by Lauren Rowe
“Harry.”
“Yeah. Harry.”
“Oh my God, Jonas. He’s the cutest one—the bad boy.”
“Douche.”
“Aw, you’re just jealous.”
“Yeah, I’m jealous of Harry from One Direction. That’s me.”
She laughs. “He’s adorable. Seriously. Now there’s one I’d go back in a time machine for.”
“You wanna steal Harry Styles’ eighteen-year-old virginity?”
“Yeah, good thing I’d only have to go back in my time machine by two years. Probably wouldn’t even get jet lag.”
I laugh. “You funny.”
“I funny.” She beams at me. “You’ve got to admit their songs are hella catchy.”
“I will admit that many of One Direction’s songs are extremely well written by their team of professional songwriters.”
She laughs. “Oh, Jonas, I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“Okay. I’ve got a good one. Would you rather never go down on me again, ever, or never fuck me again?”
I shake my head. “You’re evil.”
“Answer it.”
“I refuse to answer based on the religious freedoms granted to me by the First Amendment.”
She scoffs.
“You’re asking me to choose between my religion and my vice.”
“That’s the whole point of this game—you have to pick between two impossible choices.”
“Well, in this hypothetical, if I go down on you, can you give me a handjob while I do it?”
“Yes. With lots and lots of lube—followed by the best blowjob ever, every freaking time. And we can sixty-nine, too, every single day. Just no intercourse. Ever again. As long as you live. No cock burrowing deep, deep into me, never, ever, ever, ever—”
“Stop! Enough already! The pain.” I shake my head like she’s torturing me. “Fine. You wore me down. I can’t live without fucking you, baby—you know that.”
She laughs.
“But it pains me even hypothetically to give up tasting you for the rest of my life. Even hypothetically, the thought of never going down on you again, never giving you that exquisite kind of pleasure again, never feeling your hard clit swirling around against my tongue until you start opening and shutting against my mouth ...” I pause. “Shit.”
“You just gave yourself a giant woody?”
I nod.
She laughs.
“Having a massive boner while holding my infant daughter isn’t my favorite thing.”
Sunny makes a little whimpering noise against Sarah’s chest.
“Take her temperature again, baby. I’m worried.”
Sarah grabs the sensory thermometer and puts it against Sunny’s forehead. She sighs with relief. “It went down a full degree,” she says. “Thank God. You think that means her fever’s breaking?”
“I sure hope so. Is it time for Tylenol yet?”
Sarah looks at her watch. “No, thirty minutes.”
We rock in the gliders for a long moment, both of us stroking whichever baby we happen to be holding.
“How about this one?” I say. “Would you rather piss yourself every time you listen to music or every time you have an orgasm?”
She flashes me a sardonic look. “Oh, real subtle, Jonas.”
“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Oh, gosh, I dunno. Hmm,” Sarah says. “Could your question possibly be designed to create a teaching moment, oh, Lord-God-Master?”
“And here I thought I was so clever.”
“You can’t use your Jedi mind tricks on me, Jonas. I’m too smart.”
“Fine. But at least tell me your answer, even if my motives are obvious.”
Genuine anxiety flickers across her face, but then disappears. “No. I’m not gonna answer this one,” she says matter-of-factly.
“You’re the one who said we have to answer the questions no matter what. I answered a really tough one. Come on.”
“That wasn’t a tough one. Every man on the planet would pick intercourse over giving a woman oral sex, for the love of Pete. It was a harder choice for you than the average man, but still a no-brainer.”
“Still, it was a horribly painful decision.”
She smirks.
“Come on, Sarah. Answer my question. Are you gonna piss yourself when you hear music or when you orgasm?”
“When I hear music.”
“Seriously? You’d honestly prefer to piss yourself any time you hear music than in the privacy of our bed, just you and me?”
“I told you I don’t want to answer this one. I’ve already pissed myself enough in real life. I don’t need to do it hypothetically, too. Ask a different question.”
“What do you mean you’ve already pissed yourself enough in real life?”
