The Culmination (The Club Series Book 4) Read online

  The Culmination Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Rowe

  Published by SoCoRo Publishing

  Layout by www.formatting4U.com

  Cover Model: Damian DeCantillon

  Photography: Larry Hamilton, Blue Photography, New York

  Cover design © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review

  Chapter 1

  Jonas

  She giggles. “Jonas.”

  “What? I’ve got to partake of your crumpets as much as possible before they’re off limits to me in a couple months.”

  “They’re extra sensitive these days. Be gentle.”

  “I can’t control myself, baby—they’re too delicious to resist.” I take her nipple into my mouth and give it a good, strong suck.

  Sarah shrieks. “Gah! Go easy, Jonas. They’re sensitive.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah...” But she can’t suppress the bloom rising in her cheeks.

  “You mean you want me to take it easy doing... this?” I give her other nipple an even harder suck.

  Sarah shrieks again. “Oh my god. Take it easy, for Pete’s sake.” She laughs. “Holy crap, I can’t decide if I love it or hate it.”

  “You know you love it.” I sit up and assess her naked body on the bed. “Damn, woman, just looking at you these days gives me an epic boner.”

  “These days?”

  “Ssh. Play along.”

  “Sorry.”

  “My dick grew three inches just looking at you right now.” My cock twitches. “Your boobs used to be a handful plus a little extra, and now look at them.” I cup her breasts in my hands and marvel at how they overflow from my palms.

  She looks down at her breasts in my hands. “I’m the Latina Anna Nicole Smith.”

  “You’re a fucking Botticelli, baby—The Birth of Venus. Are you looking at yourself?”

  “Yep, I’m looking. That’s some serious boobage down there.”

  “My dick just grew another two inches again. You’re Demeter, baby.” I look down at my straining cock. “Jesus, have you ever seen a boner this big before?”

  “Every single day since I met you.”

  “No, baby, look more closely. This time it’s different.”

  Sarah makes a big show of staring at my cock with mocking, wide eyes.

  “This is no ordinary boner. It’s a behemoth—a revelation. The divine original form of boner-ness.”

  She laughs. “I thought you weren’t a boob-man.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Gosh, I dunno. The bite marks on my ass?”

  “Mmm. That reminds me. I’m hungry for some albóndigas right now.” I reach around and grab a fistful of her right ass cheek, greedily sinking my fingertips into the sexy tattoo she got for me in Thailand, and she squeals. But when I tilt her body toward me, intending to chomp on her ass tattoo like I always do before I get down to business, she gasps and winces sharply.

  I release my grip and pull back from her, my heart instantly racing. “Sarah?”

  Her eyes are closed. Her brow is furrowed. She brings her hand to her bulging belly and winces again.

  “Did I hurt you?” I sit upright, my heart suddenly pounding in my ears. “Sarah?”

  “I’m fine.” But she winces a third time and curls into a ball on the bed.

  I leap up from the bed, my breathing shallow. “Sarah, talk to me. Tell me what’s happening.”

  For the longest five seconds of my life, she doesn’t say a word. I’m just about to scoop her naked body into my arms and race her to the hospital when she opens her eyes and exhales with relief. “Whew. I’m okay,” she says, her body visibly relaxing. “Oh, man, that was rough.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Aw, you look like you’re gonna pass out. I’m sorry.”

  “What happened?”

  “Crazy Monkey was just doing Zumba right on a nerve, that’s all.” She shoots me a crooked smile. “The pain took my breath away for a minute. But everything’s fine now—he shifted position.” She pats the bed. “Sit back down, love. Tell me more about your transcendent boner to end all boners.”

  I sit down on the bed next to her, exhaling loudly. Jesus. I’m not built for this. My heart is still racing. I run my hands over my face. “Get dressed. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  She laughs. “No, Jonas. I’ll be seeing the doctor for my usual appointment on Tuesday. No worries.”

