One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(54)

He leans in to kiss away one tear on my cheek and then another, and another, shifting toward my mouth. I don’t know if it’s the intensity of this moment—with my heart aching for him and my body responding and my brain completely checking out—but when his lips settle at the edge of mine and he whispers, “You’re staring at me again, Irish,” I automatically turn to meet them.

He responds immediately, wasting no time closing his mouth over mine, forcing it open. I taste the salt from my tears as his tongue slides in and curls against mine. One hand comes around to grip the back of my neck as he intensifies the kiss, pushing my head back to get closer, deeper. And I let him because I want to be close to him, to help him forget. I don’t worry about how I’m doing, whether I’m doing it right. It has to be right if it feels like this.

My hand never moves from his chest, from the heart that races beneath my fingers, as this single kiss seems to go on forever, until my tears are dry and my lips are sore and I’ve memorized the heavenly taste of Ashton’s mouth.

And then he suddenly breaks free, leaving me panting for air. ”You’re shivering.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I whisper. And I hadn’t. I still don’t.

All I notice is this pounding heart beneath my fingers and the beautiful face in front of me and the fact that I’m struggling to breathe.

Scooping me into his arms, he carries me out to his room, setting me down on his bed. With purpose, he marches over to his dresser, pushing his door shut as he passes. I don’t say anything. I don’t even look around the room. I simply stare at the definition of his back, my mind blank.

He walks over to drop a simple gray shirt and pair of sweatpants beside me. “These might fit you.”

“Thank you,” I mumble absently, my fingers running over the soft material, my mind reeling.

I can’t explain the next few moments. Maybe it’s because of what happened a month ago and what just happened in the bathroom, but when Ashton demands, “Arms up, Irish,” my body obeys like a well-trained soldier moving in slow motion. I gasp as I feel his fingertips curl under the bottom of my shirt and lift the damp material up, up . . . until it’s sliding over my head, leaving me in my pink sports bra. He doesn’t gawk at me or make some remark to make me nervous. He quietly unfolds the gray shirt next to me and pulls the collar over my head and then slides it down over my shoulders. My arms aren’t in it yet when Ashton kneels in front of me. Swallowing, I watch his face as his hands glide under the shirt to the back of my bra, deftly unhooking the clips, all while his eyes are on mine. Pulling it out to toss on the floor, he waits for me to ease into the sleeves.

“Stand,” he says softly, and again my body responds, putting one hand on his shoulder for support to protect my sprained ankle. The shirt is at least five sizes too big and it hangs halfway down my thighs. So when his hands reach up to seize the waistband of my pants and tug them down, I’m not exposed. But he’s still on his knees and his eyes are still locked on mine. They never wander. Not as my pants reach the floor. Not as his hands glide back up, gripping my thighs as they climb under my shirt to my underwear. A second gasp escapes me as his fingers hook under the elastic band. He pulls them down until they simply fall to the ground. With a sharp intake of air, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a moment before opening them.

“Sit,” he whispers, and I do.

He breaks his gaze just long enough to gently slip my damp clothes off around my injured ankle. Unfolding his track pants, he eases them around my ankles and pulls them up as far as he can. “Stand, Irish.” I do as asked, using him for support again as he slides them up and ties the drawstring tight. Never once touching me inappropriately.

And if he had tried, I don’t think I would have stopped him.

When he’s done, when I’m dressed and breathless and unsure of what happened but still standing there in front of him, he reaches down to take my hand. He lifts it up and places it flat over his heart, just as I had done earlier. Only he holds it there, his hand covering mine completely, trembling from cold or something else, his heart pounding too. I look up into sad, resigned eyes.

“Thank you.”

Swallowing my ball of nerves, I whisper, “For what?”

“For helping me to forget. Even for a little while.” Giving my knuckles a kiss, he adds, “This can’t work, Irish. Stick with Connor.”

My stomach drops as he releases my hand. Turning, he walks toward the bathroom, his body rigid, his head bowed forward slightly, as if in defeat.

I’m afraid if I don’t ask now, I’ll never be able to again. “What does a ‘forever girl’ mean?”

His feet falter as he reaches the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other coming up to seize the frame, the bulge in his bicep tightening. His body sways forward into the bathroom and I assume I’m not getting an answer.

“Freedom.” He shuts the door behind him.

My forever girl. My freedom.

All I can do is grab the crutches that are laid out on the bed and hobble out of there. I need time to think, and thinking around Ashton isn’t possible.

This can’t work, Irish. Stick with Connor.

Dammit. Connor.

I forgot about him. Again.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


Just Spit It Out