The Wish Collector
Page 65

There was a loud exhale of breath and then sudden movement behind her and before she could turn back, Jonah’s hand was on her arm, and he spun her toward him as he crushed his mouth to hers. Yes, yes, yes! Her heart thrilled, expanding with joy. He wasn’t going to let her walk away. She reached up, wrapping her arms around him, gripping him to her. She’d hoped she would push him to touch her, to kiss her, for she knew he would turn away if she tried to take the lead, and he needed not only to be told but to experience the fact that she wanted him just as much with nothing between them.
She wanted all of him, and she wanted to show him. But she hadn’t expected quite so much . . . hunger. He walked her backward until something touched her calves and a short grunt of fear burst from her as she fell backward into the unknown.
But his hands were on her, guiding her as she fell, her backside hitting something smooth and solid. A bench. Yes, she thought she remembered a wooden bench off to the side.
He was above her now, his mouth still devouring hers as he braced one knee next to her hips, holding the nape of her neck as she kissed him back just as fiercely.
He came over her and she lay back on a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a plea. This kiss was born of desperation, of hurt, perhaps of a sprinkling of anger too, and she didn’t care. All she cared about was that his lips were on hers and there was nothing between them anymore. She was sorry she’d hurt him, sorry he’d felt betrayed, but she was not sorry it had led to this. Us. You and me. Face to face, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“You like this, Clara?” he growled, lifting his face so she could look at it closely, pressing his hard body into hers.
She brought a finger up and ran it over the slope of his cheekbone, over the ridged skin of his jaw, her thumb running along the frown of his bottom lip.
“Yes,” she whispered, bringing her lips back to his.
For a moment he didn’t kiss her back, but then all at once, his tongue lapped into her mouth and he let out a tortured groan, weaving his fingers into her hair and pulling her even closer as though attempting to meld their bodies.
Clara gripped him back, wrapping her legs around his hips and lifting herself toward him, a silent plea. He moaned and then pressed his groin to hers, pinning her there.
He nipped the skin of her throat and she pulled his hair, both of them panting as their mouths met and then moved to some other needy patch of skin: his ear, the base of her throat, his fingers as she sucked them into her hot mouth, and he made a raw sound of lust that shot straight between her legs in a warm rush of wetness.
He took a nipple in his mouth, pulling at it through the material of the sweater dress she was wearing, and she tipped her head back, gasping in pleasure.
She was delirious with it, delirious with him, as he brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her as he lifted her dress, lowering her underwear. And then she heard the sound of a button being unsnapped and the drag of a zipper and a few moments after that, he was pushing inside of her, the slickness of her arousal, easing the way.
“Oh, Jesus. Clara. Clara,” he murmured. She ran her fingers through his hair, kissing the scarred side of his forehead. He paused, breathing harshly against her throat for a beat before beginning to move.
“Yes,” she said again. “I like this. You.”
The mood between them changed, softened, and his movements became less frantic, his kiss slower as he glided steadily in and then out, the controlled strokes inflaming her and driving her pleasure higher . . . higher, until she tipped over the edge, crying out his name a moment before he shuddered inside of her.
He pulled away from her then, disengaging, not looking her in the eye as he fastened his pants and then dragged her underwear up her thighs and lowered her dress. He looked at her then and there was something in his gaze . . . possession maybe? But mixed with a sort of sorrow.
“Jonah.”
He sat beside her on the bench as she sat up and for a moment they both stared into the trees, the shadows of dusk gathering.
She looked at him in profile, the damaged side of his face the only part she could see in that moment, and still he was beautiful. As beautiful as that photo she’d first gazed upon on the library monitor what seemed like a thousand years before. More beautiful maybe, because the scars she was looking at spoke of the fact that he’d tackled a man with a gun in his hand and a bomb strapped to his chest while everyone else was running away.
It spoke of his suffering, but ultimately of his heroism, his care and concern for others, his soul, and God, she hoped those scars would speak of his triumph.
“I would have looked twice at you,” he said. “Then. Now. In any lifetime, and under the brightest of skies.” His voice was low, soft. Sad. She took his hand in hers and he tilted his head, glancing down at their laced fingers. “I’m sorry for the things I said, for being cruel.” He blew out a slow breath. “I do forgive you. But I can’t live a life you want me to. Or one you deserve,” he said softly. “Especially”—his words fell off as if he’d decided against saying whatever he’d been about to say—“especially the way it would be, Clara. You have no idea.”
He turned his head then, showing her both sides of his face, the man he’d once been, and the one he was now. “Do you want people shuddering when we walk into a restaurant together? Staring? Whispering? Saying ugly things?”
“It’s you who can’t handle that, Jonah. Not me. You give those people too much importance and not enough to the ones who matter.” She let go of his hand and ran her finger along the ridges of his damaged chin.
He lowered his eyes, so much shame still obvious in his drawing away from her. She wanted to weep for him. She wanted to shake him until he saw sense.
And it was suddenly clear to Clara why he still carried so much pain with him regarding his damaged face. He’d mentioned several times the way people had looked at him directly following the bombing, the horror in their gazes. He’d brushed it off, said he’d deserved it, but Clara realized now that those looks, the rejection that had come along with them when he had needed love and understanding so very much, had hurt him deep down in his heart and soul.
The scars he wore on the outside were only skin deep. It was the scars he’d sustained within that still pulled the tightest. They hadn’t healed, not all of these years. Not only that, but he’d built a life on those internal scars, told himself a story about himself based on every flinch he’d received, every day since.
“Jonah,” she whispered and he met her gaze. “It’s you who doesn’t realize that you should hold your head high and wear those scars like the courageous battle wounds they are. I would walk proudly into any restaurant with you. And you would keep your eyes on me, not anyone else. On me, Jonah. And who cares if people stare? Those scars you’re so ashamed of are proof that you threw yourself at a madman while everyone else ran away.”
“I told you, I didn’t do that on purpose.”
He was lying to himself, but fine, she wouldn’t argue the point further if he wanted to insist running toward a madman holding a firearm was an instinctive act, something anyone would have done when no one else did. She would make a concession there for more important points.
“Was it an accident that you patrolled streets in order to make people feel safe? Did you do a dozen other good deeds that they spoke of on the news because you simply stumbled upon them? You helped a woman get surgery for her son when she was unable. Or was that done without thought as well?”
“No. But I was covered up. And throwing money at people isn’t brave.”
Clara released a frustrated sigh. God, this man was stubborn. And he was going to stubbornly hold on to the ridiculous lies he’d been subsisting on. Maybe even, in some sick way, they were comforting to him. An excuse. Rejecting them would mean he’d have to be willing to walk past that wall of his and out into the world again.
“No,” she said, choosing to ignore his statement and instead answer the question she’d posed on her own. “You did it because those scars you’re so ashamed of caused you to suffer, yes, but also to learn and to grow and to use your pain for good.”
He stared off into the last of daylight fading beyond the horizon, his expression unmoved. “You should go. It’s getting dark.”