The Redemption (7 page)

I stop for a moment and consider deleting that last sentence. It’s pretty ballsy. Eh, screw it. I’ll just go balls to the walls—big risk, big reward, just like Jonas always says.

I continue typing:

“Thank you for your interest in my business proposal. I look forward to finalizing our arrangement, too. A fifty-fifty split is what I’m willing to do. Yes, you supply the clients, but I’m the one who’s going to make them pay up. You can lead a horse to your watering hole all you like, but it’s me who’s going to make him slurp up gallons and gallons of water. In fact, I’ve recently learned I’m uniquely talented at making horses drink. Fifty-fifty. Take it or leave it, people. But be advised: If you decide to ‘leave it,’ my report goes live—no second chances. I’m done fucking around.

“The emergency room doctors I’ve recently visited, thanks to you—did I mention our ‘unfortunate miscommunication’ left me bleeding out on a bathroom floor?—have told me to take a solid two weeks strict bed rest to recuperate from my injuries. When my health returns and I’m able to walk, let alone ride
the horses you plan on bringing to our mutual watering hole
,
I will let you know. I want this new venture to be a success as much as you do, I assure you—our interests are completely aligned—but I’m only human after all, and having a stab wound on my torso and staples in my head isn’t all that conducive to sexy time.

“Sincerely,

“Your Faithful Intake Agent, Sarah Cruz

“P.S. By the way, I’ve described our recent ‘unfortunate miscommunication’ to the police as a random mugging. (I’m not fucking stupid.)”

Before I can change my mind, I press send.

Holy crappola. What am I doing? I’m insane. I’m not James Bond. I’m not a superhero. I can call myself Orgasma the All-Powerful all I like, but I’m still just me. A girl made of flesh and bones—and
blood
, as my body so recently proved in spades. I don’t know what the heck I think I’m doing. Damn. I need help.
I need Jonas.
 

Or maybe I should throw in the towel and just call the FBI already? If that means I won’t pass the ethics review for my law license, then I guess I’ll just have to live with that. But I don’t want to give up on my legal career. Tears rise up in my eyes. I’ve worked too hard to get here. My mother is counting on me and so are the countless women my mom helps. I can’t let them down. I’ve got to figure this out. I wipe my eyes.

I need Jonas.
 

I have a stomachache.

I need Jonas.
 

Jonas. Jonas, Jonas, Jonas. Oh my God, Jonas. My heart and body and soul ache for him. He looked so sad when my mom drove me away from the hospital. I wanted to hurl my body out of the car and leap into his arms right then. But I didn’t. I just closed my eyes and cried as the car peeled away, too overwhelmed and in pain and jumbled and depressed and anxious to do anything else.

I need Jonas.
 

My heart pangs violently. I miss him. I can’t be apart from him for another minute. I thought I needed time away to remind myself who I am when I’m not in his intoxicating presence—to battle my addiction to him and regain my sense of self, to get a handle on my studies and figure things out and let my body heal without distraction. I thought I needed to take a break from the madness for a little while. But I was wrong. Oh God, I was so wrong. I need him. My sweet Jonas. The man I love with all my heart and soul. For better or worse.

I pick up the phone and dial him. He answers immediately.

“Baby,” he says softly. He sounds out of breath, like he gasped when he saw my name come up on his screen.

At the sound of his voice, I lose it. “Jonas,” I bawl.

“What is it, Sarah? Tell me.” He lets out a pained exhale. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.” He sounds like he wants to leap through the phone line.

“Come get me, Jonas. I want you. I need you. Please, Jonas. Bring me home.”

Sarah
 

“I can walk,” I say. But Jonas ignores me, as usual. He scoops me up from his car and carries me into his house, straight to his bedroom, and lays me down on top of his white sheets like I’m a porcelain doll.

“Welcome home,” he says softly. He’s triumphant—the picture of pure elation.

I smile at him. “It’s good to be home.”

“Say that again,” he says.

“Home.”

“You’re forbidden to leave ever again,” he says. “I’m gonna install bars on the windows and doors.”

“I’m so happy to be here, I’m not even creeped out by that statement.”

