by Lauren Rowe
“Smart-ass. I mean we should throw another party. I’ve never thrown a party before. It was fun.”
Her jaw drops. “Jonas Faraday wants to throw a party?”
“Wait, no. Correction. I want you to throw a party and I want to attend. Just like our wedding. You do all the work, make all the decisions, invite everyone, don’t bother me with any of it—and then I come and drink and dance and have fun and act like an idiot.”
She laughs. “Oh, Jonas. I’ll throw you a party any time, baby. It would be my pleasure.”
I scoot up against her on the bed and hug her. “Thank you.” I kiss her nose. “Wife.” I press myself against her body and snuggle close. We lie in silence for a few minutes as I rub her back.
“What’s today’s date?” she suddenly asks, sitting up, having some sort of epiphany.
I tell her.
“Holy crap. My grades should have posted by now.” She grabs her laptop and logs onto some sort of student portal as I peek over her shoulder, holding my breath. “Ah,” she says. “Damn.”
“What?”
“The good news is I got A’s on all my exams,” she says, and yet she sounds disappointed.
“That’s fantastic. Why do you sound bummed?”
She sticks out her lower lip. “Because the bad news is that I sank like a stone in the rankings.” She sighs. “I fell to number twelve. I went down eight spots.”
“Number twelve in your whole class? That’s sinking like a stone?” I laugh. “It’s terrific, baby.”
“But I didn’t get the scholarship.” She looks down at her hands—and when she does, I can’t help but smile at the sparkling wedding band gracing her slender finger, nestled against her dazzling rock. “I missed the scholarship by two spots.”
“Baby, listen to me. Considering everything you went through right before finals, number twelve is fantastic.”
She shrugs.
“Don’t worry about the scholarship. I told you, you’re the lucky recipient of the Jonas Faraday Scholarship Fund. Just be proud of yourself and don’t sweat it.”
“I don’t need the Jonas Faraday Scholarship Fund. I can use my finder’s fee money to pay my tuition.”
“Nope. I’m your husband now. That means I take care of you. In all things. In all ways. End of story.”
She raises her eyebrows at me.
Oh yeah. I forgot she’s not a fan of the whole “end of story” thing. “I want to take care of you, Sarah—Mrs. Faraday. Please.”
She smiles.
“In every conceivable way. For the rest of your life.”
“Oh, Jonas.”
I kiss her. “I’m proud of you. Just be proud of yourself. Don’t sweat it.”
“Thank you.”
I grab her ass with gusto. “So what do you want to do today, wife? Bungee jump off a bridge? Rappel down a cliff? Fuck like monkeys and imagine our brethren in Belize howling in the jungle all around us?”
“Oh my God, I can’t handle any more excitement. For the next week ‘til school starts, I’m just gonna lie here and drool and stare at the ceiling.”
Well, fuck that. I hope she’s not being literal about that no excitement thing—unless, of course, she’s planning on letting me lick every inch of her while she lies in bed and stares at the ceiling—because this woman is my crack and I’m not planning to go to rehab any time soon.
She pauses. “Although...”
I perk up. “Yes?”
“There is one thing I’d really like to do today, my dearest husband, if you’re up for it.”
“Name it, spouse.” My cock tingles.
“Well, I’ve noticed when I’m curled up in the leather armchair in the family room reading my textbooks, there’s no end table for my drink.”
I look at her funny. What the hell is she talking about?
“And I’ve also noticed you don’t have any shot glasses in your cabinets—”
“We don’t have any shot glasses in our cabinets. We. Our.”
She smiles. “We don’t have any shot glasses.”
“Mmm hmm.” I’m not quite sure where she’s going with this.
“So I was thinking it might be nice to do a little shopping today.” She flashes a smart-ass smile, and I suddenly know what game she’s playing.
“Shopping, huh?”
“Correct.”
“For an end table and shot glasses?”
“Correct. And maybe a few other household items, as well.”
Jesus. I can’t believe this is what my life has become—and that I like it. “And where were you thinking about shopping for an end table and shot glasses and various unspecified sundries, Mrs. Faraday?”
“Well, hunky-monkey husband, I know this place where we could miraculously get all of these things and more—maybe even a gigantic, lime-green bean bag chair, too, just for the hell of it—and at the same time stuff our faces with some tasty Swedish meatballs.”
I exhale with mock anxiety. “Wow, I don’t know, baby. Sounds like a big step in our relationship. You really think we’re ready for this?”
She makes a big show of considering her options. “Well, it definitely would signify we’re taking our relationship to the next level. But I think I’m ready for that, if you are.” She grins.
“As long as there are meatballs involved, and as long as I’m with you, I can handle just about anything, even shopping at IKEA. I’ll just leave my dick and balls at home, and I’ll be fine.”
“No, you big dummy. That’s not gonna work.”
“Why not?”
“Think, Jonas, think. How are we gonna have hot monkey-sex in one of those private family bathrooms if you’ve left your dick and balls at home?”