  “Better safe than sorry—”

  “I’m fine. It’s just getting jam-packed in there, that’s all. Four arms and legs and elbows and feet and two heads crammed into one belly gets a wee bit crowded.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “Nothing to worry about.”

  I exhale. “I’m never gonna make it eight more weeks.”

  “Hey, maybe only six if the doctor takes ’em out early like she said.”

  “Either way, I’m never gonna make it.”

  “Put on some music, baby,” she coos. “Calm yourself down.”

  I exhale. My baby knows me so well. I reach for my laptop and scroll for a minute. I settle on “Only for the Night” by Rx Bandits. A guy can never go wrong with classic Rx Bandits.

  “Nice choice,” Sarah says.

  My heart is still palpitating. I sit and listen for a moment, letting the music work its calming magic on me.

  “Oh,” Sarah says suddenly, putting her hand on her belly again, and my impending serenity evaporates.

  “Sarah?” I choke out.

  She laughs. “Crazy Monkey just kicked the crap out of me. Wowza.”

  I exhale audibly. Jesus Christ.

  She grabs my hand and places it on her belly. “Can you feel that?”

  It takes only a couple seconds until I feel something karate chop my palm. “Whoa.”

  “We’re gonna have our hands full with that one.” She grins. “That one’s a chip off the ol’ block.”

  I move my hand to the other side of her bump, searching for signs of life over there, too. “What’s the other one doing?”

  “Chillin’ Like a Villain Monkey? Well, as usual, he’s just chillin’, drinking a beer, watching the game on TV, laughing at his brother. He’s like, ‘Dude, chill the fuck out.’” She contorts her features into an exact replica of Josh’s smug face. “‘You get so riled up sometimes, bro. Jesus.’” She bursts out laughing.

  “That was a pretty good impression,” I say, moving my hands around her belly. “Has Chillin’ Like a Villain Monkey been moving around? I don’t feel anything over here.”

  “Yes, love. He’s still there. Don’t worry.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “You gotta stop saying ‘he’ and ‘brother’ and ‘dude’ all the time, by the way. We’ve got to keep things gender-neutral so we don’t become attached to any one particular outcome. Happiness is borne from the absence of expectation.”

  “Plato?”

  “No, Jonas Faraday.”

  She flashes me her patented smart-ass grin. “I’m not gonna call either of my monkeys ‘it’ or ‘they.’ They’re monkeys, not goldfish.”

  “Well, at least call them ‘she’ half the time so the gods don’t smite us for displaying unbridled hubris.”

  She leans back and stretches her arms above her head, giving me a delightful view of her massive boobs. “I’m not displaying unbridled hubris—I’m displaying mother’s intuition. I know in my bones I’ve got two little Faraday boys in there.” She looks ruefully at the ceiling. “God help us all.”

 
I run my hands over her curves again, trying to calm my racing heart.

  “If you’re worried you’re gonna get attached to the wrong gender,” she says, “then let’s ask Dr. Johnston—”

  “Nope.” I lean down and kiss her belly button.

  Sarah runs her hands through my hair. “But if we find out the genders I could finally paint the mural in the nursery and—”

  “Nope.” I start kissing my way from her belly button toward her “OAP” tattoo farther south.

  “Aw, come on, Jonas. Please.”

  I look up at her. “This is the first time I’ve exercised patience in my entire life, woman. You should be applauding me, not thwarting me.”

  “But I could paint the mural and get everything ready—”

  “No,” I say firmly. “No peeking. We’re gonna get a grand surprise, precisely when and how nature intended and not a second before. End of story.”

  She exhales. “End of story,” she whispers, rolling her eyes. “Another round of delicious anticipation brought to you by Jonas Faraday.”

