The Club

by Lauren Rowe

  I shudder at my inner monologue. Where are these thoughts coming from? I never think this way, about anyone. I don’t understand what he ignites in me. It’s something primal—not controlled by conscious thought. I want him. I want to know what makes him tick and deliver it to him, whatever it is. That’s just not like me. Usually, if I’m being perfectly honest, when it comes to sex, I could take it or leave it. So why am I so sexed up around him?

  He turns and sees me staring at him. He squeezes my hand. “That wasn’t how I wanted tonight to go.”

  “I thought it went pretty frickin’ well.”

  He glances up at the driver. “Put the partition up, please,” he says, and immediately a dark barrier rises up. Jonas squints at me. “Of course you did. Sex for you is all about one thing—getting the guy off. And as fast and hard as possible because, without the possibility of an orgasm for yourself, that’s how you get validation. Totally unacceptable.” His tone is matter-of-fact.

  My mouth is hanging open. “Do you always say whatever the heck you think, no matter how rude?”

  “I’m not being rude. I’m being honest.”

  I stare at him.

  “But no, I don’t. Only to you—and also to my brother Josh.”

  “Because that was pretty damned rude.”

  “Maybe. But true.”

  I consider for a moment. “Making you want me, forcing you into me, even though you wanted to hold out, even though that wasn’t your plan—yes, that turned me on, I admit it.” I sigh, remembering that glimmer I felt as Jonas slammed into me. “God, that was hot. I liked feeling like you were powerless to resist me.”

  “Aha.” He smirks. “I’m not the only one with a raging God complex.”

  I laugh. “Apparently not.” We smile at each other.

  “Well, there’s only room for one god in this limo,” he says. “And it’s me.” He pauses. “And, yes, I am powerless to resist you, by the way.”

  “Good,” I say. There’s a beat. “Sex for you is all about getting the girl off,” I challenge. “What’s the difference?”

  “There’s a big difference. I want to get you off, true—but only because it gets me off. I mean, it physically gets me off. I’m quite selfish—as I’m innately wired to be. But you? Your only pleasure is derivative.”

  I look at him, not sure I understand his meaning.

  “You’re sexually co-dependent,” he clarifies.

  I glare at him. “No I’m not. I get off, too—just not culminating in an orgasm. What we did back at the restaurant was incredible.”

  “You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You’ve come to expect nothing for yourself sexually, so you don’t even try anymore. You get the guy off as fast and hard as possible to prove your sexual worth, end of story.”

  “You really are rude, you know that?”

  He shrugs. “Honest.”

  “I really don’t like how you’ve turned everything around and made it all about me being the weirdo here. Maybe you’ve forgotten—I’ve read your application, Jonas. You’re the one who’s fucked up, not me.”

  “Absolutely, I’m fucked up. No argument there. You don’t even know the half of it.” He looks out the window, thinking. “I know I am,” he says softly. He turns back to me. “But you’re totally fucked up, too, and you don’t even know it.”

  “So you’re some sort of expert in psychology, huh?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  Oh. That’s not the answer I expected. “Really?”

  “Well, not technically. But I went through years of forced therapy as a kid—most of it total bullshit, of course—and I picked up a thing or two.” He looks out the window again and the flickering lights illuminate his perfect features.

  My stomach drops. Why was he forced into therapy as a kid? What the hell happened to him when he was seven?

  He doesn’t give me the chance to broach the topic. “And, in recent years, I’ve acquired what you might call a healthy interest in female psychology.” He turns back to stare right into my eyes. “And sexuality.”

  I’m turned on and I’m sure my face shows it.

  “I’ve read everything I could get my hands on about the female brain, female psychology, the female sexual experience. Female sexuality is definitely my favorite topic.” His eyes blaze. “Fascinating stuff.”