He lies down next to me, on his side. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, softly tracing my eyebrow with his finger. “I missed you so much.” He takes my face in his hands. “Never leave me again.”

“I won’t.”

“Never, ever, ever.”

“Got it.”

“Ever.”

“I’ve learned my lesson. It was physically painful being away from you—or, wait, maybe that pain came from the knife in my side.” I smile, but he doesn’t. Clearly, it’s too soon for knock-knock-who’s-there-I-got-stabbed humor.

“I—,” he chokes out. He stuffs down whatever he was about to say. “When I saw you on the bathroom floor, I thought you were dead.”

“Oh, Jonas, I’m so sorry.” I can’t even imagine how that must have affected him.

He kisses me gently. “I thought I’d lost you.” He wraps his arm over me and kisses every inch of my face. His muscles are taut against my body.

I close my eyes. My fingers find his bicep. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” he murmurs. “I’m the one who’s sorry.” He sighs. “Sarah, I need to—”

“Jonas, wait. Listen to me.”

He pulls back and stares at me. He waits.

“I know we have a ton of stuff to talk about. Like, tons and tons. But before we start talking and probably never stop, can I ask a favor?”

“You can have whatever you want, my beautiful, precious baby. Forever and ever and ever and ever, whatever you want.” He strokes my cheek.

I pause. That was a big statement. Wow. He just made my heart leap out of my chest. I clear my throat.

“Name it, baby,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Whatever it is, it’s yours.
I’m
yours. Forever and ever and ever. Whatever you want, it shall be yours.” He kisses my nose.

Wow, he’s making me giddy. Not to mention turning me on. I can hardly speak.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I want you to kiss all my booboos.”

He smiles. “Your booboos?”

I grin broadly. It’s hilarious hearing that silly word come out of his mouth. “Yeah. I want you to give me
besitos
on my booboos and make ‘em all better.”

“
Besitos
?” he repeats. Jonas always loves it when I speak Spanish to him.

“Mmm hmm. Little kisses. On my booboos.”

“
Besitos
on your booboos, huh?”

“Mmm hmm.”

He bites his lip. “Whatever you say, my precious, pretty baby. My Magnificent Sarah.” His cheeks are flushed.

How did we survive these past three days apart? Why did I feel the need to pull away from him? I can’t even remember why I thought I needed space.

I sit up and raise my arms over my head, and he takes off my tank top.

“Oh,” he says, wincing at the sight of me.

I look down at myself and shrug. The wound on my ribcage looks way better than it did three days ago. But I imagine Jonas doesn’t appreciate all the healing my body has done—all he sees is my current state of disrepair.

I lie back down on the bed, inviting him to kiss my body. “It looks worse than it feels, I assure you.”

He leans down to my torso and softly kisses me. “This booboo right here?”

Goose bumps erupt all over my skin. “That’s the one.”

He runs his fingertip over my stitches and then over the black-and-blue-and-yellowish skin surrounding the gash. “Does it hurt?”

“Not too bad.”

He kisses my wound again and I shudder as my skin comes alive under his touch. His lips move up from my ribcage to the stitched-up gash on my neck.

“And this booboo here, too?”

“Mmm hmm.” I shiver. I’m aching for him.

“Does it hurt when I kiss it?” he asks.

“No, it feels really good,” I say. “Your
besitos
are making me all better.”

“Can I see the back of your head?” he asks.

I sit up and turn my head. He moves my hair and gasps.

 “Am I Frankenstein?” I ask. I’m anxious. I haven’t actually taken a peek back there.

“Holy shit. They
stapled
you back together, Sarah.” He lets out a groan of sympathy. “It looks like they used a staple gun from Home Depot on your head.”

I quickly lean back, intending to lie back on my pillow. “You don’t have to kiss that booboo—I’m not a sadist.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder to stop me from reclining. “Hey, sit back up, Frankenstein. I want to kiss all your booboos—
especially
that one.”

I pause. My heart is racing. I don’t know what it looks like back there, but it’s got to be pretty nasty looking. “It’s okay. I don’t want to gross you out.”

“You’re not grossing me out,” he says, turning my shoulders away from him. “I love every inch of you, Sarah Cruz, even the disgusting parts.”