  I don’t respond. She misunderstands me, and that’s a good thing. Actually, I’m not engineering another round of delicious anticipation for the two of us—not at all. I’m simply being a realist—or, maybe, more accurately, a self-preservationist. It’s true Sarah and I have had an incredible run these past three years—married life with my sexy little wife has exceeded my wildest dreams, in fact, and, on top of that, Climb and Conquer has already smashed our most ambitious three-year goals to smithereens—but no matter how great life has been lately, I’m still Jonas Faraday, after all, which means my happiness simply won’t last forever. It can’t. Something’s got to give, and I’m scared to death that ‘something’ is gonna be the monkeys growing inside Sarah’s belly. But since no husband should ever tell his pregnant wife he’s certain heartbreak, rather than two bundles of joy, awaits them at the end of her third trimester, I haven’t told Sarah about my rampant premonitions of disaster.

  I’ve only become plagued by this ever-increasing anxiety recently—probably within the last month or so. In fact, at the beginning of Sarah’s pregnancy, my demons didn’t whisper to me at all. When Sarah first said, “What do you think about trying for a baby, hunky-monkey husband?” I didn’t hesitate in my enthusiastic reply: “Fuck yeah!” And a couple months after that, when Sarah leaped into my arms, squealing that two pink lines had appeared on her pee-stick, I cried tears of joy right along with her.

  It was only when the doctor first declared Sarah was carrying twins that a vision of Sarah with our future children popped into my head and subsequently wouldn’t leave, making me suddenly and acutely aware of what I stood to lose if things went to shit. In my recurring daydream, or whatever the fuck it is, Sarah is snuggled up in our bed with two little girls—two dark-haired beauties with their mother’s olive skin and sparkling eyes—and she’s telling them a bedtime story in Spanish. The entire scene takes my breath away, but the thing that slays me the most is how the girls look at their mother with rapt attention, reveling in her every word like she’s casting a magic spell on them, while Sarah gazes back at their little faces with the purest look of love I’ve ever seen. Up until that vision barged into my head (and promptly took hold of my every quiet moment), I thought my life with Sarah was the culmination of human possibility. But now I know there’s an even higher peak—and the idea of losing what I’ve seen scares the living shit out of me.

  I’ve tried countless times to erase that vision from my head, hoping to save myself from unfathomable grief and certain insanity if things ultimately turn to shit (because, let’s face it, everything always eventually turns to shit when it comes to me), but it’s no use. I’ve seen the divine original form of my ultimate happiness, and I can’t un-fucking-see it. It’s as if I’m remembering those little girls snuggled up in bed with Sarah instead of imagining them. And with each passing day as I wait for the other shoe to drop and shatter me, my anxieties wrap ever more tightly around my neck, loosening only during those blessed times when Sarah and I are alone in our cocoon built for two.

  “So, husband,” Sarah says, running her hand through my hair again. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

  I stop kissing her tattoo and exhale. No pleasant conversation with a woman throughout the history of time has ever started with those words. I glance up at her. Please God, don’t let her launch into an in-depth probe of our feelings right now—I’ve got a gigantic boner and I just want to fuck my beautiful, pregnant wife to escape the near-constant ramblings in my head.

  She smiles down at me, her cheeks flushed and her nipples erect. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my hormones have been going a bit wackadoo lately,” she says.

  Is this a trap? I’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to have noticed Sarah’s ultra-vigorous sex drive lately—a happy perk of her pregnancy I’ve been only too happy to accommodate.

  “Well, to put it bluntly,” she continues, “for the last month or so, I’ve been wanting my hunky-monkey husband to fuck me like I owe him twenty bucks—but he simply won’t do it.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  She laughs. “Did I get your attention, my sweet Jonas?”

  “Definitely. I don’t part with twenty bucks easily.”

  “So, here’s the deal, hubsters. For months, you’ve been extremely careful with me—and that’s totally understandable and sweet—and, yes, I’m well aware Dr. Johnston told us not to get too freaky-crazy during my third trimester, whatever that means—and I certainly agree we don’t want you denting our poor babies’ heads with your gargantuan hard-on—but I think you’ve been taking the ‘careful’ and ‘gentle’ thing a wee bit too seriously. I say this with love—well, no, that’s a lie; I’m just horny as hell—I think it’s time for you to just screw the crap out of your pregnant wife like she’s your sorry-ass bitch.” She pats her belly. “I’m a beach ball, baby. Go ahead and bounce me.”

