by Lauren Rowe
She smirks. “So, how much is this membership gonna cost me, huh?” She squints at me.
“Hmm.” I hadn’t thought about that. Yet again, I need time to think this through.
“Let’s talk about it over breakfast,” I say.
“I thought you had to get to the office.”
“I do. But I’m already so ridiculously late, what’s another half-hour? And anyway, I can’t send my baby off to school without a good breakfast, can I? It’s the most important meal of the day.” I wink at her and she blushes.
Chapter 18
Jonas
“An egg-white omelet good? Spinach, broccoli, sprouts, mushrooms?”
“Ah, so that’s why you look the way you do.”
“My body is my temple. Well, it used to be—your body is my temple now.”
She flashes me a giddy smile.
I pull out the ingredients from the fridge and get to work.
We’re both dressed in T-shirts and boxers, but she looks way better in my clothes than I do.
“Okay, so membership fees,” I say. “Your membership can’t be free, or else you won’t value it—it’s basic marketing psychology. You have to have some skin in the game.”
“I’m definitely in favor of skin in the game.” She shoots me a naughty grin.
“As long as it’s yours.” I glance at her thigh peeking out of my boxers under the table. “So, what I’m thinking is this.” I’m doing my damnedest to keep my voice casual, playful, carefree. “How ‘bout you quit your job at The Club and come stay here with me for a month.”
Her mouth hangs open.
I turn back to the eggs on the stove, my heart racing. “You’ll still go to your classes and study, of course, and I’ll go to work and work out, of course, but, otherwise, we’ll just relax and stop the world and melt with each other—in our little club.”
She’s silent.
I keep my attention on the food I’m making, but there are butterflies in my stomach. I can feel my cheeks blazing. “Our little club for two,” I add lamely, shifting the eggs in the pan.
She’s silent, so I steal a glance over at her.
She’s not happy. This is not the expression I was hoping to see. I was hoping for another one of those giddy, elated expressions from her.
I try to salvage the situation. “You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll pay all your expenses—your rent, whatever you need—so you can stay here with me and just relax and . . .”
Her eyes are inscrutable.
“And be my sex slave,” I add, hoping to make her laugh. Oh, that didn’t make her laugh.
“I’m not gonna quit my job,” she says evenly. “It’s how I pay for stupid things like, you know, tuition, rent, food. I’m not with you because I’m looking for a handout.”
Well, of course she’s not. I didn’t think that for a minute. That was a fucked-up thing to say. “Would you just listen to me? I understand all that, but I’m actually being selfish here.”
She opens her mouth to protest.
“I want your undivided attention this whole month. I don’t want to share you with anyone or anything. And you said you’d do whatever I tell you to do.”
Her expression quite plainly says, Not this.
I leave the eggs cooking on the stove and sit at the table with her. “I want you here with me—not doing surveillance on every sexual deviant in Seattle who wants to fuck the Queen of England dressed up like a donkey.”
She can’t stifle her smile. “Hey, you read that application, too?”
I grin. “I want you here,” I say softly. I grab at her thighs under the table. “With me, in my bed, at my beck and call.”
Her smile widens.
I push her thighs apart. “Spread eagle.”
She chuckles.
“Sarah, I just want you here with me,” I say again, softly. “That’s your membership fee.”
She sighs. “I’m not gonna quit my job.”
“You’re gonna quit anyway after the school year’s up, you said so yourself. So what if you quit a little earlier than you thought you would? I’ll pay for everything so you can have sex with me around the clock.”
She leans back. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you just asked me to be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—and not the part at the end when Richard Gere comes for her in the white limo, the part at the beginning, when she’s a streetwalker in thigh-high boots.”
I exhale in frustration. “Sarah, I’m not treating you like a prostitute.” I throw up my hands. “Don’t you understand? I’m treating you like my girlfriend.”
Her eyes widen.