I swivel back around and stare at him. Did he just say he
loves
every inch of me?

He meets my gaze. “Come on,” he says, his eyes smoldering. “Let me show you how much I love every inch of you.”

I’m speechless.

He swivels my head away from him, moves my hair aside, and softly presses his lips against the stapled wound at the base of my skull. “Does that feel good?”

I shiver. “Mmm hmm.” Feeling his lips on my stapled skin is turning me on too much to say anything else.

His soft lips migrate down my neck, all the way to my bare shoulder. His hand wraps around my torso and cups my breast.

I feel him shudder with desire behind me—and I’m right there with him. I lie down on my back, and he instantly begins licking my erect nipples—and then my neck. My ear. My lips. His tongue enters my mouth and his hand touches my face.

Oh my gosh, I’m on fire. When my life flashed before my eyes in that bathroom, when I thought I was a goner for sure, what did I think about?
I love you, Jonas.
Of all the thoughts my brain might have conjured in that most vulnerable, raw, life-defining moment, my love for Jonas was everything.

“Sarah,” he breathes, kissing me. “I thought I’d lost you.” He chokes back emotion. “Sarah,” he says again.

“Make love to me,” I breathe.

He pulls back, unsure.

“The doctor said sex is okay after three days,” I assure him. Okay, technically, I didn’t ask the doctor when I can have sex again—but Dr. Sarah is here and she says it’s okay. I feel like me again and I want him inside me. Oh my God, do I ever. I want to be as close to him as humanly possible. For goodness sake, the man just said he loves every inch of me, and I’m suddenly desperate for him to prove it, from the inside out.

He touches my face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just take it slow.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I take off my pajama bottoms. I’m yearning for him.

He takes his clothes off and lies down against me, his erection insistent against my belly, his skin warm and smooth against mine.

I’m trembling.

He holds me for a moment, looking into my eyes. “When I saw you in the bathroom...  ,” he says. But he stops.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must have been terrifying.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry, Jonas.”

He pauses a really long time.

Something in the way he’s looking at me makes me hold my breath.

He inhales deeply. “I love you, Sarah.”

My breathing halts. I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

“I love you so much,” he says. His eyes are moist.

I burst into tears.

“I love you,” he says softly, wiping at my tears. He kisses me.

I know this is the part where I’m supposed to tell him I love him, too, but I’m mute. I can’t believe my ears. I’m dumbfounded. I’m spellbound. I return his kiss passionately and throw my leg over him, eager for him to fill me up. When his body enters mine, we both moan loudly at the pleasure of it.

“I love you,” he says, his voice husky.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I’m overwhelmed.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks.

I shake my head.

He kisses my lips as his body moves inside mine. His hands stroke my back and butt. I feel nothing but pleasure and love and elation as his body leads mine into synchronized movement. Any pain my wounded body might have been feeling a moment ago has been replaced by pleasure, sublime pleasure. I feel euphoric.

“I love you,” he says, his body zealously emphasizing his words.

“Oh, Jonas,” I gasp, finding my voice. “I love you, too.”

“Oh God,” he exhales, shuddering. His lips find mine again, and then he whispers in my ear. “I love you, baby.”

I moan and press myself into him enthusiastically. I never knew it could feel so good to hear those three little words.

“I love you, Jonas,” I whimper. I’m bursting with joy. I can’t believe this is happening.

He pulls out of me, his chest heaving. “I love every inch of you, Sarah Cruz.” He gently pushes me onto my back and proceeds to kiss every single inch of me, from the top of my head to the wound on my neck, down to my breasts and belly and the gash on my ribcage, to my hips, thighs, crotch, arms and fingers and thighs and legs and toes, and then he begins working his way back up my legs and slowly up the insides of my thighs, to the sensitive skin right between my legs. By the time he gets to my clit and licks me ever so gently with his warm, wet tongue, I can barely hold it together. I’m arching my back, gripping the sheet, shuddering violently. I’m not sure if I’m going to scream or burst into tears or flames—or if all my stitches are going to simultaneously pop out of my skin like tiny projectile missiles—but, certainly, something’s got to give. I can’t withstand this pressure building inside me for much longer.