  I’m speechless for a moment, trying to process everything she’s just said.

  “I’ve been really jonezing for The Arch lately. Wasn’t that yummy? We haven’t done that one in a while. Or the folding deck chair? Or maybe the pile-driver?”

  I motion to her belly. “Kind of impossible right now. What do you say we revisit these grand ideas in about eight weeks or so?”

  She bites her lip. “Aw, I know. But I’m starting to feel a little penned in. I think if we put our heads together, we could find something that simulates crazy-freaky. What if we role-play? We could pretend we’re in Thailand and I’m a train wreck and you’re pissed as hell at me?”

  I open my mouth and then close it again. I cannot believe she’s invoking Thailand. I wasn’t pissed as hell in Thailand, I was fucking enraged at her. I couldn’t duplicate that inspiration if I tried.

  “I mean, I know we can’t do Thailand exactly,” she says, giggling. “Man, I couldn’t walk for a week after that. I was just mentioning Thailand to give you an idea of the general flavor of the fuckery I’m thinking of trying to simulate.” She bites her lip.

  I exhale. I know what Sarah’s really referring to here—and it’s not my anger. She wants me to tie her up again, though obviously she doesn’t want to say that explicitly, probably given what a touchy subject bondage of any kind has been for me in the past. I don’t say anything. I’m not sure how I feel about that bizarre night in Thailand—I’ve always thought that was a one-off, borne of unique circumstances. The only thing I’m certain about regarding that night in Bangkok is that Mr. “2Real” Motherfucking-Asswipe-Cocksucker can go fuck himself.

  When I don’t reply, she chews on the inside of her cheek.

  What exactly does she expect me to do? She’s almost eight months pregnant with twins, for fuck’s sake. “We’ve just got to play it safe for eight more weeks, baby,” I coo. “And then you’re ass is mine.”

  She bites her finger and pouts. “Well, obviously I wanna play it safe. Of course. I ju
st mean, maybe we can do a safe version of you fucking the shit out of me? Like a safe version of Rio, maybe?”

  “Sarah, there is no safe version of Rio. I was drunk off my ass in Rio,” I say simply.

  She laughs. “Well, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t totes awesome.”

  “Let me handle it from here, okay, baby? I hear what you’re saying and I’ve got everything covered. Don’t you worry.”

  “It’s just so ironic to have all these outrageous hormones making me crazy-horny at the exact time we can’t capitalize on them to the fullest extent. It’s like the old adage, ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’”

  “Ssh.” I kiss her neck and she sighs with pleasure.

  She grabs my hair and yanks on it roughly. “You gonna figure out a loophole to doctor’s orders?”

  “Ah. My baby wants a loophole, huh?” My kisses trail from her neck down to her breasts. “Now I see.”

  “Oh, yes, please. Loophole me, baby,” She arches her back into my tongue as it swirls around one of her nipples. “Looooooophooooooole,” she says.

  We both laugh. For some time now, Sarah and I have been faux-turning each other on with words that sound dirty but aren’t. “Oh, baby. You know I love it when you talk dirty to me,” I whisper. I trail down from her breasts to her belly and continue swirling my tongue over her skin.

  She moans. “Loooooooophole.”

  God, I love this woman. I look up at her. “Ssh. No more talking. It’s time to bone.”

  Her eyes light up. “Bonin’ time.”

  I part her legs and position myself between them.

  “You gonna fuck me like I owe you twenty bucks?”

  “Ssh. I’m gonna fuck you like you owe me a hundred bucks. Never sell yourself short, baby.”

  She laughs.

  “Now, ssh.” I motion to my cock. “Because my boner’s grown another seven inches while we’ve been sitting here talking about fucking instead of doing it.”

  “My goodness. At this rate of unprecedented growth, your boner’s gonna whack some poor guy upside the head in New York City by nightfall.”

  “And London by morning.”