by Mia Sheridan
He would consider it later, but not now, not when he was so caught up in her, he could barely think straight. “Maybe someday,” he said. “But not tonight.”
“Okay,” she whispered, but she didn’t sound disappointed. No, she sounded pleased. And he realized it was the first time he’d given her reason to believe that he would find the resolve, the strength, to reveal himself to her. In fact, he’d surprised himself.
Maybe.
Maybe.
The one little word was so full.
Clara handed him the bar of soap that she must have felt in the clip-on dish on the side of the tub and for a moment Jonah simply held it in his hand, his mind blank. If there had been enough light to see by, he would have sat staring blankly at the smooth bar in his hand, uncomprehending.
She seemed to be waiting, and when it dawned on Jonah that she was asking him to wash her body, to run his hands all over her wet, naked skin, he almost groaned aloud.
How had he arrived here? How had it happened? Is this even real? He couldn’t figure it out. But he wasn’t going to waste these moments in heaven—dream or reality—however long they might last.
He ran the soap over her curves, learning her in the warm, wet darkness, his hands seeing what his eyes could not. She had asked for this in candlelight and he had said, someday. Maybe. But he yearned for it too. He yearned to see her, to know her expression as he touched her, to learn all the shades and details of her body.
But for now he could worship her with his touch.
He rubbed the soap between his hands and then ran them over her shoulders, down and back, massaging her muscles gently.
He used his fingers to trace her collarbone and felt her arch her neck as he moved slowly over those delicate bones. His hands ghosted down her ribcage and then up, over the soft mounds of her breasts. He felt her nipples peak as he ran his hands over them, a soft moan floating from her mouth as his fingers circled that hardened flesh. His name rose in the air, so soft, it was like another tendril of steam. He wanted to lean over her, to take those peaks in his mouth, to taste her, but he forced himself to continue on, taking another ragged breath.
He soaped his hands again and then brought them back to her body, his hands lingering on the dip of her waist, moving slowly downward, over her firm, slim hips.
“Jonah,” she breathed, arching her back so the water rose and then lowered. She used her own hand to guide his to the place between her legs, and he let out a shuddery breath as he willed his own body to remain in control.
Fear trembled through him as his fingers explored that secret, vulnerable place. She had no real idea whose hand stroked her there. If the lights suddenly came on, would her eyes widen in horror as she realized who she’d let take such liberties with her sweet, pliant body?
She pressed herself into his touch, gasping his name, distracting him from his thoughts as though she’d known the direction they were taking. And before he could return to them, she lifted herself from the water, bringing him with her so he was standing beside the tub, her arms around him, her wet body saturating his shirt.
“I want you,” she said. “You.” So she did know then. He had a tell, apparently. One he couldn’t identify, but one she’d read as easily as if he’d uttered the words that spoke of his doubts. He was that transparent to her, even in the darkness. It terrified him. It thrilled him.
Their mouths met as he lifted her from the water, grabbing a towel and rubbing it over her with the arm not wrapped around her body.
She gripped his shoulders and they stumbled toward the bed, his hands running over the curve of her backside, lifting and pressing so they both moaned into each other’s mouths. She laughed, a raw sound as her legs hit the back of his bed and she fell, landing on his mattress with a soft thump.
He kicked off his shoes, barely cognizant of removing his clothes, so eager to get back to the warmth of her arms.
And then his naked flesh met hers and they both stilled, something vibrating between them before he brought his mouth to her breast. He had learned her with his hands, and now he meant to learn her with his mouth.
He tasted and sucked and nipped as he moved down her body, drawing more of those raw, garbled sounds from her throat, sounds that might have been meant as words, as encouragement, but lost their way from her mind to her lips.
Her hands came to his head, her fingertips grazing one of the scarred patches of scalp. He tensed, turning so she couldn’t explore him there. She didn’t protest, but instead brought her hand to the back of his head, pushing gently so his mouth would return to her body.
He held himself away from her so that the rigid, blood-filled part of him wouldn’t brush against her and make him as desperate as he’d been before. Amazing that it was possible. How many times would he have to have her before the desperate edge went away and he regained that control he’d always had? Or was part of it about her, about the fact that he’d never felt this way about any woman?
He stroked the inside of her thigh, kissing that silken flesh, and she opened to him, inviting. His tongue found the spot that made her press toward him and cry out, and he lapped her there, listening to the soft pants that told him what she liked. His finger found her opening and he pressed inside as more sounds of garbled pleasure spilled from her lips. God, she was wet. She was—
“Jonah!”
He realized blearily that she was repeating his name, and now she was pulling on his shoulders, asking him to move things along, to hurry.
A small laugh, born of wonder, came from his mouth right before he crawled up her body, kissing her as he simultaneously entered her.
Oh God, oh holy hell you feel good.
“Yes. Oh,” she sighed, breaking from his mouth and pressing her head back into the pillow. “I want to come this first time with you inside me,” she whispered, her legs wrapping around his hips.
This first time. Oh God. He really had died and gone to heaven.
