The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2) (22 page)

When I’m freed of my restraints, I lie back down on the bed in the same exact position I was in a moment ago—my arms outstretched, my legs spread-eagle.

I’m giving her my blood.

“I’m a free man now, baby—and your slave by choice. Do whatever you were about to do and I won’t move a muscle. You own me.”

She pouts. “Obviously not.”

“Come on, baby, my devotion binds me ten times more fiercely than any physical restraint ever could.”

She continues pouting.

“I’m in the same position I was in when forcibly bound—but now I’m willingly bound. I’m your voluntary slave. Come on. You own me.”

She doesn’t move. The look on her face grabs my heart and squeezes it.

“Green,” I whisper softly. “Come on.”

She looks crestfallen.

“Green, green, green,” I say. “Green?”

Her eyes perk up a little bit.

“Green, green, green, green, green, green, green. Full steam ahead. I’m at your mercy, pretty baby.”

Her mouth twists into a half-smile, but she doesn’t move.

“Come on, baby. You’re my religion. Licking your pussy is going to church. And your name’s my sacred prayer.
Sarah
.”

Her eyes ignite.

“Green,” I whisper. “Come on, pretty baby.”

She nods.

She maneuvers her body up to my face and places her knees on either side of my head. Slowly, delicately, she lowers herself onto me and sits on my face. With a loud and grateful groan, I begin licking her. Oh thank you, Lord in heaven above, yes, I lick her. Halle-fucking-lujah. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to grab her ass, but I stay true to my word and keep my arms out to my sides like I’m on the cross. And, in a sense, I suppose, I am.

She gyrates and jerks her pelvis, moaning and groaning as she does, her excitement quickly escalating into powerful thrusts and high-pitched shrieks. Just as her entire body begins to shake, she swivels completely around, panting and sweaty, bends over my torso, and takes my cock into her mouth as I continue eating her glorious pussy.

My Magnificent Sarah,
hallowed be thy name,
thy kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
She’s a church hymn, howling at the top of her lungs. With one final, insistent shriek, her body ripples and seizes into my tongue. I yank my cock out of her mouth to avoid her soon-to-be clenched jaw.

When I feel her climax ebb and her body go limp, I leap up, growling like a silverback, and toss her onto the bed. In one fluid motion, I bend her compliant body over the edge of the bed, plunge myself into her wetness, and fuck her without mercy until she screams my fucking name.
For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

Chapter 20

Sarah

He “safe worded” me and then fucked my brains out. What the hell? And now he’s gone mute. We’re both just lying here in bed together, one blink away from mutual catatonia, not speaking. I look over at him. Yeah, he’s awake. I feel like he owes me an explanation. But based on his silence, I guess he disagrees.

Why exactly did he feel the need to use the safe word with me at that particular moment? I realize he’s fucked up, and understandably so, given what he witnessed as a boy, but how could he put on the brakes
right then
? True, I can’t imagine what kind of crazy he must battle on a daily basis after seeing what he saw, but I wasn’t raping him, for Pete’s sake—far from it. Even when I had him bound and tethered and at my utter mercy, my only impulse was to give him as much pleasure as I could muster—and not just any kind of pleasure, but the exact pleasure he always says he craves the most. So why on earth did he need the safe word
right then
?

I wanted so badly to give him a special gift tonight—a new kind of bondage memory to replace the one that’s tortuously engrained in his gray matter. And, really, childhood trauma or not, would it have killed him to just let me take the driver’s seat in our sex life, just this once? Why can’t he just trust me and let go? I’ve had some childhood traumas of my own, thank you very much, but with each magical day and night we’ve shared, I’m somehow managing to conquer them.

“Hey, have you actually written that report, or were you bluffing?” he finally says.

This
is what he wants to talk about right now? The Club? That’s the last thing on my mind.

“What do you think?”

“I think you were bluffing.”

“You’ve been with me twenty-four seven from the minute I found out the truth. When the heck would I have had time to write a detailed report? I haven’t had time to paint my nails let alone write a report like that.” It’s not my intention, but that last part came out sounding kinda bitchy.

