing to him, and then he leans down and begins gently kissing the insides of my thighs. When the song reaches its passionate conclusion—
amen
—and then begins again on a loop, Jonas lifts his head and assesses me with hungry eyes.

“Go to church, my love,” I whisper, my breasts rising and falling with my arousal.

“Amen,” he says.

He yanks my naked body all the way to the bottom edge of the bed and kneels down in front of me. After propping my thighs on the tops of his broad shoulders, he burrows his face between my legs and begins worshipping at my altar like a condemned man desperate to be saved.

Amen.
 

My orgasm comes fast and hard, and when it ends, Jonas wordlessly scoops up my sweaty body, carries me into the sitting area of the suite, and lays me down on a table. I don’t ask what he’s got in mind because it doesn’t matter. My body is his to do with as he pleases, to manipulate into whatever position he desires, to cull from it whatever pleasure he craves. He’s a classically trained cellist and I am but an inanimate slab of wood until my master enlivens me.

Standing at the edge of the table, he places my calves over his shoulders and stands to his full height, lifting my pelvis off the table as he goes and supporting my bottom with his strong hands. He pulls my pelvis into him and enters me, and I moan at the sensation of our bodies joining so effortlessly at this new and exotic angle.

“This is called the butterfly,” Jonas says, his voice husky, his body moving magically inside mine. “Because you’re my butterfly, baby.”

Holy moly. This feels good. We can add this butterfly thing to the long list of sexual positions Jonas has introduced me to that are my new favorite thing.

I’ve loved every single freaktastic position Jonas has shown me—the ballerina, the seesaw, the “folded deck chair”—all of them. Even the “folded deck chair” turned out to be a blast, even though we didn’t actually perform it successfully (how anyone could make that one work, I have no idea)—because, thanks to that hilarious fiasco, I discovered that laughing hysterically with Jonas, especially naked, is every bit as arousing and intimate and pleasurable as having sex with him.

“Butterfly,” Jonas groans. “My baby the hot-as-fuck butterfly.”

He growls as he rocks his hips into mine, his eyes devouring me.

I arch my back into him, trying to relieve the pressure building inside me, and he pulls at my butt, drawing me into him even closer. I gaze across my torso to the spot where our bodies are fusing, eager to watch his glistening penis sliding in and out of me (a sight that always turns me on), and the unexpected sight of my brand new tattoo makes me moan.

From my vantage point, the tiny lettering of my tattoo is upside-down—Jonas is the only person in the world who’ll ever have a right-side-up view of those three little letters—but that doesn’t matter. The mere
existence
of the letters is what makes me feel bold and naughty and sexy in a whole new way.
OAP,
my new badge of honor boldly proclaims. It’s the short but sweet shorthand for the butt-kicking superhero-crime-fighter-sexual-badass I’ve become. I look down at my tattoo again.
OAP.
 

I groan loudly and Jonas does, too.

The pressure inside me is rising, rising, rising, on the cusp of boiling over.

“You’re a butterfly,” Jonas groans. “So fucking beautiful.”

My body jolts. I’m on the absolute edge. Jonas’ proxy lyrically offers me his life through the speakers of my computer—and, thus, so does Jonas in my mind—and I’m gone—unraveling like a spool of yarn—Orgasma the All-Powerful, yet again. Every muscle even remotely connected to where Jonas is thrusting in and out of me seizes. I scream Jonas’ name, or at least I think I do—who knows what jumble of sounds actually escapes me as those delicious warm waves undulate through me—and then I dissolve into a relieved puddle, my emotions from this long and exhausting and scary and exciting day too much for me to physically contain.

I expect Jonas to release along with me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out of me, lays my pelvis back down flush onto the table, removes my calves from his shoulders and straightens them up toward the ceiling at a ninety-degree angle from my torso. He crisscrosses my legs into a tight, closed scissor, pulling my ankles over each other in opposite directions, and then enters me again, groaning loudly as he does. A zealous moan escapes my mouth as a whole new kind of outrageous pleasure bursts through my body. Oh God, there’s absolutely nothing to impede Jonas’ access into me and my tightly closed legs are creating an exceptionally taut fit between our bodies.

He grunts as he thrusts into me deeply, over and over, pressing my legs tightly together as he enters me. A shockwave of delirium careens through me, almost painfully, as yet another orgasm builds inside me. When my convulsing finally hits and my body releases in fitful waves, Jonas uncrosses my legs and spreads my thighs. He pulls my torso up to a sitting position and guides my legs to wrap around his waist.

“Sarah,” he says, kissing me voraciously with each powerful thrust. “Sarah,” he says again, the word catching in his throat. “Oh, baby, you feel so fucking good.”

