In anticipation of the newest three part release:
The Infatuation, The Revelation and The Consummation,
The Club Series Trilogy Box Set is NOW ON SALE FOR ONLY $2.99 (Normally $5.99)!
Now is your chance to meet Jonas Faraday!
He is practically perfect!
Blurb
USA Today and Amazon #1 Bestseller in New Adult, Romantic Suspense, and Romantic Erotica, The Club Trilogy, has taken the world of erotic suspense by storm with its unique blend of panty-melting sensuality, thrilling suspense, laugh-out-loud humor, intense character development and shocking plot twists. Now readers can devour all three full-length books of the epic love story of Jonas and Sarah (The Club, The Reclamation, and The Redemption) in one heart-racing collection, including a brand new bonus scene written especially for the trilogy bundle.
In The Club Trilogy, when wealthy playboy Jonas Faraday receives an anonymous note from Sarah Cruz, a law student working part-time processing online applications for an exclusive club, he becomes obsessed with hunting her down and giving her the satisfaction she claims has always eluded her. Thus begins a sweeping tale of obsession, passion, desperation, and ultimately, redemption. Find out why scores of readers call The Club Trilogy “my favorite trilogy ever” and “the greatest love story I’ve ever read”--and why international publishers have clamored to translate and publish upcoming editions in Italian, German, French, Spanish, and more.
“There’s never been a love like ours and there never will be again… Our love is so pure and true, we’re the amazement of the gods.”
Chapter 1
© The Club Trilogy by Lauren Rowe
Jonas
Name?
I
inhale and exhale slowly. Am I really going to do this? Yes, I am. Of
course, I am. The minute Josh ever so briefly mentioned “The Club” to me
during our climb up Mount Rainier four months ago, I knew it was only a
matter of time before I’d be sitting here on my laptop, filling out
this application.
“Jonas Faraday,” I type onto my keyboard.
With
this application, you will be required to submit three separate forms
of identification. The Club maintains a strict “No Aliases Policy” for
admission. You may, however, use aliases during interactions with other
Club members, at your discretion.
Yeah, okay, thanks. But the name’s still Jonas Faraday.
Age?
I type in “30.”
Provide a brief physical description of yourself.
“Extremely fit. 6’1. 195 lbs.”
Wait
a minute. I’ve been working out like a demon this past month. I walk
into the bathroom and stand on the scale. I return to my laptop.
“190 lbs.”
With
this application, you will be required to submit three recent
photographs of yourself to your intake agent. Please include the
following: one headshot, one full-body shot revealing your physique, and
one shot wearing something you’d typically wear out in a public
location. These photographs shall be maintained under the strictest
confidentiality.
Jesus. Am I really going to send my personal
information and three photos of myself to who-knows-where to some
unknown “intake agent” for a dating service/sex club I know nothing
about?
I sigh.
Yes, I am. I sure as hell am. Even if it’s
against my better judgment, even if doing this flies in the face of
rational and analytical thinking, even if my gut is telling me this is
probably a horrifically bad idea, I’ve known I was going to do this
since the minute I heard Josh talk about The Club four months ago.
“It’s
incredible, bro,” Josh said to me, getting a foothold on a boulder and
stretching his hand toward a nearby crag. “Best money I’ve spent in my
life.”
The best money my brother had ever spent—and this coming
from a guy who drives a Lamborghini? It was an endorsement I couldn’t
ignore. In fact, thanks to Josh’s intriguing
recommendation, I’ve
thought of little else since our climb. Even when I’ve been smack in
the middle of what should be an epic fuck with a hot kindergarten
teacher or state prosecutor or barista or flight attendant or personal
banker or dog groomer or graphic designer or court reporter or waitress
or hairdresser or pediatric nurse or photographer, all I can think about
is what I’m probably missing out on by not belonging to The Club.
“It’s
like a secret society,” Josh explained. “You can find members anywhere
you go, anywhere in the world, on a moment’s notice, and the members
matched to you are always ... uncannily compatible with you.”
It
was the “uncannily compatible” part of that sentence that grabbed me and
wouldn’t let go, not the part about being able to find other members on
a moment’s notice anywhere in the world. Because God knows I can find a
sexual partner virtually any time I want, anywhere I go, on my own.
