Purposefully Accidental

Chapter Thirty-Two

"Can we," Jonah says between the kisses in the kitchen, "move this somewhere else?"

I answer that question by dragging him upstairs, still by the collars, blindly opening my door and slamming it shut behind me with my leg. His kisses turn insistent as my fingers fumble with his buttons, and he shimmies out of the damned shirt before throwing me into my twin-size bed.

I giggle as I tightly clung onto his neck, his tongue teasing my mouth open. Then he flips me around so that I'm the one above him, and I feel him start to tug the skirt of my dress upwards. But then I realize the lights are still on, and I stop him with a hand on his chest.

Jonah freezes immediately, then relaxes. "I've brought protection."

He digs into his pockets and takes out his wallet, looking for a condom. But I'm not worried about that. "I know that. You're the most careful man on planet earth."

He smiles, but there's a questioning crease on his forehead. "What's wrong, then?"

"I... It's—" I stutter hopelessly. "Light's still on."

He pauses. "Okay." Then, slowly, he sits up on the bed. "You want the lights off?"

Wordlessly, I nod. The lights in his hotel room back in New York were dimmed really low, and we didn't bother with it before getting into bed. But I left the lights on in my room earlier, which means I can clearly see every freckle on Jonah's warm skin and he can see every scar on my body.

"Can I ask why?" he gently asks. He's no longer touching me, and I already miss the feeling of his skin on mine.

"I don't... I don't want you to see."

"You don't want me to see you?" he clarifies. I give him a small nod. "Can you tell me why?"

"I've got scars." I look down on my lap, avoiding his eyes.

"Hannah, hey." He puts his hand on top of mine. "Can you look at me, sweetheart?"

I do as he says. Jonah has the kindest eyes I've ever seen. I don't want to break his heart.

"I've seen you," he reminds me. "I've seen all your scars before."

He's talking about the scars I got from the car accident with Tony when I was 14. My body is littered with permanent marks—most of them small and faded now, easily hidden away. Except for the one above my eyebrow, which I've always felt insecure about. Jonah knows every single one of those scars, even the forgotten bruises, and he has once lovingly kissed all of them for the first time that night up in the treehouse, on prom night.

But those aren't the only scars I have. Shakily, I confess to him, "Not all of them."

I try to look away again, but he stubbornly follows my gaze. "Will you tell me what's wrong, please?"

"I'm scared," honest truth spills out of my lips, "that you won't want me after you see. After you know."

"Know what?" His jaw ticks when I don't answer. His eyes never leave mine. "Will you let me be the judge of that?"

I bite my lower lip, my words stuck in my throat. He's asking me so gently and carefully, but a part of me doesn't want him to know.

I hold his eyes as I pull my dress over my head and toss it to the floor. Then, I guide his hands onto my waist. He follows, gripping me as I lead him onto his back. He moans softly when I come down and kiss the space under his jaw, feel his heartbeat pulsing against my mouth. Then, I let him take control, still holding onto him desperately as he flips me onto my back.

Wordlessly, Jonah starts peppering kisses all over me—the deep line over my eyebrow and the faint graze on my collarbone from the broken glass, my once dislocated shoulder and broken arm from how I was pinned between the car and the tree, the valley of my breasts from when paramedics broke a couple of my ribs as they did chest compressions to restart my heart. I've been broken and stitched up together and he knows nearly every spot on my body that's been hurt, even with both of his eyes closed.