One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths #2)(68)

Keeping my hand moving slowly, I whisper, “So, you’re still with her . . . but not by choice.”

“As far as an arranged relationship goes, she’s perfect. She’s sweet and pretty. And she lives far away.” He’s numb to it. I hear it. He’s acquiescent and numb.

“Does she know about this arrangement?”

A small derisive snort escapes. “She thinks we’ll get married. And if—” He clamps his mouth shut. But I think I know where that train of thought was going. If his father wants Ashton to marry her . . . A shiver runs from the base of my neck down my back, around my ribs, into my throat, enveloping me with icy dread. God, what is he holding over Ashton’s head?

My body instinctively curls into his, pressing against him. I roll my head just enough to lay a sympathetic kiss against his chest. Or is it more of a relieved kiss? Relieved that I’m not wrecking a happy home because it’s all a sham?

“Can’t you get away from him?”

“Eventually. It could be months, years. I won’t know until I know. I was managing okay, though.” He pauses. “And then the most beautiful girl on this planet punched me in the jaw.”

A small half-giggle slips out. “You deserved that, Jell-O thief.”

The sound of his chuckle vibrates through my body. “I’ve never had a girl tremble like that for me before while fully dressed, Irish.”

“Shut up and give me that ice cream.” I lift my body up and reach for the spoon, but his long arm span makes it impossible to reach.

“I think you’ve done enough damage to yourself for one night.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Why are you here and not at practice again?”

“Because I knew there’d be a hot chick with a terrific rack and chocolate ice cream smeared all over her face here.”

I freeze. My eyes drop to my shirt. My threadbare white cotton pajama top does nothing to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. And my face? Based on the side of Ashton’s shirt, I’d say he’s telling the truth. “How bad is it?”

“You know how clowns have lipstick around the outside of their lips . . .”

Ohmigod! I jab my palm into his solar plexus as I move to get up.

His hands around my biceps stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To wash my face!”

In a split second, Ashton has me lying on my back again with no effort, my wrists pinned beneath his hands and his weight. “Let me help you with that.” He leans down and lets the tip of his tongue run leisurely around the outside of my mouth, beginning at the top, going from left to right, and then the bottom, from left to right, gently lapping up ice cream as he goes.

If there’s such thing as a virgin slut, I believe I fit the description.

How did I get myself into this again? I close my eyes, the urge to both giggle and scream at the top of my lungs overpowering. I woke up this morning, as I have every other morning since I last saw Ashton, telling myself to let go, to stop thinking about him and stay on the course that I’ve set out on. The slow-and-easy Connor course.

How, then, do I end up in my bed, struggling not to pant while Ashton licks chocolate ice cream off my face, while I try my own Jedi mind tricks to get a repeat of our night in the car? I haven’t said a word to stop him and I could. I could tell him to stop. I could call him a male whore. I could tell him that he’s making me feel like a whore.

But I don’t do any of that because I don’t want him to stop.

I let out a tiny whimper as he pulls back slightly. “It’s almost better,” he murmurs, his breathing shallow. He moves on to my lips, running his tongue along my top lip from left to right, followed by my bottom lip, left to right. I can’t help my mouth parting open for him. I can’t stop my tongue from automatically sliding out, reaching for him.

That’s when he pulls back and looks at me with those sad eyes.

I think I know the answer but I want to hear him say it, so I ask, “Why did you come? The truth.”

He swallows. “Because I couldn’t stand knowing that you were upset. But . . .” I watch as his eyes close and his head bobs forward. “I can’t play this game with you, Irish. I’m going to hurt you.”

His light stubble grazes against my palm as I lift his chin up so I can meet his eyes again.

And I ignore.

I ignore his words. I ignore the guilt in my stomach and the screams in my head. I ignore the internal battle I can see going on inside him. I want to forget all the uncertainties growing in my life and make him forget dark closets and tape and belts and his silent prison.

I ignore it all as I slip my hand around the back of his neck and pull him into me to kiss and then trail my tongue along the bottom of his lip. Ashton’s breath hitches and I feel the muscles cord beneath my fingers as he hesitates, his hand fisting the pillow beside my head as he fights it.

I don’t want him to fight anymore. I’m desperate to see that vulnerable side of him again. I need to feel close to him again. I want to make him feel good. I want me to feel good. I want to just let go of . . . everything.

That’s what it feels like when I’m with Ashton.

Like I’m letting go.

And that’s why I give him a level stare and demand, “Help me forget for a while.”