The Wish Collector
Page 53
“Good,” she said, kissing him again. “I need to take a quick shower. Is that okay? I came straight here from rehearsal and—”
“Let me,” he murmured, taking her by the arm and leading her before she could protest.
She clung to him as he guided her around the bed and through the door to the master bathroom, letting her go for a moment as he turned on the faucet, the sound of water splashing into the tub filling the room.
Moist steam, invisible in the darkness, rose in the air, and as Jonah tested the temperature of the water, he could hear Clara’s movement, the very soft sound of her clothes as they hit the floor and fire ignited in his veins once more.
He helped her step in and she let out a moan of pleasure as she sat down in the rising water, laying her head back against the porcelain rim of the claw-foot tub.
Jonah sat on a stool behind the tub, gathering her hair and running his fingers through the silken strands.
“This is heaven,” she said, the final word ending in a sigh.
She had no idea. But how could she? She hadn’t been to hell, not like him.
He washed her hair as the water rose higher, the fragrance of his shampoo scenting the room and mixing with the steam.
“Sorry I don’t have anything more . . . floral,” he said on a smile, his fingers massaging her scalp. “I didn’t exactly expect female company.”
Clara laughed, the sound half-drunk as though she was so relaxed she could barely muster the sound. “I love it,” she said. “It’s like you’re all around me. Behind me. In the air. Filling me.”
That was all it took. Jesus, he was aroused again, hard, ready. His body trembled as he brought water to her hair with a cupped hand, rinsing the soap.
“Someday,” she said softly, a note of trepidation in her voice, “I’d love to do this by candlelight.”
Jonah paused, waiting for the fear. But it didn’t come. He pictured the steamy room, bathed in candlelight, pictured her turning her head, her gaze ghosting over his damaged face. And instead of terror, hope blossomed inside of him, the idea that maybe, just maybe, Clara could look upon him as he was, not with horror, but with . . . love.
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.
“Let me,” he murmured, taking her by the arm and leading her before she could protest.
She clung to him as he guided her around the bed and through the door to the master bathroom, letting her go for a moment as he turned on the faucet, the sound of water splashing into the tub filling the room.
Moist steam, invisible in the darkness, rose in the air, and as Jonah tested the temperature of the water, he could hear Clara’s movement, the very soft sound of her clothes as they hit the floor and fire ignited in his veins once more.
He helped her step in and she let out a moan of pleasure as she sat down in the rising water, laying her head back against the porcelain rim of the claw-foot tub.
Jonah sat on a stool behind the tub, gathering her hair and running his fingers through the silken strands.
“This is heaven,” she said, the final word ending in a sigh.
She had no idea. But how could she? She hadn’t been to hell, not like him.
He washed her hair as the water rose higher, the fragrance of his shampoo scenting the room and mixing with the steam.
“Sorry I don’t have anything more . . . floral,” he said on a smile, his fingers massaging her scalp. “I didn’t exactly expect female company.”
Clara laughed, the sound half-drunk as though she was so relaxed she could barely muster the sound. “I love it,” she said. “It’s like you’re all around me. Behind me. In the air. Filling me.”
That was all it took. Jesus, he was aroused again, hard, ready. His body trembled as he brought water to her hair with a cupped hand, rinsing the soap.
“Someday,” she said softly, a note of trepidation in her voice, “I’d love to do this by candlelight.”
Jonah paused, waiting for the fear. But it didn’t come. He pictured the steamy room, bathed in candlelight, pictured her turning her head, her gaze ghosting over his damaged face. And instead of terror, hope blossomed inside of him, the idea that maybe, just maybe, Clara could look upon him as he was, not with horror, but with . . . love.
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.
