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.