I
hate to be blunt about it, but women throw themselves at me, I guess
based on my looks (so they tell me) and money (so I surmise) and,
sometimes, thanks to the Faraday name (which, believe me, ain’t such a
prize). Young, old; married, single; hot, mousy; blonde, brunette;
bookish, badass; full-figured, heroin-chic. It doesn’t matter. It seems I
can have anybody I want, as easily as ordering “fries with that” if I’m
so inclined. And, yes, over the past year or so, I’ve become
increasingly, incessantly, obsessively so inclined. And I’m beginning to
hate myself for it.
Before anyone gets all up in arms and starts
righteously listing off all the women I could never bed—“Well, you
could never fuck Oprah or Mother Theresa or Chastity Bono before she
became Chaz”—let me be crystal clear about what I’m saying here: I can
bed any woman I want to. No, not literally every woman on planet earth. I
fully acknowledge I couldn’t nail a nun or Oprah or an eighty-year-old
great-grandmother or a pre-op-transgender-lesbian. Nor would I want to,
for Chrissakes.
What I’m saying is that if I, Jonas Faraday, want
a particular woman to be naked and spread-eagle in my bed, if that’s
what I want, if a woman turns my head and makes me hard, or, hell, makes
me laugh, or think about something in a whole new way, or maybe if she
can’t find her sunglasses and then chuckles because they’re sitting on
top of her head, or if her ass is particularly round in a snug pair of
jeans—oh, yeah, especially if she has an ass I can really sink my teeth
into—whoever she is, she will, eventually and most willingly, float onto
my bed like the beautiful angel she is, spread open her silky thighs
and, after a only a few moments of mutual bliss, beg me to fuck her.
I
wish I could say “end of story” right there, but, unfortunately, I
can’t. Because sex is never the end of the story when it comes to me.
And that’s why I need The Club. I can’t keep going to the same pond with
the same fishing rod, dipping my rod into the same waters—no matter how
warm and inviting those waters happen to be—and just keep bringing up
the same goddamned tilapia, regardless of how moist and delicious. I
just cannot do it anymore.
If I keep doing the same thing I’ve
been doing, over and over, the same way I’ve been doing it, then I’m
going to go completely insane—which is something I’ve already done once,
albeit a lifetime ago and under completely different circumstances, and
I’m not willing to do it again.
What I want is something
different. Something brutally honest. Something real. And if the only
way to get what I want is to ignore my better judgment and shell out an
enormous monetary sacrifice to the gods of depravity, then so be it.
Please
sign the enclosed waiver describing the requisite background check,
medical physical examination, and blood test, which you must complete as
a condition of membership.
No problem. I’m relieved to know every member gets rigorously vetted. I sign where indicated.
Sexual orientation? Please choose from the following options: Straight, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, other?
“Straight.”
That’s an easy one. Just out of curiosity, though, what the fuck does
“pansexual” mean? I Google it. “Pansexual: Not limited or inhibited in
sexual choice with regard to gender or activity.” Ah, okay—anything
goes. Interesting concept, solely from a philosophical perspective, but
it most definitely doesn’t describe me. I know exactly what I want and
what I don’t.
Do any of your sexual fantasies include violence of any nature? If so, please describe in detail.
“No.” Emphatically, categorically, no.
Please
note that your inclination toward or fantasies about sexual violence,
if any, will not, standing alone, preclude membership. Indeed, we
provide highly particularized services for members with a wide variety
of proclivities. In the interest of serving your needs to the fullest
extent possible, please describe any and all sexual fantasies involving
violence of any nature whatsoever.
Hey, assholes, I answered honestly the first time. “None.”
Maybe
I should move on to the next question, but I feel the need to
elaborate. “There is nothing whatsoever I enjoy more than giving a woman
intense pleasure—the most outrageously concentrated pleasure she’s ever
experienced in her life. Now, granted, if I do my job, her pleasure,
and therefore mine, is so overwhelming, it blurs indistinguishably with
pain. But, no, my fantasies do not tend toward violence or infliction of
pain, ever. I find the entire idea repulsive, especially in relation to
what should be the most sublimely pleasurable of all human experience.”
What kind of sick fucks do they let into this club, anyway? My gut is
churning.
Are you a current practitioner of BDSM and/or does BDSM interest you? If so, describe in explicit detail.
