The Reclamation (The Club Trilogy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

then.”
    “That’s two words.”
    She raises an eyebrow. “In this hypothetical magazine article about me, they’d spell it with a hyphen.”
    Oh, man. Ka-pow. Talk about instant chemistry. I look at Jonas and I can tell he’s thinking exactly what I am— get a room— albeit in some warped Jonas Faraday kind of way, I’m sure.
    “So what’s going on here, Party Girl with a Hyphen?” Josh asks. “I take it we didn’t all congregate here to party?”
    “No, unfortunately,” Kat says. “Though, hey, we did have some of your tequila earlier, so thanks for that.” She twists her mouth. “No, I’m just here to support Sarah—and, well, I think I might be some kind of refugee in all this, too.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Although I think maybe Jonas is being slightly overprotective having me stay here. I’m not sure yet.”
    Jonas bristles and clenches his jaw, obviously not thrilled at being called overprotective.
    “You’re a refugee in all this?” Josh asks. He looks at Jonas, confounded. “What the fuck’s going on, Jonas?”
    Jonas grunts, yet again. “Sit down.”
    Josh and Jonas sit.
    Jonas takes a deep breath and starts to explain, beginning with Stacy’s yellow-bracelet-clad appearance and diatribe at the sports bar, then moving on to our “amazing” trip to Belize and the scary surprise we discovered in my apartment upon our return, and finishing up with his extreme concern that The Club might try to ensure my silence through means more violent than stealing my computer and wrecking my apartment. Throughout it all, Josh listens intently—nodding, pursing his lips, and occasionally glancing at Kat and me. For our part, Kat and I don’t make a peep while Jonas speaks, though we exchange a crap-ton of meaningful glances, smirks, and raised eyebrows the entire time.
    In addition to engaging in a near-constant nonverbal dialogue with Kat, I also make several observations while Jonas speaks. One—and I realize this is totally irrelevant to the situation at large—holy frickin’ moly, Jonas Faraday turns me on, oh yeah, boy howdy, booyah, hellz yeah, whoa doggie, there’s no doubt about it. Just watching his luscious lips move when he speaks—and how he licks them when he’s pausing to think—and how one side of his mouth rides up a little bit when he’s making a wry observation—just seeing the intelligence and intensity in his eyes and noticing the tattoos on his forearms and the bulge of his biceps when he runs his hands through his hair—and a thousand other things about him, too, all of them heart-palpitation-inducing—it’s enough to make me want to get all over that boy like tie dye on a hippie.
    Gah.
    The second observation that leaps out at me while Jonas is speaking is that, man oh man, my supernaturally good-lookin’ boyfriend’s got the hots for me, too—like, oh my God, so, so bad—and, looping back to observation number one, that effing turns me on like boom on a bomb. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so turned on by him being so turned on by me , considering the circumstances—I’m certain I should be consumed with fear and apprehension instead of my hormones right now—but I can’t help myself. When Jonas says Belize was “life-changing” for him and calls me “magnificent” and “smart as hell” and “wise,” and when he stutters a bit and blushes like a vine-ripened tomato when he says all of it, I feel like he’s standing on a mountaintop declaring his raging, thumping, ardent desire for me. And it turns me on.
    I’ve never felt so adored and safe and free to be me in my whole life as I am with Jonas. It’s like I’m a big ol’ vat of mustard—just yellow mustard and nothing else—and up ‘til now I’ve lived my whole life worrying the guys I’m attracted to, the guys who say they really, really like mustard, might actually crave a little ketchup or relish or mayo to go along with their mustard, at least occasionally—and who could blame