I’ve got nothing left to give. I can’t even hold myself up anymore, so he cradles my back in his arms as he thrusts. How is he holding on so long? It’s got to be the Scotch. Because, holy hell, I’m turning into Jello and he’s still going, going, going. I’m melting, oozing, dripping off the table and landing in a giant, quivering puddle on the floor and he’s still on fire. He nibbles my ear, kisses my neck, all the while continuing his body’s urgent assault. I’m toast. I’m gone. This is too much of a good thing. Pleasure and pain are blurring. My body can’t handle anymore. How has he lasted so long? Oh my God, I can’t stand it. I’ve got to push him over the edge.

“I love you,” I say. “I love you, Jonas.” I bite his neck. “I love, you, baby, forever and ever.” I reach down to the spot on his body just beneath our joined bodies and fondle him fervently.

He shudders and groans so loud, it makes me flutter.

“I love every inch of you, baby, inside and out,” I growl, continuing to touch him. I bite his nipple. “I love you.”

His groan is tortured.

“I love you, baby, every part.” I caress him with increased fervor and his entire body spasms. “Even your darkness—even your crazy parts. I love all of you, Jonas.” I bite his neck. “Oh God, baby, all of you, even the parts you’re hiding from me—even the parts you think I won’t love.
I. Love. It. All.
”

He cries out as his body shudders violently and I collapse back onto the table. I’m a marathon runner who’s just crossed the finish line. I’m completely spent.

With a loud groan, he collapses on top of me in a muscled, sweaty heap.

“I love, you, Jonas,” I whisper, and then I kiss his sweaty cheek. “Every last inch of you, no matter what lies beneath.”

Sarah
 

I wonder if it’s normal to feel like you’re physically addicted to another person, to crave a man’s touch so rabidly it’s like his flesh is a narcotic. To find yourself daydreaming about him like he’s some hunk on a movie poster, only to realize he’s sitting right next to you on the couch, working on his laptop and munching on an apple. To feel like you were born to interlock your body with his, and only his, like you’re two puzzle pieces with no other matches in the whole world. To be certain that, if given a choice at any given moment on any given day between kissing his luscious lips and eating a piece of the finest chocolate, you’d pick his kiss every single time—even on the rare days when you’re so mad at him you want to flip him the bird. I wonder if it’s normal to love someone so much, you don’t just forgive his flaws and mistakes and imperfections and darkness, you don’t just overlook them, you adore them and wouldn’t have him any other way. Is any of this normal? I really don’t know. But if it’s not, then I think normal is grossly overrated.

After our marathon lovemaking session, Jonas carries me back into the bedroom over his shoulder caveman-style and lays my prostrate body down on the bed, a cocky grin illuminating his handsome face.

“Order us something from room service, baby,” he instructs, rolling me onto my side and slapping my ass.

There’s no “please” attached to the end of his command. No “if you’d like.” Just the instruction, the ass slap, and an accompanying hoot of glee to the ceiling, followed by him shaking his adorable ass like a proud peacock shaking his tail feathers and strutting into the bathroom.

Maybe I should try to knock him down a peg, remind him it takes two to tango, tell him he didn’t accomplish this latest act of
sexcellence
all by himself? But no. I have no desire to dampen his self-congratulatory mood. The truth is, after the way he so masterfully commandeered my body tonight—and always does, for that matter—he deserves whatever praise he wants to heap upon himself ‘til the end of time.
Amen.
 

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m going to order food from room service any time soon as my lord-god-master has commanded—I can’t move a frickin’ muscle after what he just did to me. All I can do is lie here like a wet noodle, listening to the sound of him hooting with glee in the shower. To hear him in there, he might as well be standing on the bow of the Titanic, shouting, “I’m king of the world!” Oh, Jonas.

“Amen!” Jonas sings from the shower, obviously trying to deliver one of the lines from Hozier’s song. I’ve never heard Jonas sing before. I smile broadly.

Oh God, he does it again, but this time drawing out his voice like a tone-deaf opera singer. “A-a-a-a-m-e-e-en.”

I laugh out loud. Wow, he’s terrible—absolutely devoid of any singing ability whatsoever. I’m oddly thrilled by this new discovery about him. It makes me love him even more, if that’s possible.

I reach for the room service menu on the nightstand and grab my phone, too. I promised to call my mom every day while we’re in Las Vegas to assure her I’m okay and I just realized I never called today. Obviously, I can’t call now in the middle of the night, but I figure I’ll send her a text for the morning.

I glance at my phone and gasp. I’ve received a text from an unknown number that makes every hair on my body stand on end:
“When I get my turn with you, I won’t take you to a low-class strip club and ask you to cover your beguiling face with a mask. Call me today. I’m not a patient man. M.”
 

I drop the phone, shaking. My stomach lurches. Oh my God. No.

Max saw us.
 

He must have followed us to the strip club. How much did he see? I throw my hands over my face, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear and shame and repulsion. I’m in over my head.

Jonas comes out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped around his waist. “A-a-a-m-e-e-e-n!” he sings, holding out his arm theatrically. “Hey, did you order us some food?” His tone shifts to worry on a dime. “Sarah?”

I’m incapable of speaking. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. “What happened?”

I hand him my phone, unable to speak.

He reads the text. “Who...  ?”