“Never,”
I write, my fingers pounding the keyboard for emphasis. A distant
memory threatens to rise up from its dark hiding place, but I force it
back down. My heart is racing. “My extreme disinterest in bondage and
sadomasochism is absolutely non-negotiable.”
Payment and
Membership Terms. Please choose from the following options: One Year
Membership, $250,000 USD; Monthly Membership, $30,000 USD. All payments
are non-refundable. No exceptions. Once you’ve made your selection
regarding your membership plan, information for wiring the funds into an
escrow account will be immediately forthcoming under separate cover.
Membership fees shall be transferred automatically out of escrow to The
Club upon approval of your membership.
What did my father always
used to say? “Go big or go home, son.” Oh, how he’d laugh heartily from
his grave to know the son he derisively called the “soft” one is
harkening back to his father’s
mantra to choose a sex club
membership. “I guess you’re more like your Old Man than I thought,” he’d
say. I can hear his ghost laughing wickedly in my ear right now.
It’s
not the amount of money that gives me pause. I could buy either
membership plan multiple times over and never hear so much as a peep
from my accountants—but I don’t throw money away, ever, in any sum.
Regardless, though, if I’m going to do this, which I am, doesn’t it make
the most economic sense to join for a full year? My hands hover over
the keyboard. My knee is jiggling.
All right, fuck it, yes, I
admit it—it’s crazy and irresponsible to spend this kind of money on a
club, or dating service, whatever the hell this is, especially
sight-unseen. I’m Jonas, after all, not Josh. I’m not the twin who buys
himself Italian sports cars on every whim or who hired Jay-Z to play his
thirtieth birthday party (which would have been our joint birthday
party if I’d bothered to attend). And yet ... I sigh. I know damn well
what I’m about to do here, no matter the cost or how loudly the voice
inside my head is screaming at me to retreat.
“One year membership,” I write, exhaling loudly.
Please provide a detailed explanation about what compelled you to seek membership in The Club.
I close my eyes for just a moment, collecting my thoughts.
“I
love women,” I type. I take a deep breath. “I love fucking them. And
most of all, I love making them come.” I smirk at the stark boldness of
the words on my computer screen. There is no other context in which I’d
ever make these crude statements to anyone.
“Perhaps what I’m
supposed to say is, ‘Oh, how I love the smell of a woman’s hair, the
softness of her skin, the elegant curve of her neck.’ And, yeah, all of
that’s true; I’m not some kind of sociopath. Yes, I’ve been known to
lose my composure over a woman’s sharp mind and wit—and that’s not
sarcasm, by the way; when it comes to women, the smarter the better—or
her husky voice or raucous laugh, or, yes, even a flash of genuine
kindness in her eyes. Yeah, that’s all sexy as hell to me. But in my
view, a woman’s hair only smells so damned good, and her skin is only so
damned soft and inviting, and her laugh is only so infectious all as a
delicious prelude to one thing—the most honest and primal and fucking
awesome thing our bodies are designed to do. Everything else is just
prelude, baby, glorious prelude.”
I take a deep breath. I’ve
never articulated these thoughts before. I want to get this exactly
right—otherwise, what’s the point of filling out this application?
“From
as early as I can remember, I’ve always particularly admired women. As I
grew up, that translated into a powerful sexual appetite, but nothing I
couldn’t control. I could take a woman to an art gallery or concert or
movie or candlelit restaurant and pleasantly ask her about her work, her
passions, and even her beloved Maltese Kiki over a bottle of pinot noir
and not even once feel compelled to blurt out, ‘I just want to fuck you
in the bathroom.’”
I stare at the screen. I’m pretty sure I sound like an asshole right now. But it can’t be helped. The truth is the truth.
“And
then, everything changed. About a year ago, I went on a typical date
with a very pretty woman, and when I fucked her after dinner—and not in
the bathroom, mind you—she did something a woman had never done with me
before. She faked it.” I grimace. “She fucking faked
an orgasm.
It was so obvious as to be insulting. And it pissed me the hell off. Sex
isn’t supposed to be about humoring someone or being polite—it’s not
high tea with the goddamned Queen. Sex is supposed to be the truth, the
most real and raw and honest and primal expression of the human
experience. And orgasm, by its very nature, is the height, the very
culmination of that honesty.”