We stare at each other for a moment. I can’t believe I just said that any more than she can. There’s a long pause. Shit. What the fuck am I saying? Have I gone completely insane? A sudden panic washes over me.
She leaves her chair and sits on my lap. In a flash, she’s peppering my face with soft kisses, just like she did last night in my bathroom. I close my eyes and let her lips transport me to another place. The panic that was threatening to engulf me vanishes.
“Jonas,” she breathes, kissing my cheek, my ear, my eyebrows, my eyelids, my nose. I shiver under the gentle touch of her lips. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” she says, still kissing me. “Inside and out.”
My heart’s thumping so hard, I worry it’s going to knock her right off my lap.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
“I can’t quit my job.” Her tone makes it clear this is non-negotiable.
My heart sinks. For a minute there, I convinced myself I could stop the world and melt with her. For a month. In my house. Just the two of us. Without a care in the world. Fuck everything and everyone else. But that was just wishful thinking. Shit. I probably would have fucked it up, anyway. She probably did us both a big favor by refusing me.
“The eggs,” I suddenly blurt. She leaps off my lap and I bound over to the stove.
They’re okay—drier than I’d like, but still okay. Luckily, I’d left the heat on low.
I bring our plates to the table and she moans her approval.
“This looks incredible,” she says. “Wow.” She takes an enthusiastic bite. “Mmm. So good.”
I stare at her, enjoying her unbridled enthusiasm. Even when she eats, she turns me on.
“What?” she says.
“You’re so voracious.”
“I’ve probably burned, like, eight thousands calories in the past twelve hours. And it’s delicious. Wow, you can cook, boy.”
“Of course.”
“Not of course. I’ve never known a man who could cook.”
“Neanderthals, all of them.”
“Your mama taught you well, Jonas Faraday.”
My eye twitches. I look away. I can feel color rising in my cheeks.
“Oh,” she says. She exhales in frustration, like she’s mad at herself.
I know her eyes are on me, but I can’t look at her. I need to collect myself. I stand up. I should go in the other room for a minute. I can feel my cheeks blazing. She had me feeling so soft, so weak—I didn’t have my guard up. I wouldn’t normally have reacted to a throw away comment like that.
She stands up and wraps her arms around me. I start to pull away, but she insists. Her lips are on my cheek and then my lips. I return her kiss. I melt.
“Sweet, sweet Jonas,” she murmurs into my lips. “Such a sad little boy.”
I nod, kissing her.
“Will you tell me why?” She pulls away and looks into my face. “Will you tell me?”
I shake my head. I’m overwhelmed with emotion.
She puts her forehead on mine and sighs.
Why won’t she stay with me? I just want her all to myself. I could make her feel so good, if she’d just let me. I could take the pain away.
She runs her hand through my hair. “Sweet Jonas,” she says again. She takes my face in her hands.
I close my eyes.
She kisses every inch of m
y face again.
Jesus, I feel like crying. Why am I so weak around her? Where’s the cocky bastard motherfucker I am night and day with everyone else? That cocky fucker executes high-risk-high-reward strategies on a daily basis and climbs mountains with his bare fucking hands. He’s the fucker, not the fuckee. I like that guy. Why can’t I be that guy around her? It’s like she’s discovered an unlatched window into me, and she keeps sneaking through it every time I look the other way.
Enough. I’m acting like a pussy-ass. I’m being soft. I need to pull myself together. I need to regain control.
I peel myself away from her embrace. I kiss her on the cheek and glide over to the fridge. “Orange juice?” I ask, clearing my throat.
She shakes her head slowly.
“Coffee? Cappuccino?”
“Um, yeah, a cappuccino would be great,” she says softly. She sits back down in her chair. She looks anguished.
I grab a mug and press the cappuccino button on my machine. I pour a glass of juice for myself. I bring both drinks over to the table.
“Thanks,” she says, her mouth tight.
There’s a long pause.
