One Tiny Lie A Novel

gaze, trying to tell him that it will all be okay with my eyes, I reach for his wrist, for the belt strap, for the snaps that affix it. A flash of panic skitters across his face and his neck muscles cord. It’s a moment when I think maybe this is a bad idea. But I grit my teeth against it, using all the anger I have over his father and what he’s done to him, what he’s still doing to him and, inadvertently, to me, and I rip that damn belt strap off and whip it across the room. “I’m giving you your freedom tonight, Ashton. So fucking take it.”
    I don’t regret a second of it.
    Not as he flips me onto my back.
    Not as he pushes into my body without hesitation.
    Not as I cry out with that moment of pain.
    And certainly not as he claims his freedom.
    And gives me a part of mine.

    In the darkness, with the dull sounds of a party dying in the background, Ashton opens the vault just far enough that a memory slips out, unprompted. “She used to sing this song in Spanish.” His fingers swirl over my back as I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, still in awe of him and me and us together. It was . . . incredible. It feels right in a way that nothing else has ever felt right. “I can’t remember the words, and to this day I don’t know what it meant. I just remember the tune.” My cheek vibrates under the low melodic rumble as he begins to hum.
    “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, rolling my face forward to kiss that perfect chest.
    “Yeah,” he whispers in agreement. His hand slows. “When he put the duct tape over my mouth, I couldn’t do anything but hum. So I’d hum for hours. It helped.”
    For hours.
    “That’s my favorite memory of my mother.”
    Lifting to my elbows to take in his face, I see the tears trickling down from the corners of his eyes.I so badly want to ask him what happened to her, but I can’t bring myself to do it right now. All I want to do is kiss away his tears.
    And help him forget.

    We’ve found that if we ignore the knocking, it goes away after a few minutes. It’s worked three times already. Now, as I lie in a twisted heap of flesh and soft white sheets with Ashton at noon, sore in ways I’ve never been sore before, I’m hoping that it will work for a fourth time. Because I don’t want to leave these four walls. Within these four walls, he and I have cast away all of our fears, our commitments, our lies. Within these four walls, we both have found our freedom.
    “How are you feeling?” Ashton whispers in my ear. “How sore are you?”
    “A little bit,” I lie.
    “Don’t lie, Irish. It won’t be favorable to you.” As if to prove his point, he presses his erection against my back.
    I giggle. “Okay, maybe a bit too sore for that.”
    He sits up and yanks the covers off me completely. Adjusting my legs, he takes his time staring blatantly at my body, the heat in his eyes intensifying by the second. “I want to memorize every square inch of you and have the image branded in my brain and burning hot twenty-four-seven.”
    “Wouldn’t that be distracting?” I tease, but I don’t shy away from his scrutiny. I think my body is starting to crave it. It’s certainly not as shy around him now, after twelve hours straight of naked Ashton.
    Running his large hands up and down the sides of my thighs, he murmurs, “That’s the idea, Irish.”
    “Even my feet?” With a playful giggle, I lift my leg to flick his chin with my toe.
    He grabs my foot. With a sly smile, he grips it tight and runs his tongue along the bottom. I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from howling with laughter as I struggle to break free, but there’s no point. He’s too strong.
    Thankfully he stops that torture, crawling back over to lie on his side next to me, his hand brushing strands of hair off of my face as I let my finger run over the spot where I know my name permanently sits on his body.
    “Tell me why you call me Irish.”
    “Sure but, first things first.” His eyebrow arches pointedly.
    “God you’re stubborn!” I release a heavy sigh. Given that I’m lying naked with the man, I figure I’ll humor him to get the truth. Pursing my lips to keep the grin from showing, I mutter, “Fine. I may want you.”
    “May?” He grins at me. “You walked up and practically ripped my toga off as you pulled me down, shouting, ‘Kiss me, I’m Irish!’”
    I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as the words trigger the memory of Ashton’s shocked expression at