Jesus, after all this time, I still
get riled up about this. My chest is heaving. My cheeks are flushed. I
can’t think straight. I need music. Music is the thing that calms me
when my thoughts are racing and my pulse is raging. As a kid, my
therapist taught me to use music as a coping mechanism and it still
works for me. I click into the music library on my laptop. I choose
“White Lies” by Rx Bandits and listen for a few minutes. Quickly, the
song soothes me and clears my head, opening a window for my bottled
thoughts and feelings to fly through. I listen for several minutes,
until I’m calm again.
“I couldn’t understand why she’d lied to
me,” I continue. “Why would she prematurely and artificially end a
damned good fuck (or what I thought was a damned good fuck) and thereby
exclude even the possibility of her actually getting off? Was I that big
a hack at fucking her that she preferred ending the intolerable tedium
to at least trying to come for real? I was beside myself.”
I inhale deeply and exhale slowly.
“One
night, as I was tossing and turning and thinking about it, the truth
grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I suddenly knew she’d lied to me
precisely because, yes, indeed, I was just that terrible at fucking
her—because she’d thought getting off with me was so hopeless, that I
was so hopeless, why even bother to try?
“It might have been
enough to send me to a very dark place, a place I’ve been before (and it
ain’t pretty), except for one thing: I knew down deep that I hadn’t
really tried to get her off, not like I knew I was capable of doing. I’d
concentrated solely on my own pleasure, not hers, and assumed that
whatever I was experiencing must have been mutual. The more I thought
about it, the clearer it became—she’d given me exactly what I deserved.
And I was ashamed of myself.
“It was a watershed moment. From
that instant, I became a man obsessed, singularly focused on fucking
that woman again—only excellently the second time around—and making
damned sure she came for real and harder than she ever had before. I
wanted to teach her a lesson about truth and honesty, yes—but even more
than that, I wanted redemption.
“Well, of course, she agreed to
see me again—she actually seemed excited to accept another invitation
from me, despite my apparent hopelessness—but this time, when I fucked
her again, I was a new man, a man possessed, a man enlightened, you
might say, singularly focused on her pleasure and nothing else. And the
result was mind-blowing. Her entire body convulsed and undulated against
my tongue from the inside out, slamming open and shut violently like a
cellar door left open in a tornado. And the noises that came out of that
woman were fucking amazing, too, the most primal, desperate sounds I’d
ever heard—nothing at all like the hollow bleating she’d tried to pass
off the first time around. She was a fucking symphony. Of course, women
had come with me before then—but never like that. No, no, no, never,
ever like that. I’d held her in the palm of my hand and pushed her over
the edge, at my will, and into another realm.”
My heart is racing. My cock is hard.
“And
the best part—the true epiphany—was that getting her off like that got
me off. Holy fuck, did it ever. In fact, pushing that beautiful liar
into untethered ecstasy, making her surrender to the truth, to me, to
her pleasure, turned out to be the most epic fuck of my life—a high like
nothing I’d experienced before. After that, I wanted that high again
and again (though not with her, of course—never again with her)—and ever
since, I’ve been chasing that high like a horse running to the barn
with blinders on.”
I take a deep breath.
Has any of this babbling answered the question? Shit. I don’t know. But this is the best I can do.
“And that’s what’s brought me to The Club.”
I stare at my screen. I shrug. That’s all I got.
Please
provide a detailed statement regarding your sexual preferences. To
maximize your experience in The Club, please be as explicit, detailed,
and honest as possible. Please do not self-censor, in any fashion.
My hands are trembling over the keyboard. The question I’ve been waiting for.
“Some
guys say fucking a beautiful woman brings them closer to God. But,
really, they should aim higher. Because when I make a woman come like
she’s never come before, when I make her surrender and leap into the
dark abyss, I don’t just get closer to God, I become God. Her god,
anyway, for one, all-powerful, fucking awesome moment.”
I stare at the screen. My dick is straining painfully inside my jeans.
“Making
a woman come, at least the way I’m talking about, is an art form. Every
woman’s orgasm is a unique puzzle, a treasure locked away by a secret
code. Almost always, the best and most reliable way to crack a
particular woman’s code starts with licking and kissing and sucking her
sweet spot, but even that seemingly ‘sure thing’ only works if, as I do
it, I pay close attention to her body’s special cues and adjust
accordingly as I go. I can’t just lick her—I have to learn her. Usually,
after only a few minutes, though, I’ve got her figured out.
