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

giving me a pedicure, an artist paints our portrait from a few feet away, some woman in a toga primps my hair, and diners clatter and chatter all around our table. All of a sudden, Jonas leaps out of his chair, swats everyone away from me like he’s King Kong, rips my shimmering gown off, and pushes my naked body onto our table, right on top of our food and lit candles and goblets of red wine and cutlery (including a most unfortunately positioned fork), and begins making love to me. But as he does, he’s not his actual, physical self. It’s hard to explain, but, in a flash, Jonas splinters and multiplies and becomes amorphic, until he’s ten disembodied poltergeists, all of them with ghost lips and magical fingers and bulging biceps and chiseled abs and erect penises—all of them simultaneously embracing me, fucking me, licking me, sucking me, fondling me, groping me, kissing me, and whispering in my ears—all of them enveloping me like a slithering cloud.
    And all the while, waiters refill our fallen wine glasses until they overflow, sending warm red wine gushing across my belly and spilling into my crotch and over my clit and down my thighs and between my toes until it accumulates around us into a warm and sensuous pool. The pedicure girl begins massaging my feet with the warm red wine. The hairdresser pours the wine over my scalp until it trickles down my face. And the most titillating thing of all, the thing that turns me on the most, other than Jonas himself, is how the other diners watch us and comment on our lovemaking like they’re beholding a masterpiece of performance art.
    “He’s the most beautiful man in the world,” one woman sighs.
    “Clearly, but who’s she ?” a male diner asks.
    “It doesn’t matter. I can’t take my eyes off him,” another spectator observes.
    “She must be something special if he wants her.”
    “I’m not even looking at her. I can’t take my eyes off him.”
    “He’s playing her like a grand piano.”
    “He’s masterful.”
    “I’ve never seen anyone do it quite like this before.”
    “I wish he’d do that to me.”
    “I wish he’d make me moan like that.”
    “I’m having an orgasm just watching them.”
    Jonas’ many tongues continue flickering on me, licking up the gushing red wine, his penises penetrate my every orifice, his muscles tense and bulge and contract under my fingertips, and his lips devour and suck and lick the wine off my skin and lap it out of every sensitive fold. It’s almost too much pleasure to bear, intensified by the palpable desire and envy of every person watching us.
    “She’s losing her mind.”
    “She’s gonna come.”
    “Oh God, yes, look at her. She’s on the verge.”
    In an instant, every one of Jonas’ fractured poltergeists converges on top of me, uniting and solidifying into Jonas’ actual physical form.
    “I love you, Sarah,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes.
    “Don’t leave me, Jonas.”
    He cups my face in his hands. They’re dripping in red wine. “I’ll never leave you,” he says. “I love you.” He lifts his head and addresses our audience. “I love her. I love Sarah Cruz.”
    My clit, as well as everything connected to it, begins pulsing with emphatic pleasure. It’s a sensation so concentrated, so undeniable, so subversive , it yanks me right out of my dream and into consciousness, at which point I realize that all the delicious pulsing occurring in my dream is actually happening in real life, too, inside my physical body. Holy frickin’ ecstasy, I’m having an effing orgasm in my sleep! I can’t believe it—the girl who only recently thought she couldn’t have an orgasm at all, under any circumstance, a self-proclaimed Mount Everest Kind of Girl—is coming all by herself, powered by nothing but her own twisted imagination. Oh. My. Gawd. And what an orgasm it is. Talk about conquering the unconquerable mountain. Holy crappola. I feel like my entire pelvis, led by my clit, is going