“Are you mad at me?”

I turn on my side to look at him. “No.”

“Because you sound kind of pissed.”

I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts. He looks at me expectantly.

“No, I’m not mad. I’m just totally freaking out.”

His face turns ashen. “About what?”

“Jonas, I haven’t studied in a whole week.” Tears well up in my eyes, despite my best efforts to hold them back. “So much is riding on my grades and all I’ve been doing for a solid week is playing sex kitten with you. I’ve got to study, Jonas. I’ve got to focus and get some order back into my life and remember why I went to law school in the first place—” The tears break free and drop out of my eyes. “I’ve got a lot of people depending on me.” Oh God, I’m a hot mess. “And now, thanks to my big mouth, I’ve got to write a damned
Pelican Brief
as soon as possible, too.”

He wraps his arms around me. “Baby, don’t you realize there’s nothing riding on your grades anymore?” He kisses my cheek and wipes my tears with his thumb.

I pull back to look into his face. I don’t understand what he means. The top ten students at the end of the first year get a full-ride scholarship for the next two years, which means students eleven and below are shit out of luck to the tune of some sixty-five thousand dollars. This is my ticket to do whatever I want after graduation, including taking a job that pays peanuts but makes me genuinely happy. We’re talking about me trying to win life-changing money here, and all I have to do is study my ass off for one short year of my life. And yet, in the home stretch right before finals, here I am playing sex addict night and day with Jonas. I need to get a grip and refocus my priorities.

He rolls his eyes like I’m a silly little girl. “If you get the scholarship, great. That’ll be a fantastic accomplishment and we’ll celebrate. But if not, I’ll pick up the tab. How much could law school tuition possibly be—fifty grand a year? So we’re talking maybe a hundred grand total? No big deal. Just consider yourself the lucky recipient of the Jonas Faraday Scholarship Fund.” He beams a huge smile at me.

I can’t even believe what I’m hearing.
The lucky recipient?
He expects me to hinge my entire future on his fickle beneficence? On a spur of the moment reassurance made in bed? I’m the
lucky recipient,
he says
?
Well, I’ve got news for him—I’m not going to pin my entire future on luck—or on his charity, for that matter.

He smiles at me. “Problem solved
.
The only thing you have to worry about is passing the bar exam at the end of year three. Between now and then, just go to class and do your best, but don’t stress it.” He touches my face. “I’m sure we’ll figure out something you can do with all your newfound free time.”

I stare at him, my mouth agape.

“Okay. What else are you freaking out about? Tee it up and I’ll knock it out of the park for you, baby.”

I sit up in the bed. I can’t even muster a response.

“Come on. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it for you.”

“You really expect me to let you pay my tuition?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t want to accept a laptop from you and now I’m supposed to accept two years worth of law school tuition?”

He smiles broadly. Apparently, that’s a yes.

“And you expect me to just sit back and
chillax
about it, as if you paying my tuition six months from now is some sort of foregone conclusion? Like your pillow talk today is an ironclad promise tomorrow?”

His smile vanishes. The playful sparkle drains from his eyes. “What I’m saying to you isn’t pillow talk.” Oh man, he’s pissed.

“You didn’t trust me enough to tell me about Stacy tonight, you won’t talk to me about the ‘hell’ I apparently forced you to endure tonight—your word, not mine—and yet I’m supposed to put my entire future in your hands and just believe on faith that six months from now, come what may between us, you’ll still be in the generous mood to write that tuition check for me?” Oh, good Lord, I’m shouting. I can’t stop the torrent flowing out of me. “What if you get bored with me between now and then—where would that leave me? What if, God forbid, I push just a little too hard, ask just a little too much of the Emotionally Scarred Adonis and scare you away? Hmm? What then? Would you come back to write my tuition check then?”

He looks like I just stabbed him in the heart. He opens his mouth but closes it again. Oh holy hell. The look in his eyes is unadulterated pain. And yet, for some reason, I blaze right ahead.