“I
always know I’m on the right track when she suddenly and involuntarily
arches her back, thrusts her hips reflexively into my mouth, and spreads
her legs as wide as they’ll go. That’s when I know her body’s preparing
to give in to me, that I’m breaking down her defenses—that she
desperately wants me to unlock her secret code.”
I’m rock hard. God, I love that moment. I lick my lips again.
“When
she thrusts herself into me and begins to open herself, I become
ravenous, myopic, relentless. I lick her and kiss her and suck her with
increased fervor, and maybe even nibble and gnaw at her, too, depending
on what her body’s telling me to do, and she continues rapidly opening
and unlocking, spreading and unfurling, untethering and breaking down.
It’s fucking incredible.
“She’s a beautiful, blooming flower. The
trick, of course, is to catch her the exact moment before her petals
fall off, and not a second before or after, because what I’m aiming
for—the holy grail, if you will—is to plunge myself into her at the very
instant when doing so will push her over the edge. It’s tricky. Too
early, and she might not come at all. Too late, and she’ll go off
without me.”
I unbutton my fly and my cock springs out. I want to
jerk myself off right now, but I want to get these thoughts onto my
computer screen even more.
“She’s on the verge—so fucking
close—and I’m out of my mind, a shark in a frenzy. Finally, she
reflexively shudders in my mouth—a feeling so delicious, I often dream
about it—and I know her body’s teetering right on the very edge, hanging
by a thread, aching to give in, but her mind is keeping her from what
she wants, usually thanks to daddy issues or a raging good girl complex
or low self esteem (take your pick, it’s always something). Whatever it
is, her mind is getting in the way of her body surrendering utterly and
completely to the intense pleasure she yearns to experience.
“But
I won’t be denied. She claws at me, gulps for air, her pleasure
mounting and morphing into an agony she increasingly cannot contain. She
whimpers, groans, writhes—and I’m so fucking turned on, too, I can
barely contain myself. ‘Fuck me now, please, please,’ she often says, or
some variation thereof, but I won’t do it, even though I’m losing my
fucking mind, because I know she’s not maxed out just yet.”
I breathe deeply.
“Finally,
like a key turning in a lock, something inside her clicks. She opens.
Her mind detaches from her body. She becomes untethered. She
surrenders.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“That’s when I
plunge into her like a knife in warm butter and fuck her with almost
religious zeal—sometimes pulling her on top of me to do it, sometimes
turning her around, sometimes slamming into her the good old fashioned
way—by then, any which way is equally effective—and the moment I enter
her, her body releases completely, reflexively shuddering and
constricting and undulating all around my cock, over and over again.
Sure, she’s come before, of course. But never like this. No, never like
this. It’s pure ecstasy in the way the ancient Greeks defined that word:
the culmination of human possibility. For both of us.”
I let out
a long, controlled exhale and shift in my seat. Holy shit, I’ve really
gotten myself worked up. I breathe in and out deeply several times. I’m
trembling. I take a moment to compose myself.
“I should be clear
about something, in the interest of full disclosure. What I’ve described
here is the ideal. The aspiration. Sometimes the timing works out
exactly this way, and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, especially when
I’m still learning a woman, or if she’s particularly hard-to-read for
some reason, she might come like a freight train before I manage to get
inside her. And if that happens, it’s nothing to complain about, believe
me—fucking a beautiful woman immediately after she comes is also a
delicious privilege, no doubt about it. But the pinnacle, the peak, the
perfection to which I aspire—the holy grail—is and always will be
bringing a woman right to the edge of ecstasy and pushing her over it
from the inside out.”
I shift in my seat again, but my erection
is too intense to ignore. I have to stop typing. How could anyone fill
out this application without having to jerk off? I grip my shaft and
pump up and down until a staggering wave of pleasure wells up inside of
me and finally releases in fitful spurts. I go into the bathroom and
pull off my jeans. I hop into the shower and let the steaming hot water
rain over me, relaxing me, cleansing me.
