Free The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2) by Lauren Rowe

to explode right off my body and zip around the room like an errant balloon.
    When my body stops pulsing, I grope feverishly behind me for Jonas’ sleeping body and press my naked backside into him. Quickly, urgently, I stroke him into hardness (which isn’t difficult to do), and, even before he’s fully awakened, I slip his full length inside me and ride him rhythmically, reaching between my legs to feel him slipping in and out of me, touching myself, touching him, rubbing myself against his hard shaft, moaning his name. In no time at all, his mind becomes aware of what his body is doing. His lips find my neck, his warm hands find my breasts and belly and hips and clit, his fingers slip inside my moaning mouth, and his movement inside me deepens and intensifies.
    I close my eyes as the pleasure inside me escalates and fills me to bursting. I remember him lapping at the red wine from the sensitive folds of my skin, how the envious diners watched us—and, most of all, how Jonas proclaimed, “I love Sarah Cruz” loud enough for everyone to hear. Lo and behold, warm waves of concentrated pleasure begin warping inside me again, emanating from my epicenter, making my body tighten and clench and release and contract around Jonas’ erection.
    His arms embrace me from behind and I clutch them around me, moving my body with his, coaxing him to his climax. But, much to my surprise, he pulls out of me, pushes me onto my back, and begins pleasuring me in every conceivable way. He kisses my breasts and neck and face and runs his hands over my thighs and sucks on my fingers and toes and kisses my inner thighs, and, finally, laps at me with his warm and magical tongue, licking my sweet spot with particular fervor—and in record time, I come again , this time like I’m exploding and melting at the same time. Holy banana cream pie, how sweet it is.
    When I stop writhing and moaning, I can’t move. He turns my lifeless form onto my belly and rides his happy, exhausted, horny little pony until he comes, too. And, I’ll be damned, when he does, against all odds, I pulse and seize and vibrate yet again, right along with him. Not with eyes-rolling-back-into-my-head intensity, mind you—I’m too far gone for that—but, rather, like I’m his go-kart and he’s just revved the engine one final, shriek-inducing time.
    And now we’re done, both of us completely spent.
    He presses against me, holding me from behind.
    And I’m a wet noodle. A sweaty wet noodle. A satisfied, sweaty wet noodle. I can’t move a single muscle. And I can’t speak, either. My vocal chords are non-functional—a couple of useless mucous membranes inside my throat.
    Wow. Wow. Wow.
    Mind officially blown.
    Un-fricking-believable. Incredible. Delicious.
    Can I get a woot woot from myself?
    Woot woot!
    If I could speak, which I can’t, I’d scream from the top of every mountain right now: “I’m officially a sex kitten, peeps! I’m multi-orgasmic, bitches! Boom!”
    I stretch myself out against his body and feel myself slipping into total relaxation. I’ve never felt quite like this before, so fulfilled, so satisfied—and so frickin’ powerful, too. Tonight, I’m reborn, for the second time in my life—the prior time being that magical night in Belize when Mount Everest first toppled—and it’s all thanks to this hunky-monkey-magic-man boyfriend of mine, Mr. Fuck Wizard himself. Mr. Most Beautiful Man I’ve Ever Seen. Mr. Heart as Big as the Grand Canyon. Mr. Sad Eyes. Mr. Tortured Soul. Mr. Divine Original. Mr. Manly Man-ness-y Manly Man.
    Mr. Jonas Faraday.
    My sweet Jonas.
    Oh God, how I love this man.
    I close my eyes. My mind yawns and instantly begins drifting into blackness . . .
    “Sarah,” Jonas whispers, and my mind lurches back to full attention. Something in his voice makes me think he’s about to say something important. “Sarah, I . . .” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, anticipating what he’s about to say. He pauses a