The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

35

Jonathan lingers at the door to the hallway, waiting for me. Hesitating. I reach him and deliberately, as though it takes a conscious effort, he links his fingers through mine. His thumb pads rub soothing circles against my skin. Something about the gesture makes me feel safe. Secure.

"I like when you do that," I tell him quietly.

He says, "Me too."

We stop at each set of lights so he can extinguish them until we reach his bedroom. He fusses for a moment at an old gramophone, and there's the crackle of a needle on vinyl. Quiet, classical music begins to play. I step further into the room, my eyes raking once more across the blues and greys, the insanely large bed.

I can feel the air shift as Jonathan steps behind me. His fingers brush the length of my bare arm, and my flesh raises in goosebumps in response. Where the scarecrow was certain, demanding, Jonathan is delicate. Hesitant. I turn slowly to face him, and our eyes lock.

His hand cups my cheek. His thumb strokes my skin softly. "Sienna," he says, drawing my name out with his tongue. "May I kiss you?" He asks, his voice a soft plea.

I draw in a shaky breath. Whisper, "Yes."

His lips descend upon mine, so gently at first, a slow exploration that deepens with every heartbeat. Then his fingers tangle in my hair and he pulls me closer, as if he can't get enough of me.

The kiss deepens and becomes more urgent. Desperate. Our bodies press together and I ache for closer contact, feeling the heat of him through my thin layer of satin. I unbutton his blazer and tug it from his shoulders, until it drops, crumpled on the ground. I pull back, breath catching in my chest at the sight of him in just a shirt. The way it hangs from his shoulders, contoured to his body where it's tucked in at his waist.

Our lips meet again and I pull his tie loose, sparks flying all across my body as I undress him. Slip the buttons of his shirt free. His torso's so warm beneath my hands as I slip them beneath the fabric and I caress him as he claims me with his tongue.

But then he stops. Hesitates.

"Sienna..."

Our foreheads pressed together, I frown in concern. "What is it?"

"You might not like it."

"I liked it plenty last time," I breathe.

But he shakes his head against my own. "Not that."

"Then what?"

I can feel the tension in his jaw, his shoulders, his upper arms. I can feel the way he holds his breath in his chest. The weight that's upon him.

Slowly, like it's causing him pain, he pulls his shirt free. My heart thuds in my chest and heat floods between my legs. I run my hands across his arms, his shoulders, his chest — and feel the scars covering him.

My fingers trace them. Lines and gouges, skin healed over and long turned to silver — but there nonetheless. So deep, they've remained. He stays silent.

"What happened?" I ask in a whisper.

"Now's not the time."

"It's never the time." I bring my lips to his again. "Tell me."

His voice is surprisingly empty. "Crows. In an abandoned church. I'd get locked in there as a child if I misbehaved."

My hold on him tightens. I want to take him in my arms and never let go. Hold him forever. He averts his gaze but I tilt his jaw, force him to look at me.

I say, "That's where your fear began."

"Yes. That's why I became the Scarecrow."

"An alter-ego."

He caresses my hair. Grazes his lips barely against mine. "You understand me like nobody else."

"Your scars don't bother me, Jonathan." I run my hand down the length of his torso, feeling every muscle beneath my palm. "They show how strong you were." And then, the final slot of acceptance sliding into place, I say, "How strong our child will be."

He lets out a deep moan and his responding kiss is deep, unyielding, the taste of red wine and him and the hook of his arm against my waist, pulling me flush against him. My bare arms on his. My breasts pressed up against his bare chest. My hands find the space where his throat meets his shoulders, and he drags down the zip of my dress, moaning softly into me and dragging his lips across my throat. He sucks, bites gently, and I become weightless in his arms as the satin falls to the hardwood floors.

This is different. There's no fear here, no whisper of a nightmare. My heart pounds for entirely different reasons — it beats for him. His hands trace me everywhere. The curve of my waist, the soft flesh of my stomach, the ridge of my hipbones beneath the sheer lingerie. Jonathan sinks to his knees before me and his lips mark the trail down my bare skin, leaving his saliva marking every inch of my midline, right down to the hem of my underwear.

Crisp sheets hit my bare back as he lays me on the bed, displayed like a prize for him as he kneels between my thighs. He runs a thumb up the length of me over the fabric, and I shudder beneath his touch. He smirks, and does it again, his bare torso glinting in the moonlight.

He asks me, "You like your clothes?" As his fingers tug free what little remains of them.

"Yes."

"And the meal, it was good?"

I whisper, "Yes."

"I've dreamt about this for months," he tells me, lowering himself. "I want everything to be perfect for you."

"Jonathan..."

All I can do is whimper his name as he pauses, lips so close I can feel every warm breath against my bare slit.

"Yes, Sienna?" He asks, his tone almost taunting.

Fuck, this man is gonna kill me. "Please don't stop."

He groans appreciatively and brings his mouth to my clit.

I gasp as his tongue brushes against me with slow, languid strokes, his lips creating a perfect seal. It's like he's making out with me down there, using the perfect amount of pressure, the heat of him intoxicating. His tongue hits me perfectly, eliciting every response my body is capable of.

"How are you so good at this?" I manage to ask, as my fingers clutch the bedsheets.

He pauses long enough to say, "Anatomy."

When he does it again my hips rise up to meet him, and every movement of his tongue sends flickers through my core. It builds and builds and my cries grow louder until I don't know if I can take anymore. I feel it everywhere, feel him in every cell and bone of my body.

My back arches and my hands tangle in his hair and he moans into me, the vibration on his tongue hitting me in places I didn't even know existed, and I moan for him as I fall apart and come, over and over, blending into one never-ending sensation that begins and ends with his flesh against mine. His hair brushing against my thighs, his hands hooked around my hips, holding me in place as he goes down on me until it takes all breath from my lungs.

Until you've lost your pretty little mind.

Mission accomplished.

He slows and pulls away reluctantly, like it pains him, and I wrap myself up in bedsheets for warmth, trying to dispel how light headed I feel while I recover.

He smirks and says, "You think I'm finished with you already?"

I can only meet his gaze, chest rising and falling with each breath, as he lies over me.

"I believe I promised to fill you with my children."