Getting women into my
bed isn’t my problem. The problem occurs right after a woman has had the
best sex of her life, when her body has finally functioned at full-tilt
capacity for the first time. That’s when a woman invariably confuses
discovering the full extent of her sexual power with the ridiculous
notion that she’s found her soul mate. Thanks to a lifetime of
brainwashing by Disney and Lifetime and Hallmark, she naively believes
glimpsing God during an epic fuck somehow translates into some kind of
happily ever after with her Prince Charming. No matter what I’ve said
beforehand, no matter how clearly I’ve presented myself and the limits
of what I’m willing to give, she’s suddenly convinced she’s found The
One. “He just doesn’t know it yet,” she tells herself.
And that’s
when I hurt her, whoever she is—whether she’s a librarian or tax
accountant or personal trainer or pediatrician or makeup artist or
singer or bioengineer or therapist or paralegal. Whether she’s funny or
sweet or shy. Whether she’s serious or sexy or smart. Whether she’s a
tree hugger or a Sunday school teacher. I hurt her, whoever she is.
Because I’m too fucked up to be The One. Not for her, not for anybody.
She can’t change that fact. No one can. I can’t even change that
fact—and believe me, I’ve tried.
Damn. How am I going to
accurately convey all this information in my application? I get out of
the shower, throw a towel around my waist, and get right back to my
laptop. I stare at my computer screen for a brief moment, trying to find
the right words to succinctly express my thoughts.
“No matter
how honest I am right from the start about how little I’m willing to
give outside the four walls of my bedroom, women always seem to get hurt
by me, nonetheless,” I type. “Either they don’t believe me when I tell
them what I really want, or they think they can change me. And they
can’t.”
I sigh.
“I’m not out to hurt anyone.” And it’s the
truth. “All I want to do is give a woman pleasure like nothing she’s
experienced before—which leads to my own ultimate pleasure. After I
taste her and fuck her and teach her what true satisfaction feels like, I
might want to lie in bed and talk and laugh with her, too—because,
believe it or not, I enjoy talking and laughing quite a bit, as long as
everyone understands it’s not going to lead to a heart-shaped box of
chocolates and a weekend shopping trip to IKEA. Maybe I’ll want to get
into a hot shower with her and lather her up, running my soapy hands
over her entire, beautiful body. Maybe I’ll want to dry her off with a
soft, white towel and then fuck her again, maybe the second time so
intensely, so deeply, so expertly, we’ll come together, both of us
gasping for air and shuddering simultaneously as our bodies discover the
culmination of human possibility together.
“After all’s said and
done, I’ll surely want to tell her how beautiful she is and how much
I’ve enjoyed our time together. I’ll want to kiss her goodbye, gently
and gratefully, thanking her for our glorious time together. And then,
almost certainly, I’ll never want to see her again.”
My hands hover over the keyboard for a brief moment.
“And
I don’t want to feel like an asshole for any of it.” I sigh. “Because
I’m sick and fucking tired of feeling like a complete asshole.”
I pause again.
“You’ve
asked me to state my preferences, but clearly what I’ve described here
transcends preference. I need smart, sexy women who honestly want what I
do—no lies—and who, most importantly, can clearly and rationally
distinguish physical rapture from some kind of romantic fairytale.”
I
stare at my computer screen, a sense of hopelessness threatening to
descend on me. Am I kidding myself here? Do women like this even exist?
I
type again. “If I could find even one woman, just one, whose ‘sexual
preferences’ are uncannily and genuinely compatible with mine, I’d be
... ” What would I be? Elated. That’s what I was about to write. Elated.
Jesus. I quickly delete that entire last sentence. It’s a non
sequitur, for Chrissakes. I mean, shit, I’m either a sexual sniper with a
rampant God complex or I’m fucking Nicholas Sparks. I can’t be both. I
have no idea what bizarre place in my brain that last ridiculous
sentence came from. I guess that’s what happens when a guy like me tries
to articulate his deepest, darkest needs without a filter—the thoughts
come out in a jumbled, desperate, douche-y mess, inexplicably
intertwined with all the fucked up shit I’ve tried unsuccessfully to fix
with years of useless therapy.
What the hell is this mysterious
“intake agent” going to think of all my incoherent rambling? I cock my
head to the side, an epiphany slamming me upside the head. An “intake
agent” is going to read my application—yes, of course—and that intake
agent’s going to be a woman. Of course. And not the eighty-year-old
pre-op-transgender-lesbian variety, either. They can’t let assholes like
me, or, worse, crazy fucks with violent fantasies or bondage fetishes
or some other latent form of psychopathy into The Club without first
passing a woman’s gut check. Right? Right.
