“Sarah.”
I whip my head up. The last thing I remember, I was tangled up in Jonas. When did I fall asleep? It’s the dead of night. The jungle is alive around us.
The mosquito net is opened and Jonas is standing at the foot of the bed. His erection is enormous. Like, holy moly. His eyes are cut from steel. His chest is heaving.
Music blares from Jonas’ laptop. This time the song is “Closer to God” by Nine Inch Nails. Every hair on my body stands at full attention. I know this dark song—and I know exactly what it means. The song is telling me exactly what he’s going to do to me—how he’s going to fuck me. My chest constricts.
Count me in.
This song has always, always turned me on at my very core in the most primal way, making me feel horny and naughty and fucktastic like no other song ever has. Every time I hear it, I secretly imagine myself getting fucked by some beast of a man, without mercy, in exactly the way the song describes. And now, finally, that day has arrived—and that beast of a man is the man of my dreams.
His eyes gleam at me. He reaches out, coaxing me out of the bed.
He’s going to fuck me like a beast.
Yes, please. And thank you.
My entire body is pulsing along with the primal beat of the song. I’m already gyrating and Jonas hasn’t even touched me yet.
Jonas leads me out into the warm night air on the deck, giving me an eyeful of his backside in the moonlight as he walks. Holy moly, that’s quite a backside.
The dark jungle canopy looms beyond us in all directions. He leans my back against a wooden railing and spreads my legs apart like he’s about to frisk me. His fingers touch between my legs, and he smiles when he feels how aroused I already am. The tip of his penis penetrates me briefly and I throw my head back in anticipation of being fucked—but he chuckles. He’s just teasing me. Bastard.
He grabs a cushion from a deck chair, places it at my feet, and kneels before me like he’s saying his prayers. He looks up at me and licks his lips.
I smile down at him. I’m ready.
He leans into me. I feel his warm breath on me.
My chest heaves. Holy crap, the anticipation is killing me.
What’s he doing? He’s not going in. He’s skimming his lips, ever so gently across me, like he’s taking in the aroma of a fine wine before swirling it in his mouth. My legs are trembling.
He leans forward and kisses me, lightly, reverently. No tongue. Just soft, adoring kisses, over and over. My knees instantly buckle.
And there it is. Oh God, yes, his warm, wet tongue. He laps at me like he’s repeatedly licking an envelope closed. Within minutes, I’m already moaning and writhing like he’s been down there pleasuring me for hours. Maybe it’s muscle memory from earlier tonight, maybe it’s a newfound confidence in knowing where this is headed, maybe it’s having him kneeling humbly before me, or maybe he’s just “learned me” so frickin’ well that any form of resistance is futile, but in record speed I’m already going out of my mind. A guttural sound emerges from my throat as his tongue begins twirling and swirling and shifting my hard clit around. I throw my head back, enjoying the sudden intensity of the pleasure. When he begins sucking and swirling his tongue at the same time—something he’s never done to me quite like this before—I grip the railing. I throw my head back again, but it doesn’t relieve the pressure building inside me.
I slam myself into his mouth, grinding into his face, forcing him into me. I can’t stop my hips from jerking and thrusting into him. I clutch the railing, digging my fingernails into the wood, trying to keep my legs underneath me, but my knees keep buckling.
Oh my God, I’m gonna come. Oh God, yes, holy fuck, I’m gonna come.
I throw my head back and howl. My insides are fluttering, undulating, warping as my knees buckle and melt. I’m practically squatting onto his face, thrusting and smashing myself into him over and over, yearning to take him into me. Oh God, I’m insane right now. Depraved. Ha! I am fucking this beautiful man’s face right now. But I don’t care. I’m standing on the edge of a deep, dark chasm, and oh God, oh God, oh God, I’m about to leap into the void. He grunts and grabs at my ass, pulling me even closer into his face, gnawing at me with his teeth as he does. I can’t stay upright. I can’t maintain control. I spread my legs to give him deeper access to me, my hips thrusting into him. This is pure ecstasy. Or agony. Or both. My hands are lost in his hair, pushing him into me. I’m shaking. I’m dizzy. Pain and pleasure have united. I’m ready to come. Right now. Right fucking now.