He thrust once, distant fireworks brightening the darkness of his mind. He made a raw, garbled sound of his own as he thrust again, her fingernails digging into the muscles of his back.
She repeated his name, her voice saturated with pleasure as he moved inside of her, grasping the back of her thigh so he could raise it slightly. So he could go deeper, claim more of her, feel every part of this beautiful woman beneath him that he possibly could.
He wanted her so much. So much. It pounded through his disfigured body and into his twisted soul. He loved her, and that love rang inside of him like the bells of a church on the holiest of holy days.
The song echoed through his soul, a resounding chime of joy that filled the empty hollows of his lonely heart.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
She tightened around him, squeezing his hips with her wrapped legs, her body arching as she cried out.
He came a moment after her, the orgasm hitting him as though one of those distant fireworks had exploded right under him, shooting its glittering light through every cell in his body, her name the final sparkle falling from his inner sky.
“Well,” she sighed, and the sound was part awe, part tease. He smiled, his nose in the crook of her neck.
He took a moment to breathe her in, before slipping free of her and rolling away. She rolled toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on his scarred shoulder.
She kissed his chest, nuzzling her nose over his skin until he drew her closer.
“Well,” she repeated, and he could feel her grin.
“My thoughts exactly,” he said, winding a strand of damp hair around his finger and bringing it to his nose, inhaling the scent of her mixed with his shampoo.
They lay there for several minutes, the bliss of their lovemaking still floating through Jonah, the quiet darkness wrapping around them and making him feel as if they were in a cocoon built for two. God, he wanted this. Wanted her. Forever.
“How long have you been patrolling with the Brass Angels?”
Clara asked, her breath warm against his skin.
“Not long. Since a couple of days after your fall.” That moment, watching her fall, had been horrendous. Time had stood still, desperately needing to get to her, but also needing to know if Ruben and Augustus were threats or allies. Waiting for her to open her eyes had been torture . . .
“Tell me more about what you do.”
They spoke into the night, Jonah telling her about the people they’d helped, the wishes he’d granted, and how he’d gathered the courage to visit Amanda Kershaw’s mother.
He didn’t mention the phone because he didn’t see any reason to. He didn’t know if there would be anything of any consequence on it and so at the moment, it felt unimportant. He’d found a charger that matched the old phone on eBay and ordered it, but it wouldn’t arrive for another few days. He’d check it out then and see what was what.
But for now, there was only Clara, only whispered words and touches that began lazily and took on more focus, more purpose, until their words faded, turning from syllables to sighs.
He hadn’t expected to ever experience such pleasure again . . . to be sexually sated . . . held. Monsters didn’t deserve pleasure, after all.
But something was shifting inside of him.
“I never blamed you. You didn’t kill her.” Those words.
“It’s like you’re all around me. Behind me. In the air. Filling me.” Clara’s want. Clara’s caresses. Her touches. Her willing kisses. And unless he was very wrong, the giving of her heart.
He rose before the sunrise, stealing from the warmth of the bed and pulling on his clothes in the hush of the darkness before dawn.
Clara said something in her sleep, his name he thought, and it washed over him as though the sun had suddenly risen in a rush of bright illumination.
She moved very slightly, her form a mere outline in the blackened room, and he desperately wanted to crawl back into bed with her. To hold her as she woke.
Another hour and the room would be cast in milky shades of light. If she turned, she’d see him and—
No.
He’d lost control of his body, his heart, but in this, he couldn’t.
He made his way to the door, standing outside of it, visions of the night before bringing him joy and hope. Maybe he wouldn’t always be slipping out of Clara’s arms before the sunrise lit the world and exposed his damaged face. Maybe . . . maybe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Clara inhaled the sweetly subtle scent of the white rose, its velvety petals tickling her nose. Her lips curved into a dreamy smile as she reached for her phone, placing the singular stem back into the vase filled with eleven other white roses, and fresh eucalyptus that spilled over the sides.
The flowers had been delivered during rehearsal, making all of the other ballerinas whisper and shoot her grins.
Clara: The roses are beautiful, thank you. Did you know white roses stand for purity? Do you still think of me as pure after last night? ;)
Jonah: The woman at the flower shop told me they stand for honor and reverence. But yes, I still think of you as pure . . . ish. ;)
Clara laughed, her heart flipping over in her chest at his claim of honoring her. He’d made her feel revered the night before. He’d made her feel precious.
Clara: Then I need to do better next time.
Jonah: Better than last night doesn’t exist.
Clara grinned, catching a reflection of herself in the dressing room mirror and biting her lip, realizing she looked like a love-struck teenager. She released her lip, allowing her grin to widen. Who cares? I am love-struck, she thought with a flush of giddiness. And she was alone, so what did it matter if she wore a goofy grin?
Although speaking of being alone, she should get going. There were probably still a few dancers left in the building, but Clara wasn’t certain. She’d remained on stage after everyone had been dismissed, wanting to use the space to practice a move that she still had to think about each time she did it, rather than it feeling like second nature, the way that allowed her to lose herself in the emotion of the story.