  I don’t know why this revelation titillates me, but it does. “Well, then, surely you know that for a woman, sex is about so much more than the big ‘O.’ It’s the whole fantasy of it—more mental than physical.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But with all due respect, My Beautiful Intake Agent, you’re not qualified to give me this speech, whether it’s true or not.” He unclasps his hand from mine and places his hand confidently on my thigh, under the hem of my dress, as if he’s been touching me for years. “It’s like you’re trying to tell me green beans taste better than chocolate—but you’ve never had a single bite of chocolate in your whole, deprived life.”

  I can’t help but laugh. He’s got a point.

  He smirks. “You’re one of the shackled men in Plato’s cave.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Please explain.

  He smiles and begins lifting the hem of my dress to reveal my bare thighs. He exhales a loud breath at the sight of me. “Oh God, your skin,” he whispers. “I can’t resist it.” He reaches out and gently caresses the tender skin on the inside of my thigh, causing every hair on my body to stand at attention. When he sees my eyelids go heavy with desire, he smiles at me.

  I bite my lip.

  “Plato wrote an allegory about some men sitting in a dark cave, all of them shackled together in a line, facing the cave wall.”

  I nod. Go on. With the story. And the touching, too.

  His hand travels back down my thigh and begins caressing the sensitive skin on the inside of my knee. “There’s a line of men sitting shackled in a dark cave, facing a cave wall. A bonfire rages behind them, but they’ve never seen it, since they’ve been shackled and forced to sit facing the wall their whole lives.” Now his hand works its way back up my leg, up my inner thigh.

  I let out a shaky breath, anticipating where his hand might travel next.

  “The only thing the shackled men have ever seen is the cave wall—their own shadows dancing in the reflected firelight. Of course, since they don’t know any better, they think the reflected light and dancing shadows are the ultimate in beauty.”

  I can instantly see where this is heading. But a man explaining Plato to me while touching the inside of my thigh is by far the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced, so I’m not about to interrupt him. Now his hand moves farther up my leg, toward my G-string.

  He’s staring at me, his eyes like laser beams.

  I’m trembling.

  “One of the men in the cave, a guy at the end of the line, breaks free of his shackles.” His voice is low and measured. His hand caresses the crotch of my panties, making me jump.

  I close my eyes and exhale, trying to control my breathing.

  He brings his lips right to my ear as his hand continues caressing the fabric of my panties, right over the exact spot that’s throbbing for him. “The one who’s broken free of his shackles turns around for the first time and sees the bonfire behind him,” he whispers. “And he cries at the sight of it. He didn’t know anything could be so bright and beautiful.”

  He kisses my neck as his hand forcefully yanks at the waistband of my panties. I lift my hips so he can get them off. He quickly succeeds in guiding my panties all the way down and I kick them off. My heart is racing. He licks my neck and his hand returns to the inside of my thigh, slowly working its way back up again. Oh my God, I’m on fire. My hips are writhing beneath me, straining toward him, yearning for him to penetrate me.

  “I’ve unshackled you, My Magnificent Sarah,” he whispers in my ear, “but you’ve only seen the bonfire.” His hand reaches my wetness. His finger gently enters me.

  My body jerks invo
luntarily toward him, aching for him.

  He leans into my mouth and kisses me as his fingers work in and out of me. I moan loudly. He pulls his mouth an inch away from mine, but his fingers continue their exploration.

  “The man sees a distant light at the mouth of the cave and he runs toward it.” His fingers expertly plunge in and out of me, owning me, making me slick and wet and hungry for him. “And when he finally bursts out of the cave, he’s blinded by the light, by the beauty he beholds.”

  His fingers find the most sensitive spot on my entire body, and I cry out.

  He moans. “He sees sunlight and blue sky outside the cave.” His voice has become ragged. He presses his body against mine. His erection bulges into my leg from underneath his pants.

  “Fuck me, Jonas,” I say, shocking myself. I’ve never uttered these words to anyone in my life.

  He nips at my ear as his fingers move expertly back and forth from my tip to my wetness and back again. Oh my God, I’ve never been so turned on in all my life.