“You want me to put every single one of my eggs into the basket of a man who likens his feelings for me to a serious mental disease? To
insanity
? Yeah, that sure makes a girl feel über confident about having a long and secure future with a guy.” Holy shit, I can’t believe I just said that. Up until this very second, I thought I was perfectly fine with our coded language of love.

His face contorts. He shakes his head, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes are moist.

“I’m losing myself, Jonas. I just have to get back to standing on my own two feet.”

“Why?”

“Why?
Why
?” I open and close my mouth several times, flummoxed. “Why do I have to breathe? Or eat? It’s fundamental.”

“No, it’s not. You don’t
have
to stand on your own two feet. Not all the time. When you can’t, or even if you just don’t want to sometimes, then I’ll carry you. I
want
to carry you.”

No one has ever said anything like this to me before. Not even close.

“
Estamos de luna de miel,”
he says softly in his horrible Americano accent.
We’re on our honeymoon.
He looks at me hopefully.

For some reason, that phrase doesn’t make me swoon the way it did the first time he said it to me.

“Except we’re not really, are we?” I spit out. “This could all be over next week and where would that leave me? I can’t rely on this and let everything I’ve worked for slip away.”

Oh good Lord, whatever knife I stabbed him with a minute ago, I just turned it.

I soften. “I know I’ll never be able to understand what you went through as a child,” I say. I inhale and exhale slowly, trying to regain control of my voice. “I’ll never be able to fully understand why tonight felt like ‘hell’ for you—but, Jonas, I
want
to understand.” My lip is trembling. “I just wanted to replace your bad childhood memories with good adult ones. I wanted to give you pleasure—to try to heal you. And you wouldn’t trust me enough to let me try. I’m tired of everything being the Jonas Faraday Club all the time. I just wanted you to join the Sarah Cruz Club for a change.”

“This is all because I wouldn’t stay tied up while I ate you out?” He’s utterly pained.

“No, Jonas. You’re so clueless sometimes. Forget about that. Tonight just made me realize how much you’re holding back and I’m not.”

“Everyone holds back, sometimes.”

“I’m not holding back at all.”

“You’re not holding back at all?” he asks, incredulous.

“Not at all,” I say. And it’s true, other than the fact that I have to bite my tongue every five minutes to keep myself from blurting, “I love you!” at the top of my lungs. But that can’t be helped.

He stares at me, daring me to confess some deep, dark secret I’m keeping from him—as if he’s hoping to prove my fuckeduppedness matches his own.

“Well, okay, one thing,” I confess.

His face lights up with anticipatory vindication.

“I secretly like that One Direction song.”

He laughs, despite the pained look in his eyes.

“A lot,” I add. I put my hands over my face. I can’t stop the tears from coming.

“Sarah, what’s going on?” He puts his arm around me. “Please, please, don’t let this be the part where you say I don’t ‘let you in.’” His face is awash in anxiety. “Please don’t say I’m just too fucked up for you.” He’s holding back tears.

I touch his beautiful face. “No, Jonas. It’s just the opposite. You can never be too fucked up for me, don’t you understand? That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You can never, ever be too fucked up for me, no matter what’s hiding deep down inside of you—so stop being afraid to show me everything. I’m telling you to let your freak flag fly loud and proud. I’m telling you I won’t run away. I won’t reject you. You can trust me.” Tears pour out of my eyes. I’m in danger of losing myself to a
bona fide
ugly cry.

His relief is palpable. He kisses me. “Don’t leave me.”

I snort. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one who’s the flight risk.”

His lips are on mine. His tongue is in my mouth. Even if my brain wanted to leave this man, my body would stage a coup. Tears blur my eyes and run down my cheeks. “I just don’t understand why you hold back like you do. I’m giving you everything, Jonas. I want the same from you.”

“I can’t,” he whispers.

“Yes, you can.”

He shakes his head. “This is all because I wouldn’t stay tied up? I don’t understand—what happened after you untied me was incredible.”

“It’s a
metaphor
, Jonas. Come on. I know how you love your metaphors.”

“I know it was a metaphor. I’m not stupid. But maybe we enacted a different and even better metaphor than the one you were going for. Sometimes, the best things are unplanned.”