She smashes her lips together but doesn’t reply.
“Sarah? What do you mean?”
She pauses for a long beat before speaking again. “I was a bed-wetter for a really long time,” she finally says. Her cheeks are turning a bright red.
“Really?” For a nanosecond, I feel the urge to laugh about this revelation, but the look of complete vulnerability on Sarah’s face stops me. “How long is ‘a really long time’?”
“Until I was ten or eleven. Until about a year after my mom and I finally got the hell out of Dodge.” She sighs loudly. “So, yeah,” she finally says. “Good times.”
“How is it possible I didn’t know this about you?”
She shrugs. “I’m sure at some point I’m gonna find out you secretly hate pistachios or had sex with a man and I’m gonna go, ‘Huh. Learn something new every day.’”
“Well, no. I love pistachios and I’ve never had sex with a man.”
“Well, still, I’m sure there’s something about you I don’t know.”
“So you, like, full-on wet your bed ’til you were eleven?”
“Well, not every single day. Whenever I had nightmares or got really, really scared, I just totally lost control of my bladder.”
“What happened?” I say, trying my damnedest to keep my voice calm and reassuring.
She shakes her head.
“Hey, I’m the guy who loves you, remember? You can tell me anything.” I flash her a reassuring smile.
“You sound like you’re coaxing a wild horse with a carrot so you can throw a saddle on her back.”
I smile. She’s got me pegged. That’s exactly what I’m doing. “Tell me, baby,” I say. “Let me throw a saddle on you.”
She shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal. There were just times when my father would scream or start getting all irate and I’d run and hide in the closet or under my bed and just... you know, pee myself—right down my leg and onto the floor—and then I’d be too scared to move so I’d just sit there in a puddle of pee for who knows how long. Sometimes, I’d have a nightmare and wet my bed. Nothing much to tell. I couldn’t control it. It just happened.”
“Jesus,” I say, a light bulb going off in my head. Suddenly, so much about Sarah makes perfect sense. “You know...” I begin. “I think this relates directly to your history of sexual dysfunction.”
She looks at me quizzically.
“You don’t see the connection?”
She shakes her head.
How does she not see what I see? “Just before you have an intense orgasm, it feels like you’re gonna pee, right?”
She nods.
“And the more intense the orgasm, the more intense that sensation?”
She purses her lips, considering.
“Well, duh, baby. For years you’ve associated that gotta-pee feeling with being absolutely terrified and doing something you were ashamed about. Before I came along to rock your world as only the Woman Wizard could, you’d become hardwired to pull back from that sensation. No wonder you couldn’t orgasm for so long. It was a royal mind-fuck.”
Her face is absolutely precious right now.
“You’ve be
en worried about wetting the bed your whole life. Literally.”
Her mouth hangs open. “Could it really be that literal?”
“Occam’s Razor, baby. The simplest answer is usually correct.”
She rocks in her glider chair silently for a long beat. “Holy moly,” she finally says. “I think you might be on to something here.”
“Of course, I am. I’m fucking brilliant. U Dub should give me an honorary doctorate in female psychology.”
“Holy Epiphany, Batman,” she says. “I actually think this might not be psychobabble.”
“Of course, it’s not psychobabble. It’s gold. Solid gold, baby—as golden as a golden shower brought to you by Sarah Cruz.”
She doesn’t want to laugh, but she does.
“This is a breakthrough, baby.”
“You might be right.”
“Of course, I am. If there’s one thing I’m always right about it’s hot girls with daddy issues.” I flash her a cocky grin.
“You woman wizard you.”
“At your service.”
I feel like I just unscrambled a fucking Rubik’s cube. Sarah’s been hardwired her whole life to hold in rather than push out. Yes. And now she craves letting go completely more than anything, obviously, but she literally doesn’t know how to do it for herself. Yes. That’s what Thailand was all about, I suddenly realize—her desperate desire to get out of her own fucking way and let go completely. Because she can’t let go by herself, she needs someone or something outside herself to take her there. She needs to feel dominated by a greater power so she can just submit and take herself out of the equation. Jesus. No wonder she’s been browsing bondage gear and dildos—she wants to be dominated in every sense, figuratively and literally.