“Now!” I howl. “Jonas! Now!”
He leaps to standing, his erection glorious in the moonlight, and he turns my shuddering, shaking, frenzied body toward the railing. Without the slightest hesitation, he slams into me from behind, feverishly reaching around and touching me as he does so. Oh God, yes, yes, yes, yes, he’s thrusting into me, fucking me like an animal, pounding into me, riding me deep and hard and without mercy, fondling me rhythmically all the while. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I fondle my breasts, my hard nipples. I reach down and feel him sliding in and out of me, yes, yes, yes, yes, and then I bring my wet finger to my mouth and suck on it, aching to find some way to relieve the pressure inside me.
“Fuck me,” I growl, my hips thrusting and tilting to receive him as deeply as possible. “Harder,” I groan, and he complies. His fingers massaging me are magic. I’m falling, losing myself, going out of my fucking mind. This is even better than the last time.
“Baby,” he grunts in my ear, and my body twitches violently, as surely as if he’s just said “open sesame” and opened a darkened chamber at the farthest reaches of me. There’s a moment of weightlessness, disorientation, like an ocean receding sharply just before a tsunami, and then, finally, finally, a warm wave of intense pleasure slams me from the inside out, seizing every muscle in my body and sending my heart racing.
The first wave is followed immediately by another and another and another and another and another and another, until my entire body is constricting and contracting violently. I begin to say “Jonas” but the only thing that escapes my lips is an animalistic shriek. My entire body tightens and tenses all at once with one final, epic seizure, then releases rhythmically into pulses of pleasure radiating throughout my core.
Jonas cries out savagely as he rams me, his hardness slicing into me one final, merciless time. “Sarah,” he cries. “Oh God, Sarah.”
He collapses onto my back and sighs, his sweat mingling with mine.
I turn around to look at him, and I’m instantly greeted with his voracious lips.
After a moment, he pulls away from me and laughs. “Wow.”
But I can’t laugh. I can’t speak. My heart hasn’t slowed to a normal rate yet. I’m light-headed. Disoriented. My knees are rubbery.
I wobble over to a deck chair and take a seat.
He sits across from me, sweat glistening on his brow.
“Wooh!” he says. “Epic.” He’s giddy.
I nod. I can’t speak. Oh my God.
Several minutes pass as we catch our mutual breath.
“Twice in one night, baby,” he finally says, smiling. “Mount Everest has officially been conquered.”
Boom. Just like that, I’ve got a horrible pit in my stomach. I didn’t allow myself to think about it, but now I can’t help myself. I’m Mount Everest. I said so myself. And Jonas is a climber. So now what? Does he want to move on to a new challenge—Kilimanjaro or The Matterhorn, maybe? This is a man who wants to get women off more than anything else. No, he needs to get women off. I’ve known that from the start. And he just accomplished what he set out to do with me, and then some. What’s left to keep him interested now?
He’s still grinning, oblivious to the thoughts racing around inside my head.
“So admit it—you like chocolate a helluva lot better than green beans, don’t you?”
I’m too tense to say anything.
“You still wanna lecture me about how sex for a woman is about so much more than coming, blah, blah, blah emotion, blah, blah, blah? Please, enlighten me.”
I know he’s teasing me, trying to be playful, but I can’t deny the anxiety that just crashed down on me like a ton of bricks. He promised not to come ‘til I did. And he’s delivered on his end of the bargain. So is my climax the end of the road for us? Will he check the box marked “Big O” next to “Sarah Cruz” and move on? Does he even want to continue with the rest of my month-long membership? I look down at the bracelet on my wrist. I feel like crying. I don’t want my time with Jonas to end. Ever.
“Well?” Jonas asks, smiling broadly, clearly oblivious to the panic threatening to overtake me.