  “The man sobs at the sight of the beauty outside the cave.” His fingers are making me delirious. “He didn’t know such beauty even existed. Oh, Sarah.” His voice is hoarse.

  His fingers are massaging me like no one ever has. My entire body ignites into sudden flames.

  “Fuck me,” I whisper urgently. “Please.” Oh God, he’s so good at this. I’ve never been touched like this, ever. Not by anyone, not even myself. My body is writhing and gyrating in syncopation with his magical fingers. “Now, Jonas.”

  “You want me to fuck you?” he asks, his voice suddenly edged with aggression.

  “Yes,” I say hoarsely. “Right now.”

  “No,” he says, his voice steely. “We’re gonna do things my way. No more hard and fast for you.”

  “Please, Jonas,” I moan. “Now.” I lift my hips toward him, begging him to enter me.

  “No.” His fingers slide back into my wetness and then to my clit again with fervor, and back and forth again, back and forth. “I’m gonna take you to the mouth of the cave, baby. No more bonfire bullshit. No more fucking around.”

  He kisses my mouth, and I respond with voracious enthusiasm.

  “Now,” I beg again. I’m whimpering. “We’ll do it your way next time.” I feel like I’m going to scream if he doesn’t give me what I want. I can’t contain this rising tide of hunger inside me. “Now, Jonas.”

  “No,” he says. “You want the bonfire, but I’m gonna give you the true light. You’re gonna surrender to me whether you want to or not.”

  “Please,” I beg. I’m desperate. Pathetic. What if my body can’t come, no matter how golden his tongue? Right now, I’m not ready to find out. I just want to enjoy this delicious moment with this amazing man. Suddenly, I’m pissed. He’s not in charge here. He doesn’t get to tell me how we’re going to do this. He doesn’t get to call the shots. I grab at his crotch and his hardness makes me moan. “If you won’t fuck me, then I’m gonna fuck you,” I whisper.

  He grunts and I feel his body shudder. I know he can’t resist me, despite his big talk. I know it.

  I frantically unzip his pants and his shaft springs toward me.

  He tilts his head back and groans as I grip his full length. Quickly, before he can change his mind, I lean down and take him into my mouth. His entire body jerks and shudders with pleasure. He lets out a long, strangled groan. He touches the back of my head and grabs at my hair, moaning. “Sarah,” he mutters. “Not fair.”

  My crotch is throbbing. I reach down and touch myself as I take his hardness into my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat. My nipples are so hard they hurt. He moans again, and suddenly, there’s that faraway glimmer again, deep inside me, just like the last time—like a butterfly fluttering inside me far, far away. I can’t stand it. I can’t wait anymore. I pull away from him and swing my leg over his lap, briefly positioning his tip at my wetness, and then I slam myself down on top of him, as hard as I can, plunging him into me.

  We both cry out at the same time. He shudders and immediately begins thrusting into me and grabbing my ass like it’s his lifeline. I rest my palms on the limo ceiling and ride him like he’s a bucking bronco, craning my neck so my head won’t bang into the ceiling. My body’s never felt this much pleasure, ever.

  “Sarah,” he mutters again, his thrusting becoming savage.

  “Harder,” I gasp. “Harder.”

  He complies, making me gasp. His hand reaches down to my clit as his shaft burrows into me and I throw my head back, yelping. I’m not myself right now. I’m a wild animal—a wild animal trapped in the back of a limo—trying to break free. Sweat is beading down my back. My head is spinning. I grab the back of his neck as I ride him and pull him to my mouth for a voracious kiss. I’m riding him as hard as my body will tolerate, gyrating, my nerve endings exploding as he so expertly touches and fucks me.

  He pulls at my hips, forcing himself into my body even farther. Oh God, he’s deeper inside me than anyone’s ever been. I look down at him, and his eyes are closed, his face enraptured. Those butterfly wings are fluttering inside me, rising and gaining strength. I lean down and lick the entire length of his beautiful face, groaning and slamming my body down onto him as I do.