My cock twitches.
I shift Luna in my arms and smile at Sarah.
“What are you thinking about?” Sarah says. “Your smile is pure evil.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
Sunny begins fussing and Sarah gives her a boob.
“How’s the fever?”
Sarah grabs the thermometer and puts it against Sunny’s forehead. She sighs with relief. “One-oh-one. Thank goodness. I think the fever broke.”
“Whew. Thank God.”
I get up and carefully lay Luna into her crib. She rustles, briefly, and then becomes still again.
I watch Sarah nursing Sunny for a long moment.
My baby yearns to be dragged to the top of the highest waterfall with no other way down and shoved off. Well, maybe it’s time for both of us to leave the past—and our childhood hang-ups—behind. Maybe it’s time for us to get into our time machine and step on the gas.
Chapter 42
Sarah
I throw open the glass doors leading out to the patio and gape over the side of the cliff at the sapphire-blue ocean yawning before me. “Incredible!” I yell. “Heaven!”
Jonas laughs behind my back.
I race back into the villa and twirl around like a little girl. “It’s gorgeous!”
“Shall I open the bottle for you, sir?” our personal butler asks Jonas, motioning to a bottle of champagne on ice. (Did I mention this place comes with a personal butler? Redonk!)
“No, I’ve got it,” Jonas says calmly. He offers the guy a bill.
“No, Mr. Faraday. My gratuity will be included at the end of your stay.”
I race past Jeeves into the bathroom and immediately marvel at the Jacuzzi tub. “Oooooh la la!” I call to Jonas, crawling into the empty tub. “Oh, Joooooooooonas. It’s a gooood one.”
Jonas ambles into the doorway of the bathroom and smiles at me, his T-shirt clinging tightly to his broad chest. Oh, his tattooed arms are bulging. His eyes are smoldering. His jaw is chiseled as ever. Good lord, the man is sex on a stick and hot as fuck. Holy hell, I’m ready to have some dirty fun that involves that man’s big ol’ penis poking me, any which way he pleases.
I hear the front door close.
“Did Jeeves just leave?”
Jonas nods.
“Woohoo! Let the games begin! So you wanna start things off with an underwater breath-holding contest?”
He doesn’t reply. His jaw muscles pulse.
“As you may recall, I’m currently the world-record holder in the sport.” I giggle. Holy crap. I’m feeling good. I had three rather large goblets of champagne during our flight to San Diego—our flight on a private plane, I should add—and I’m feeling abso-frickin-lutely fabulous.
Damn, that private jet was incredible. In addition to ever-flowing champagne, that nice flight attendant gave me a warm towellette and fuzzy booties and a lovely platter of sushi—and all of that for a measly two-hour flight. But, of course, the best part of the flight was getting fucked by my hunky-monkey husband at thirty thousand feet. Hellz yeah and booyah. My husband ate me out ’til I hummed louder than the jet engines and then plowed my field ’til the pilot turned on the seatbelt signs. And now I’m here in this spacious and swanky villa overlooking the sparkling blue ocean on a gloriously sunny day, feeling freaktastically relaxed and happy! Life cannot get any—
Wait.
Gloriously sunny day.
Sunny.
My heart misses a beat.
Luna.
Maybe I should call home and check up on the girls?
Jonas crosses his arms over his chest and leans his shoulder against the doorjamb of the bathroom, and every goddamned muscle on his spectacular body flexes all at once.
Oh, pfft. I’m sure the girls are just fine.
I lean back in the empty tub alluringly, trying to beckon my sexy-as-sin husband to join me. But he’s clearly just going to keep standing there, oozing his fierce brand of homicidal charm. Okay. Fine. There are worse things in the world than sitting here staring at the divine original form of hotness.
I motion to the tub. “Are you not tempted, my sweet Jonas?”
