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

psychological hang-ups. After you get off the first time, you’ve just gotta keep your mind open and get the right stimulation—from someone who knows how—and you’ll be off to the races every time.”
    “From someone who knows how?”
    “Well, from me , of course—fuck, don’t misunderstand that part. Let me be perfectly clear, yet again: Only from me . Always me.”
    I smile at him. “Jonas Faraday.”
    “The one and only.”
    “The sexual samurai.”
    He laughs. “Ah, you’ve seen my book collection.”
    “No, Kat did. She wants to make all your books required reading for her next boyfriend.”
    He chuckles. “Well, a guy can read about this stuff all he wants, but if he doesn’t have some God-given talent to start with, it’s pointless. It’s like being a musician—you can be classically trained to play all the right notes, but no one can teach you to feel the music with your soul. Muddy Waters felt the music. Bob Dylan felt the music. No one can learn how to do that—it’s true artistry.”
    “Ah, so you’re a sexual arteest, are you?”
    He squeezes me. “I am. And you’re my canvas.” He kisses my neck and grabs my ass at the same time.
    “I’ll be your canvas any time, big boy.”
    He’s thinking about something. “My whole life, I’ve had this innate understanding . It’s like this weird empathy; I don’t know what else to call it.” He pauses. “I’ve never told anyone this . . .”
    I wait. There’s absolutely nothing better than a sentence that starts with, “I’ve never told anyone this . . .”
    “It started when I was little. My mother used to get these horrible headaches, and I was the only one who could make them go away, just by massaging her head the right way . . .” He stops talking.
    “It’s okay,” I finally say. “Tell me.”
    He shakes his head.
    “Tell me, baby. I’m listening.”
    He shifts internal gears. Clearly, there will be no more talking about his mother. “When I touch you, or fuck you, or taste you—oh fuck, I’m turning myself on again, baby—” He kisses me deeply, his hands firmly on my ass again. “Albóndigas,” he whispers. Meatballs.
    I laugh. “ Siempre tus albóndigas .” Always your meatballs.
    He smiles at me.
    “Tell me,” I coax him.
    “When I fuck you or taste you or touch you, whatever, it’s like I can feel what you’re feeling—I mean, like, literally feel it, you know? And, holy fuck, it gets me off.” He grunts, obviously imagining whatever sensation he’s talking about.
    “I told you—you’re a woman wizard, baby. You’ve got magical, mystical powers.”
    He sighs and touches my cheek. “I can’t wait to keep exploring the depths of you, Sarah Cruz. You’re a vast and uncharted ocean, you know that?” He pauses. “You’re my ocean.”
    I’m filled with the sudden urge to tell him I love him. He’s better than any dream. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel loved. He makes me feel good— so, so, so frickin’ good. He makes me feel special. I love him. And, oh my God, I want to tell him, in exactly those words.
    But, nope. I can’t. No way. It’s a non-starter.
    And that’s okay. I’m his ocean, he says . Not too shabby. It’s enough. It really is.
    “Yet again, you’re a poet,” I whisper.
    “Only with you.”
    He wraps his arms around me and squeezes me. “Sarah . . .,” he whispers, “I  . . .” He clears his throat. But he doesn’t say anything more.
    I can feel myself drifting off to sleep. Whatever else he’s going to say, it will have to wait until morning.
    “Madness,” I whisper. And then I close my eyes and slip into a deep and blissful sleep.
     

Chapter 7
    Jonas
     
    Thinking is just the soul talking with itself, or so Plato says. If that’s true, then for the last few hours, while everyone else in the house has been fast asleep, my soul’s been chatting up a fucking storm with itself. It’s okay, though, because while my soul’s been pontificating its ass