Whatever weakness I was feeling a moment ago has receded. I’m back. “Okay, new idea. If you won’t agree to my preferred payment plan,” I say, “I’ve got an alternate one.” I take my chair.
She purses her lips. She’s looking at me like she can see right through me, like she’s got x-ray vision—like my bullshit doesn’t fool her for a minute. Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about her impeccable bullshit-o-meter.
“Okay,” she says, wary. “What’s your next brilliant idea, Lord-God-Master?” She crosses her arms in front of her. Clearly, she’s ready to reject whatever I’m about to say. Well, then, I’ll just have to make her an offer she can’t refuse.
“I want you come away with me this weekend.”
Instant elation washes over her. She tries to stifle it, but she can’t. She uncrosses her arms and leans forward. Her eyes are blazing.
“We’ll make it a long weekend—we’ll leave Thursday.” I’m putting my plan together on the fly.
Oh, wow, she’s freaking out—in a good way. This is good.
“That should give us enough time to get you a passport, if we expedite it.”
“We’re going out of the country?” She’s losing it. “Oh my God!” Oh yeah, she’s definitely losing it. She’s squealing. I like this.
I nod. “Hey, membership in this club doesn’t come for free.”
“Where are we going?”
“Does it matter?”
She laughs. “Not at all.”
I think for a minute. I have no idea where we’re going. Wait. I know exactly where we’re going. Exactly. Yes. Oh my God, I’m a goddamned genius. “We’re going to one of my favorite places in the whole world,” I tell her. “And that’s all you need to know.” Damn, this is going to be perfect. Talk about a metaphor.
She squeals. “Wow, you drive a hard bargain, mister.” She laughs—and there’s that gravel in her voice I love so much. “I really hope you’re better at negotiating your business deals, because from what I can see, you don’t quite grasp the concept of payment.”
I laugh. Yeah, I feel good again. It’s like my near meltdown a minute ago never even happened. I’m me again. I’m in control. “And one more thing. Before we leave for our trip, I want you to fill out a membership application for me—for the Jonas Faraday Club—describing each and every one of your sexual preferences in intricate detail.”
She sighs.
“Tit for tat.” I grin.
“It’s not necessary,” she says. She’s stone-faced.
Why am I surprised she’s being difficult? Nothing is easy with this woman. Why can’t she ever do what I tell her to do?
“Yes, it is,” I say. “I want to know everything about you, every single thing you—”
“No, no, I mean, I don’t need to write it down.” She shrugs. “I can just tell you my sexual preferences right now.”
I’m about to protest, to tell her we don’t have time for a detailed discussion right now and that, even if we did, I’d rather have it in writing so I can read and re-read her words later, alone in my bed. But she speaks before I can say anything.
“What I have to say on the topic of my ‘sexual preferences’ is pretty short and sweet.”
I bite my lip. I have no idea what she’s talking about. But she’s definitely got my attention.
“My ‘sexual preferences’ can be summarized in two little words, as a matter of fact.” She twists a lock of hair around her finger. Her eyes are twinkling. Damn, she’s a good-looking woman.
She’s got my full attention. I can’t for the life of me predict what those two little words are going to be. On top? Doggie style? Hard and fast? But that’s technically three words. My way? Anything goes?
She rolls her eyes like she can’t believe I don’t already know what she’s about to say. “Jonas Faraday,” she says. “My sexual preference is you, Jonas, plain and simple. You.” She smiles at me wickedly. “You woman wizard, you.”
Chapter 19
Sarah
I pack up my books and shove them into my backpack amid the bustle of students exiting the lecture hall. I’ve just sat through a particularly interesting constitutional law class about fundamental rights under the U.S. Constitution versus the states’ constitutions. The Supreme Court cases we discussed during class were divisive and thought provoking, and I loved every minute of the discussion. And yet, when I looked down at my notebook at the end of class, I’d doodled “Jonas,” surrounded by a heart, over and over again in the margin of my notes—and I didn’t even remember writing it. What am I, fourteen years old?