Jonas looks like he’s gonna rip me limb from limb, but he doesn’t move, other than to absentmindedly touch the platinum bracelet around his wrist.
“Okay, well, you snooze, you lose,” I say. I crawl out of the empty tub and lope into the master suite.
Jonas follows me into the bedroom.
“Whaddaya wanna do first, hubsters?” I say, falling back onto the mammoth bed. “A little his and hers oral? Some back-door action, maybe?” I wink. “I know I’m hiding it well, but I’m actually kinda drunky-drunkerton, so this might be a great time to sneak in a little boom-boom in my boom-boom, if you know what I mean. Or maybe you wanna do that Cirque Du Soleil sixty-nine thing? We haven’t done that in a while.”
Jonas bites his lip, turns on his heel, and wordlessly heads into the bathroom again.
“Jonas?”
I hear the sound of water running in the bathtub. “Oh, so you want a little underwater Olympics, huh?” I call to him, leaping off the bed to join him. “Splendid idea, sir.”
When I enter the bathroom, Jonas is bent over, checking the temperature of the water, his bicep flexing as he runs his hand back and forth through the streaming water.
“Great idea,” I say. I begin unbuttoning my shirt.
“Wait,” Jonas says, straightening up.
I stop unbuttoning my shirt and look at him, perplexed.
“I want to explain the ground rules for the weekend first.”
I tilt my head like a cockatiel. Did I hear that right? “The...ground rules?” I say, smiling. Have I had that much champagne? I thought Jonas just said he was gonna “explain the ground rules for the weekend.” I laugh and start disrobing again.
“Wait,” he says, his voice commanding. “Stop undressing, please. I need to tell you how this weekend is gonna go, Sarah. And I want you to listen very closely.”
I freeze. “Huh?” The hairs on the nape of my neck stand up.
Jonas glides toward me like a panther, takes my hand, and pulls me to a cushioned stool in the corner of the large bathroom. “Sit.”
I obey. Why is
my crotch suddenly pulsing?
“Hold on,” he says. He leaves the bathroom.
I touch my lower lip. It’s numb.
He returns. He’s got a black velvet box in his hand, which he places on the ledge of the tub. When his gaze returns to me, his eyes are burning like lasers. “Sarah, what’s the sole mission and purpose of the Jonas Faraday Club?”
I glance at the black velvet box. Sure looks like a jewelry box. Kinda hard to concentrate with a box like that sitting on a ledge a few feet away.
“Sarah?”
“Sorry. The supreme sexual satisfaction of one Sarah Cruz. Faraday,” I say.
“Correct. In summary, sexcellence.”
“Hellz yeah. And let me just say a big ol’—”
“Ssh.”
I shut my mouth.
“Over the years, this club’s deep and abiding commitment to its mission has never faltered, not in the slightest. In fact, I can honestly say the Club’s commitment to its sacred mission has only intensified over time. You might even say it’s morphed into something akin to a religious calling.” One side of his mouth curls up.
I bite my lip. Yummy. I sense some yummy is coming my way on a bullet train.
“Thanks to our club’s unwavering devotion to its mission, our sole member and reason for being, one Mrs. Sarah Cruz Faraday, has now experienced virtually every variation of sexcellence known to womankind. Except for one glaring exception. One towering peak she has not yet climbed and conquered.”
I can’t help but smirk. Oh, Jonas. This whole weekend is about getting me to squirt without him pressing the button for Ding Dongs? Really? Oh, why am I surprised? The man is a climber, through and through.
“But over the past year,” Jonas continues, “due to our club’s decision to create two teeny-tiny Faradays, we took a brief hiatus from our upward climb up this as yet unconquered peak of sexcellence.” His eyes darken. “But now it’s time to begin our climb anew, and with renewed vigor, my precious baby. It’s time to climb and conquer again.” His lips twist into a wicked grin. “This weekend, we’re going to climb the highest peak of all: fuck-sellence.”
“Oh,” I say, a sudden pulsing announcing itself inside my panties.
“Do you remember the singular rule of the Jonas Faraday Club, my precious baby?”