  “Oh God,” he moans. He gasps as his body finds its release.

  My heart is racing.

  I’m trembling.

  Sweat is dripping down my back.

  But my ache hasn’t released. I’m still throbbing. Yearning. Desiring.

  The faraway fluttering begins to recede.

  It’s gone.

  After a moment, we unravel from each other. I look out the window and realize we’re parked in front of my student apartment complex. What the hell? How long have we been sitting here? Thank God the windows are tinted. Thank God the driver didn’t open the door to announce our arrival—or maybe he did. Who the hell knows? I wince at the thought. And why are we here, anyway? I thought Jonas was taking me to his house?

  “That was the last time we do it your way,” Jonas says evenly. His voice is surprisingly stern. “You keep hijacking me against my will—and against your higher interest.”

  I shrug. It sure seems like he’s enjoying getting hijacked. And I’m sure enjoying doing the hijacking—turning the tables on him and making him abandon his strategy. Fuck his strategy. What if an orgasm just isn’t something my body’s designed to do? Why must he be so damned focused on that one small thing? Why can’t we just keep doing things this way—my way—and not worry about it one way or another? If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. But we don’t have to try for an orgasm, do we? Why set me up for failure—and set him up for frustration and disappointment?

  “From here on out, we do things my way,” he says.

  I’m noncommittal. “I think my way has worked out pretty damned well.”

  “Of course you think that—but you’re clueless, remember? You’re too fucked up to know that what you want is different than what you need.”

  “That’s my line,” I mutter.

  He smiles. “I know.”

  “Are you always this rude?” I ask.

  “Only with you.” He touches my face and sweeps my hair away from my eyes. His eyes have that mournful look in them again. “Sarah.” He kisses my neck. “You make me crazy.” His lips graze my neck. “I can’t resist you.”

  “I don’t want you to resist me.”

  “I know. But you should want me to. If you’d just let me do things my way, your body will thank me.”

  “I think maybe you’re too focused on the whole orgasm thing.”

  He takes my hand and kisses it. “You don’t even know what you’re missing. Just wait ‘til your eyes behold the sunlight outside the cave, My Magnificent Sarah.”

  What if I can’t deliver what he wants? How long will he keep trying? Certainly not indefinitely. But how long? A night? Two? What if he does his damned best—what if I let him lick me with his allegedly masterful tongue—and ab
solutely nothing happens? What then? Then I’ll know for sure I’m a lost cause. Men have tried before him and they’ve failed. Could he possibly be so much better at it than anyone else?

  “We do things my way next time,” he commands. “And after that, we can do it again any way you please.” He kisses the ring on my thumb.

  I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his lips on my fingers. “I’m just saying women don’t always need to have—”

  “No,” he cuts me off. “Stop. When you finally know what the fuck you’re talking about, then I’ll sit and listen to you talk all day long about how sex isn’t about coming, and that men and women are wired differently, and that women are more about the mental and emotional blah, blah, blah. Okay? But until then, I’m in charge. No more hijacking. No more going for the jugular. No more fucking around.”

  I don’t know whether to pout or smile. I’m nervous and excited and anxious and exhilarated at the same time. “I think I was close,” I whisper.

  He pulls back sharply from me, his eyebrows arched. “When?”

  I’m surprised at his sudden excitement. “Both times. I felt something new. Like I was just about to tip over the edge of something.” I close my eyes, trying to recall the faraway glimmering I felt, especially just now in the limo.

  “Oh man, we’re close,” he breathes. “If I’d only stuck with my strategy.” He runs his hand through his hair, thoroughly energized. “You’re wired so fucking hot and you don’t even know it, Sarah. When I finally light your fuse, it’s going to be the Fourth of fucking July.”

  I guess there’s only one way to find out. “Okay,” I say. I want nothing more than for him to be right about that.

  His smile spreads across the entire expanse of his beautiful face.

  I look out the window at my building. There are students lingering out front, chatting.

  “I thought we were going to your house? Why are we here?”