I grin broadly and place my fingers back on my keyboard.
“And
now a message directly to you, My Beautiful Intake Agent.” I lick my
lips again. “Have you enjoyed reading my brutally honest thoughts—my
deep, dark secrets? I’ve enjoyed writing about them. I’ve never
expressed these truths to anyone else—never even thought about them
quite like this. It’s been enlightening to arrange the bare truth so
clearly on the page and confess it to you—and therefore confess it to
myself, too. In fact, telling you the brutal truth turned me on so much,
I had to take a break midway through writing this to jack off.”
I smile again. I’m such a bastard.
“So,
tell me, My Beautiful Intake Agent, are you surprised at how wet your
panties are right now, considering the fact that you’ve been brainwashed
your whole life by Lifetime and Hallmark to think you want flowers and
candy and a candlelit dinner followed by silent missionary sex, a chaste
kiss goodnight, and a trip to IKEA the following morning to shop for a
mutually agreeable couch? And yet, despite a lifetime of conditioning
about what you’re supposed to want, here you are, anyway, aren’t you, My
Beautiful Intake Agent, imagining my warm, wet tongue swirling around
and around your sweet button, wishing I were there to lick and kiss and
suck you ‘til you were jolting and jerking like you’d gripped an
electric fence? You’re a unique puzzle, My Beautiful Intake Agent, yes
you are—a rare treasure locked down by a padlock. But guess what? My
words have already begun to unlock you, as surely as if I were there to
turn the key myself.
“So what are you going to do about the dark
urges clanging around deep inside you right now, My Beautiful Intake
Agent? Are you going to ignore them, or are you going to let them rise
up and eventually untether your body from your mind? Perhaps you should
use this opportunity, as I have just done, to touch yourself and think
honestly about your deepest desires, to think about what actually turns
you on, as opposed to what’s supposed to. Touch yourself, My Beautiful
Intake Agent, and go to the deepest, darkest places inside you, the
places you never allow yourself to go—and embrace the brutal truth about
your wants and needs. Your whole life, you’ve been taught to chase all
the Valentine’s Day bullshit, haven’t you? But that’s not really what
you want. Tell the truth—to me and to yourself. You’d ditch all the
Valentine’s Day bullshit in a heartbeat to howl like a rabid monkey for
the first time in your life, wouldn’t you?”
I’m smiling from ear
to ear, imagining some frazzled, middle-aged woman sitting in a cubicle
in Dallas or Des Moines or Mumbai, reading my words with wide eyes and a
throbbing clit.
“I know what you’re thinking: Cocky bastard!
Asshole! A legend in his own mind! All true exclamations, my dear. But
guess what? Cocky bastard or not, if I were there to lick you, nice and
slow, right on your sweet button, the way you deserve to be licked, the
way you’ve only ever dreamed of being licked, the way no man has ever
done for you before, I guarantee it’d take me less than four minutes to
deliver you unto pure ecstasy that would make you surrender to me,
totally and completely.” I smile to myself.
“Yes, My Beautiful
Intake Agent, if I were there to teach you what your body’s divinely
designed to do, you’d be forced to admit an immutable truth, whether you
wanted to or not: In addition to me being one
cocky-bastard-asshole-son-of-a-bitch motherfucker, I’m also the man of
your dreams.”
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Josh and Kat’s story releases on January 5th!
The Infatuation
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The Consummation
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Author Information
Lauren Rowe is the pen name of the USA Today best-selling author, performer, audio book narrator, award-winning songwriter and media host/personality who decided to unleash her alter ego to write The Club Trilogy to ensure she didn't hold back or self-censor in writing the story. Lauren Rowe lives in San Diego, California where she lives with her family, sings with her band, hosts a show, and writes at all hours of the night. Find out more about The Club Trilogy and Lauren Rowe at www.LaurenRoweBooks.com.
Love, desire, and the undeniable hunger for another living being is something Jeffrey Bauer knows nothing about. Women have always been drawn to him like moths to a flame. But, he’s been careful to never indulge in the same woman more than once; it’s a rule he has always abided by. A rule that has kept him safe—until now.