I clear my throat. “Just because you love making women come more than anything, that doesn’t mean it’s the only thing.” I jut my chin at him. “Not for me, anyway.”
His smile vanishes. In fact, his face flashes anger.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Here we go again. Un-fucking-believable.”
Wow, he’s pissed. I don’t understand the sudden rage contorting his features. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
He leaps out of his chair and glowers at me. “I love ‘making women come more than anything’? Fuck! I’ve had it with your daddy issues, Sarah—your fear of abandonment. I’m not gonna keep paying the emotional debts of your asswipe of a father.”
I’m flabbergasted.
He leans down to me, placing his hands on the arms of my deck chair, making me shrink back. “I might be a cocky-son-of-a bitch-asshole, but I’m not a total and complete dick, okay? When are you finally going to trust me? Are you even capable of trust? If not, just tell me now, once and for all, so I don’t keep banging my head against a fucking wall trying to make you see the upside to me.”
My eyes are wide. What is happening? He’s enraged. What did I say?
He pushes off from my chair in a huff and paces around the deck, his taut muscles tensing like a cat on the prowl. “What more can I do to prove myself to you?” He motions in frustration to the suite, to the jungle—to the entire expanse of Belize. “I’m running out of ideas, Sarah.” He looks up to the sky, trying to contain his anguish. “You’re so scared of being abandoned—you’re turning it into a self-fulfilling prophecy.” He grunts.
I shake my head. How did I screw this up so badly, and so suddenly? What did I say that set him off? “No,” I begin.
But I can’t find the words. Because he’s right. He’s absolutely right. I’ve been gripped with fear from day one with him. I’ve been convinced he was going to own my heart and then shatter it into a million tiny pieces. Yes, I’ve been waiting for him to do it. And I still am.
He leaps back over to me and cups my face in his hands. He leans his face right into mine. “There’s no more ‘making women come’ for me. Haven’t I made that clear to you a thousand different ways?” He exhales in extreme exasperation. “There’s only making you come. There’s only getting you off. There’s only you, My Magnificent Sarah. You’re the one I want. You’re the one I need. You fucking own me—you and your bossy bullshit and olive skin and gravelly voice and big ol’ brain and delectable ass and adorable smile. You, you, you.” He brusquely grabs my arm like I’m a rag doll and yanks it up. He points to the bracelet around my wrist. “You.” He shows me his matching bracelet. “And me.” He grunts loudly, like a gorilla. “For a smart girl, you can be such a dumbshit sometimes, I swear to God.”
My mouth is hanging open.
He’s pacing again. “Didn’t you understand the Muse song? Madness?”
I shake my head. I guess not. I thought I’d understood it, but I must have missed something. I thought the song meant he planned to lick me into a frenzied state of madness, a temporary state of delirium—mind detached from body. What else could it have meant?
“Madness, Sarah. Madness.” He stares at me as if he’s just made everything crystal clear.
I shake my head dumbly. Okay, madness.
His eyes are suddenly moist. “I lost my mind a long time ago, Sarah. Like, literally, lost it. And it was so painful.” He chokes up. “I swore to myself, never again—no matter what.”
He comes back over to me and grabs my shoulders roughly. I recoil instinctively.
His eyes flash and he releases me. “I thought Plato was scoffing at madness, telling me to avoid it at all costs. But I had it all wrong.”
I shake my head. I don’t understand.
“And then I met you, and I wanted to have a serious mental disease. I wanted to go mad.” He shakes his head, brimming with emotion. “Plato wasn’t telling me to avoid it. He was telling me to embrace it.”
My eyes are wide. My heart is racing. Is he losing his mind, like, for real? “I don’t understand.”
He grits his teeth. “‘Love is a serious mental disease,’” he says, making air quotes and drawing out the words. “That’s what Plato said. Love is a fucking serious mental disease.” He’s shouting. I can’t tell if he’s angry or frustrated or passionate or all of the above. He glares at me, his hands gripping the arms of my chair again. “Why would anyone want a serious mental disease? It hurts. It’s torture. It’s painful.” He grunts again. “He said love is madness, Sarah. And I thought that meant I needed to avoid it—because I’ve been avoiding it my whole life.” He’s losing the battle with his emotions.