“You coming to study group tonight?” a fellow student asks me as he’s packing up his laptop.
I pause. I don’t know if Jonas is going to be done with his big meeting by tonight—he seemed really unsure of how long it would last. But even if he is, I should study tonight, anyway. I’m going to miss several classes and lots of study time during our four days away—and I already ditched class this morning, too.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” I say, even though it pains me to say it. I’d much rather roll around naked in bed (or in a bathroom, or a limo, or a shower) with Jonas than analyze case precedents with my study group. But I’ve got to stay focused. If I can finish this year in the top ten students, I’ll have my entire tuition paid for the next two years. Not too shabby. Yeah, now that I think about it, I absolutely need to study like a lunatic every available minute before our trip, just to make sure I don’t fall hopelessly behind while I’m gone.
I sling my heavy backpack over my back and head out of the lecture hall. If I go back to my apartment, I’ll surely break down and invite Jonas over, or, if he’s still busy, lie on my bed listening to that Modern English song instead of studying. I sigh and take a sharp left toward the library.
He wants an exclusive relationship with me for a whole month? A month! Maybe I should be worried about what’s going to happen in a month and a day, but I’m not. I don’t care. I want him, and I’ll take what I can get. When the limo picked me up for dinner last night, I thought for sure it was going to be a one-night stand—I never thought there’d be a second night with him, let alone a third or fourth—and instead the man brings me to his beautiful home and proposes an exclusive relationship with me for a whole frickin’ month after only our first night together? And, oh my God, he wanted me to stay with him at his house. He used the word girlfriend! True, he was about to pass out or throw up when that word slipped out of his mouth—he’s so out of his depths with all this—but he said it, and he didn’t take it back. And he didn’t run away. And he didn’t shut down. Quite the opposite.
And on top of all that month-long-membership stuff, holy crap, I almost came. I almost came! Oh, I was this close. If he could have held out just a little bit longer inside me, if he could have stayed hard and strong and continued pumping into me
and touching me like he was doing. I bite my lip, remembering. He’s magnificently talented at touching me—way better at touching me than I am, that’s for sure. How does he know exactly where to touch, and when, and how hard or soft? He’s got magic fingers, that boy. I was a hair’s breath away from total and complete rapture with him. I felt like a wild animal.
And I want to feel that way again. As soon as possible.
My heart’s racing just thinking about him. Dang, I’ve got to calm down and get my mind in study mode.
I’ve reached the entrance to the library. Before I go in, I pull out my phone.
“Kat,” I practically scream when she answers the phone.
“Oh my God, Sarah. You’re going to burst my eardrum.”
I laugh.
“What happened last night? I’m dying to hear about it.”
“It was better than the best case scenario.”
She squeals.
“I’m a goner, Kat. I’m so effing gone.” I sigh.
“Can you meet for drinks after work?”
“Gah, not tonight. I’ve got study group tonight. Tomorrow?”
“Can’t tomorrow. A work thing.” Kat works at a PR firm.
“Wednesday night?”
“It’s a date. I’m all yours,” she says.
“That’s what he said.”
“What?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. That good?” Kat’s bursting.
“Better than good. Incredible. Hot. Amazing. Mind-blowing. Romantic.”
Kat lets out a giddy squeal.
“He’s taking me away on Thursday for a long weekend—to some mystery locale out of the frickin’ country.”
“What? Holy shitballs, girl. I’m dying to hear everything.”
“Can’t wait to tell you. I’ll text you about Wednesday, okay? I gotta study for a bit.”
I shift my backpack to find the front pocket so I can put my phone away, and it rings. I look at the display screen. It’s Jonas. My heart leaps out of my chest.
“Hey,” I say, my cheeks instantly hot.
“Hey,” he says back. Oh, his voice. I remember his voice whispering in my ear as he made love to me.