Hello, instant hard-on. “Ah, excellent point. I’m glad one of us is thinking.”
“Oh, I’m always thinking, Jonas. I assure you.”
“That’s the understatement of the century, baby.”
She laughs. “So it’s a date? Mr. and Mrs. Faraday go shopping at IKEA today?”
“Absolutely. But now that you’ve got me thinking about my dick and balls and meatballs, I’m craving some tasty albóndigas before we go.”
A look of sheer terror fills her eyes. “Oh no, Jonas. Please, no.”
“There’s no way to stop me.”
“No!” She screams, laughing, but resistance is futile.
I turn her onto her belly, yank down her pajama bottoms, and take a big bite out of her ass—a big, ol’ juicy bite. “Mmm. I love this ass,” I growl, and then I slap it.
She squeals again.
Oh man, I’m hard as a rock, ready for some good old fashioned fuckery with my sweet wife, My Magnificent Mrs. Faraday.
And yet, on second thought, there’s no rush, is there? We’ve got all the time in the world, my wife and I. I’m not going anywhere, and neither is she. Forevermore. She promised in front of God and everyone and she can’t take it back. So why not hold off and let a little delicious anticipation build? It sure sounds like, if I’m a patient boy, I’m going to get to fuck my dirty, dirty girl in a bathroom at IKEA this afternoon, and that’s most certainly worth the wait. I hop off the bed and hoot at the ceiling—and then I slap her ass one more time for good measure.
“Come on, Mrs. Faraday,” I bellow. “Get your delectable ass in gear. Your husband’s got a gigantic boner and he wants to take his hot little wife shopping at IKEA!”
Acknowledgments
Writing this trilogy has been one of the great joys of my life. Thank you to my beloved early readers for your feedback and encouragement, with a special shout-out to my shining star, Nicki Starr. Thank you to my family for always giving me space and support for my writing, even though we all know the process of writing renders me clinically insane (and never more so than when I’m writing three books back-to-back).
In relation to this third book, The Redemption, in particular, thank you to the “village” that helped me with inspiration: Thank you to my neighbor, Steve, a r
etired Secret Service Agent, for the countless hours you spent with me, teaching me about federal investigations, organized crime, and hacking. We were an unlikely pair in some ways, but we sure had fun talking this thing through, didn’t we? Thank you to those awesome hacker guys I met in Las Vegas at Mandalay Bay. You happened to be in Vegas for a hacker convention while I was there partying with my girlfriends, and, lucky me, you dudes absolutely styled me with ideas. I’ll likely never see you gentlemen again and you’ll probably never read this message—but you were so helpful and hilarious, and the free drinks you generously supplied to me were so appreciated, I nonetheless feel compelled to thank you expressly here.
My entire extended family is amazing. Thank you to my mother, mother-in-law, and aunt for reading the books and loving them. I love you all so much. Thank you to my uncle the motorcycle man for reading the first chapter of The Club and saying, “Yep,” when I asked if it rang true as a male voice—your vote of confidence really encouraged me to keep going and trust Jonas’ voice inside my head. Thank you to my uncle the computer whiz for giving me that super-duper, grand idea over lunch one day. Thank you to my Baby Cuz for reading the first chapters to The Club and calling me immediately to say, “Cuz, you’re a savage beast.” Thank you to Cuz for teaching me about the Deep Web. Eek. You can’t un-hear that shit, man.
Thank you to my dad for listening to me go on and on about the plotting of these books over lunch one day (sex scenes abbreviated to “and then they have sex,” of course). I don’t know why I keep creating bastard fathers in my writing when I have the best one on the planet. I love you, Pops. (And I don’t even know why I just thanked you here because if you read these books, I don’t want to know about it.)
Thank you to Scott, the ER doctor who took so much time out of his busy schedule to help me formulate Sarah’s injuries, treatment, and recovery in as realistic a manner as possible. Thank you also to bestselling author (and former ER nurse) Catherine (Fucking) Bybee who also helped me injure poor Sarah in exactly the right way and made me belly laugh as she did.
Thank you to my agents Jill and Kevin—as always, your belief in me, regardless of the name I happen to be writing under or the genre I’m writing in, means so much to me. Thank you to the Author Whisperer for your invaluable feedback and assistance. Thank you to Lisa, Melissa, and Sharon. You ladies rock. Thank you to Alicia for your proofing and editing and to Judi for formatting. I am a lucky girl to have such a great team of people supporting me. And, finally, thank you to the greatest team member of all: my hunky-monkey husband. You are my rock and I love you.
Author Biography
Lauren Rowe is the pen name of an author, performer, audio book narrator, songwriter and media host/personality who decided to unleash her alter ego to write The Club Trilogy to ensure she didn’t hold back or self-censor in writing the story. Lauren Rowe lives in San Diego, California where she sings with her band, hosts a show, and writes at all hours of the night. Find out more about The Club Trilogy and Lauren Rowe at www.LaurenRoweBooks.com.