Clara: Just leaving practice now. I’ll call you when I get home.
Jonah: Talk to you then.
Clara unlaced one toe shoe quickly, removing it and taking a moment to massage her arch with a small sigh. God, it always felt so good to take them off. Her hand moved on her foot, working the overused muscles, and it brought to mind Jonah’s hands on her body the night before, the way they’d stroked and—
Clara groaned, moving the memories aside with effort. It would do her no good to get all hot and bothered while in a public dressing room, even if the other girls had already changed and left.
No, she wouldn’t linger on the details of her night with Jonah just now, but, God, it had been magical. The most magical night of her life. And his body was a marvel. Solid and muscular and perfectly masculine. She’d felt all of it, every dip and curve, each divot and . . . swell.
She’d even felt the scars, that mottled, upraised skin of his back and shoulder that he hadn’t even noticed she was running her hand over. It’d only made her want him more, every imperfect part of him.
And her wish collector definitely knew what he was doing. He very obviously knew his way around a woman’s body.
Clara felt a momentary twinge of jealousy for all those women he’d been with in the past. Those women who’d had him in the light, perhaps as sunshine streamed in a window, daylight breaking and casting him in shades of gold.
She moved her mind away from thoughts of envy. He was hers now, and she was his. A few bars of All I Ask of You hummed from her lips as she recalled him twirling her through a darkened Windisle Manor.
She’d felt as if they were dancing together in some celestial body as he’d guided her from room to room, hopping between stairs, using them for steppingstones as he’d spun her through a midnight sky.
Your true love dances between moonbeams. Ah yes, he did, didn’t he? Her wish collector . . . her shadow dancer. Her beloved.
She still hadn’t looked at his face, the way it was now, so damaged, or so he thought, that he had disappeared with the morning light, leaving her only memories and the scent of him lingering on her skin.
But whatever he looked like now, she loved him and there weren’t enough scars, not enough battle wounds in the world to convince her otherwise. She loved him deeply and with her whole heart.
Clara pulled on her clothes, hanging her costume up on the hook at her station, and grabbing her duffle bag as she left the room.
She was surprised to find that the lights had been turned off. Was she really the very last one in the building? She’d stayed on stage before, practicing a move or two, and there had always been at least a few other dancers who had lingered for one reason or another . . . or janitorial staff or someone.
She made her way down the darkened hall, a small smile teasing at her lips. The darkness suddenly had a whole new appeal to her.
The darkness was where he lived.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Clara spun around, letting out a gasp of surprise, but then bringing her hand to her chest as she saw that it was Marco. “God, you scared me.”
He didn’t smile as he approached her, and a small jolt of unease ran down Clara’s spine. “This whole hard-to-get thing is getting old.”
He moved closer, stopping several feet from her.
Clara shifted, watching him, this strange standoff making her suddenly uncomfortable, his words causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up. She couldn’t read his expression in this dimly lit hallway. But his voice contained annoyance . . . and something else she couldn’t identify, something that didn’t sound like the Marco she knew. And now she was alone with him.
Be wary of the man with two faces. He’ll hurt you if you let him.
Was he angry? Why was he confronting her like this? Alone in a building where it was only the two of them? She backed away. He advanced.
“Don’t run from me, Clara. You’re always running from me.”
“Marco, listen—” She put her hand against the wall, feeling for the switch she thought for sure was there. She found it with a gust of relief, flipping it as light flooded the hallway. Marco flinched away, putting his hands in his pockets as he looked back at her. Clara stared. He looked . . . sad.
“I know you’re hesitant to give me a chance because you think I’m some sort of player.” He gave her a self-mocking smile. “And the truth is, I have been. But I . . . I’d really like to earn your trust.”
Clara’s shoulders lowered. “God, Marco, a darkened hallway isn’t the best place to do that.”
He looked briefly confused. “What? You know me. I didn’t think I’d scare you.” He leaned one hip against the wall. “Every time I try to talk to you, you run off before I can get three words out.”
Clara studied him, seeing the vulnerability in his expression. He’d tried for teasing, and it had come off as false because it was. He was truly hurt by the way she’d treated him.
Clara took a deep breath, relaxing, a small buzz of guilt vibrating within her. He was right. She’d known he’d wanted to talk to her and she’d all but ducked behind furniture to avoid him when she’d seen him coming. Not cool. Marco might be a lot of things, but he’d never been unkind to her. She owed him the truth.
“Sorry, Marco. You’re right. See, the thing is . . .” Clara glanced away. God, how did she explain this? “A friendship has unexpectedly turned into more and, well, I’m—”
“No longer single?”
Clara frowned. Jonah had made no promises to her on that front. Her heart was hanging on a maybe that he’d ever even reveal his face to her. “It’s complicated. But I’m no longer interested in dating anyone else.”
Marco stuck his hands deeper into his pockets, nodding, the expression on his face full of disappointment. “He’s a lucky guy. Does he know it?”
Clara doubted Jonah would describe himself as lucky, but she hoped beyond hope that he felt the same joy she felt in their relationship, however that might be defined.