I’m speechless.
“But you drive me crazy.” His voice is cracking. “And I want you to.”
I close my eyes, trying to keep my tears at bay. My heart is bursting.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” he whispers.
I nod. I understand completely.
He leans his forehead onto mine. “There’s no women to get off anymore, you big dummy. There’s only you.”
I blink and the tears that were pooling in my eyes streak down my cheeks. I nod profusely. I understand.
He clenches his jaw and lurches away from me. He’s suddenly angry again. “But if you don’t want me, if you don’t feel the same way, just tell me now. Rip off the fucking Band-Aid. I can’t take it anymore.”
Is it even remotely possible he’s not one hundred percent certain about my feelings?
“Jonas,” I say, my emotions threatening to overwhelm me. “Jonas, look at me. Look at me. Yes, I want you. Of course, I want you. You drive me totally, completely, irreversibly crazy.”
His chest is heaving.
“Insane in the membrane,” I say softly.
He exhales sharply.
“Psychotic. Deranged. Out of my mind.”
He twists his mouth.
“Sick in the head. Demented. Loca.”
He grins.
“I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”
He laughs, despite himself.
I stand and wrap my arms around his neck. “I’ve got a serious mental disease. It’s madness.”
He kisses me deeply.
“You big dummy,” I whisper.
He beams at me. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me.”
I laugh.
“So this is settled, then?”
I nod.
“No more crazy-ass trust issues?”
“No more.”
“No more one step forward, two steps back?”
“Full steam ahead.” I pause. “As long as you promise to let me talk about my beloved Maltese Kiki all day, every day.”
He bursts out laughing. “Deal.”
“But don’t worry,” I say, my lips hovering an inch from his. “I promise, absolutely no weekend trips to IKEA.” I nuzzle my nose against his.
He cocks his head to the side and pulls back. “Well, hang on a second. Let’s not be hasty.”
I arch my eyebrows in surprise.
“I’m just saying, I mean, it might be tolerable, occasionally, to go to IKEA if we were to get some of those meatballs while we’re there. Have you ever had IKEA meatballs? They’re pretty good.”
I beam at him. “Yeah, I like those meatballs.”
He nods decisively. “Okay, so it’s settled. We won’t foreclose the possibility of going to IKEA, as long there are Swedish meatballs involved.” He suddenly grabs my ass with gusto. “Or, maybe we’ll just stay home and I’ll nibble your albóndigas, instead.” He laughs. “God, I love this ass.”
Wait, how does he know the Spanish word for meatballs? I pull back from him, an epiphany hitting me like a thunderbolt. “You speak Spanish?”
“Yeah. Not fluently, but pretty well.”
My heart lurches with my sudden, glorious, heart-melting epiphany.
“What?” He raises his eyebrows, not understanding the sudden flush to my cheeks. “It comes in handy when I travel. What?”
“Oh, Jonas.” I kiss him.
Who would have thought the man who’s allegedly allergic to “Valentine’s Day bullshit” would turn out to be a diehard romantic, through and through? The woman in the souvenir shop asked him in Spanish, “Are you on your honeymoon?” and my metaphor-loving man replied that, yes, we were—while purchasing a flowing, white dress for his “bride” and matching bracelets for our wrists. Oh jeez. How could I have assumed he’d misunderstood her?
“Estamos de luna de miel,” I say, kissing him. We’re on our honeymoon.
He grins from ear to ear under my kiss. “Claro que sí.” Of course, we are.
Madness.
“You’re a poet,” I murmur into his lips.
“Nah,” he says. “Only with you.”
I sigh. “Jonas.”
“What?
“You’re a cocky-asshole-motherfucker, you know that?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re also the man of my dreams.”