Title: The Club (The Club Series Book #1)
Author: Lauren Rowe
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Day: January 5, 2015
When playboy businessman Jonas Faraday receives a private note from the anonymous intake agent assigned to process his online application to an exclusive sex club, he becomes obsessed with finding her and giving her the sexual satisfaction she claims has always eluded her, in order to fulfill his own desperate need for redemption.
Sarah: When I read Jonas Faraday’s brutally honest personal message on his application to The Club, I practically climaxed at my desk. I’m an idiot to risk losing my job but I couldn't resist contacting him. I knew my confession would be like dangling an irresistible carrot in front of his nose—but never in a million years did I think he’d actually hunt me down.
Jonas: I was shocked to get my intake agent’s email—I’d attached that note to my application on a whim, never expecting a reply from an actual person, let alone a reply as mind blowing as that. Her message was so alluring, so irresistible, I’ve been spiraling into a full-blown obsession ever since I got it. What’s her name? What does she look like? Finding her is my top priority.
In The Club, what starts out as an innocent exploration of sexual attraction quickly spirals into a steamy story of unbridled passion, obsession, heartbreak, and, ultimately, redemption.
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“Thank you,” I type. “You’re beautiful. I can’t stop looking at the photo. I’m totally obsessed.”
“I know the feeling,” her reply comes back immediately.
I practically growl with excitement upon getting her reply. “Tell me your name,” I quickly write.
“No,” she replies—again, immediately.
I can barely contain myself. This woman is somewhere in this city right now, staring at me through her computer screen. My heart is racing. “Not fair. You know my name,” I type.
“Life isn’t fair.”
I half-smile at my screen. “Ain’t that the truth,” I type. Truer words were never spoken. I sigh. “If not your name, tell me something else. How about your age?”
“I just turned 24.”
I’m thrilled. She finally threw me a bone. And I’m relieved, too—twenty-four is good. Very good. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Happy Birthday,” I type, smiling.
“Oh my God. You did not just ask me, ‘What’s your sign?’”
I laugh out loud. “Yeah, I guess I did. I’m dumb like that sometimes.”
“With cheesy pickup lines like that, it’s clearly thanks to your supernatural good looks and not your sparkling personality that you’ve managed to be worshipped as a supreme sex-god by so many. Gosh, I expected a little more panache from you, Mr. Faraday. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of woman wizard? Oh, wait, that’s only inside the four walls of your bedroom—never on the outside.”
I can’t help but smile from ear to ear. She’s kicking my ass again. I love it. “You’re right. I’m not very good at this.” And it’s true. I mean, I can talk to women, of course. I can even flirt. Sort of. But I’ve never been great at doing it. And especially not in a situation like this—when I can’t look into her eyes and get a read on her. “I’m hopeless at small talk,” I type.
“There’s no such thing.”
“No such thing as small talk?”
“No such thing as hopelessness. There’s always hope. ‘We must accept infinite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.’”
“Who said that?”
“Martin Luther King Jr.,” she types.
She’s a whole new breed of woman I’ve never encountered before. I exhale loudly. “Here’s one,” I type. “’Hope is the dream of a waking man.’”
“Oh, I like that. Who’s that?”
“That’d be an awesome episode of Epic Rap Battles of History—Martin Luther King Jr. vs. Aristotle. Hard to say who’d win.”
I grunt. “Stop trying to distract me, My Beautiful Intake Agent. I know exactly what you’re trying to do, but I demand to know more about you. Come on.”
“Okay, okay. You’ve worn me down, especially when you ‘demand’ like that. You’re so manly when you do that, by the way—I like it. Okay, here’s everything: I am a woman. I am 24. I have a Maltese named Kiki. I buy her little outfits with rhinestones on them. She is my world. The End.”
She’s killing me right now, even as I’m laughing out loud. “Come on. Please. Tell me something real,” I type.
I sigh. Jesus, she’s frustrating. “Because you know everything and I know nothing. It’s not fair. Where’s your sense of fair play and justice?”
“Just so you know, I’m sighing right now. Oh, and rolling my eyes, too.”
“Okay, okay. You wore me down again. You’re so persuasive, Mr. Faraday. Irresistible! Okay, here you go: Blah, blah, blah. Prelude, prelude, prelude.”
I burst out laughing. That’s fucked up. I never under any other circumstance would have disclosed my thoughts about “prelude” to a woman—especially a woman I’m trying to get into bed.
Lauren Rowe is the pen name of an author and singer-songwriter who decided to use an alter ego in writing THE CLUB TRILOGY to ensure she didn't hold back in writing the story. (And she didn't.) Lauren lives in San Diego, California where she performs with her band, writes, and hangs out with her family and friends.