We’re silent for a moment, but I need to know more about Ashton. Everything. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, “Why do you wear it?”
“Because I’m a f**king prisoner in my life, Irish!” As if that sudden outburst revealed more than he intended, his mouth clamps shut. He releases my hand.
I alternate between furtive glances at him and smoothing the pleats in my skirt, but I don’t say anything as he turns into the quiet parking lot. When he pulls into a corner spot, off to the end, I expect him to shut the ignition and jump out, anxious to be rid of me. But he doesn’t. He lets the car idle with the radio playing softly as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.
“You probably think I’m exaggerating, aren’t you.” His tone is tempered again. I sit still and listen. “I’m living it up, right? This school, the money, the girlfriend . . . this f**king car.” He slams his fist on the dashboard angrily. “Poor f**king me, right?” His hands fold at the back of his neck as he leans back to close his eyes. “He’s controlling me, Irish. My life. And everything in it. I’m trapped.” There’s no mistaking the pain in his voice now. It’s raw and agonizing, and it squeezes my chest.
I don’t have to ask whom he’s talking about. I’m sure it’s the same person who gave Ashton his scars. I so badly want to ask how he’s trapped and why, but I don’t want to push him too hard. He might shut down. So instead I whisper, “How can I help?”
“Make me forget.” He looks at me. The sadness that I saw in his eyes a week ago is revealing itself again.
“I . . .” I falter. What is he asking me to do? He uses sex to forget, he already suggested that. But I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Panic is bubbling inside and it must be clear on my face.
“Not that, Irish,” he whispers. “I don’t want that from you. I won’t ever ask for that.” He releases his seat belt and then reaches over to undo mine. Taking my hand, he pulls it toward his chest. With no hesitation and enormous relief, I shift in my seat until I can rest it over his heart. It responds immediately, starting to beat faster and harder as his hand presses tightly over mine, warming it.
“Your hand like this? I can’t even describe how incredible it feels,” he whispers with a wistful smile. I bite my lip as a thrill rushes through my insides, knowing that I’m making him feel this good, that I feel so connected to him.
Resting his head back on his seat and closing his eyes, he quietly asks, “Do you think about me, Irish?”
“Yes.” The answer comes out faster than I intended, and I feel the responding skip beneath my fingers.
“A lot?”
I hesitate on that one, trying to swallow my embarrassment.
Cracking one eye to look at me, he murmurs. “You’re supposed to just tell me.”
“Right.” I smile to myself. “Yes.” Another skip.
There’s a pause, and then he whispers, “I didn’t mean to make you cry over me, Irish. The bad stuff was a long time ago. He can’t hurt me like that anymore. He has other ways, but . . .”
With a ragged sigh, I offer him a smile. “I’m sorry. I cry a lot. My sister makes fun of me. And I think it was just an emotional day all round. Sometimes it’s hard to stop dwelling on the bad stuff.”
His lips part as if about to respond, but then he closes them. I wonder what he’s thinking but I don’t ask. I just watch a calm peace pass over his face while his heart still pounds. “Do you want me to help you forget for a while?”
“I . . .” My wide eyes flash to his mouth.
And suddenly he’s moving, twisting in his seat and pushing me back gently into mine, telling me to relax before I can even register that my entire body has tensed.
Ashton doesn’t hesitate, his mouth claiming mine, his tongue forcing its way in. My chest feels light yet at the same time heavy and my body feels like it’s on fire but icy cold. I quickly don’t care about anything or anyone else but myself and being with him.
I silently marvel at how his tongue is both delicate and forceful, skillfully sliding and curling around mine. His mouth is just as minty and heavenly and delicious as I remember it being. So delicious that I barely notice my chair reclining. He’s set it to a comfortable slant where I’m still sitting but am able to stretch out. Shifting his mouth to my ear to graze the lobe with his tongue, he says in a low, gravelly voice that vibrates through to my core, “I’m going to do something and you can tell me to stop.” I inhale sharply as a hand settles on my thigh and begins its ascent. “But I really hope you don’t.”
I think I know what he wants to do and I can’t believe this is happening. Am I going to let this happen? A natural instinct makes me squeeze my knees together for a moment, but then Ashton starts kissing me with a new level of intensity. My knees relax as my body craves his touch, welcoming his hand as it begins slowly rubbing back and forth over my nylons.
I can feel myself respond with each pass and I wonder if Ashton can tell. My hand instinctively moves to the back of his neck, where his dark hair hangs in sexy wisps, to grasp a handful and tug slightly. His kiss deepens even more, his hand moves even faster, and when a tiny moan escapes me, it seems to push him over the edge.
Ashton shifts and reaches down with his other hand. Pinching the seam of my nylons between his fingers, he tugs, and a tearing sound fills the car. Maybe I would have been a little annoyed at that, but I don’t have a chance because his hand doesn’t waste any time, slipping under the edge of my panties.
I gasp and break free from his mouth to look into his eyes, my body tense and trembling. “I’ve never—” He stops my words with a kiss.
“I know, Irish. Remember? Jell-O shots are your kryptonite for secrets.”
I close my eyes as I groan and press my forehead against his, my cheeks flaming. “I actually told you that no one’s ever . . . ?” I can’t even bring myself to say the words.
As if in answer, Ashton slides one finger in slowly. “No one’s ever what, Irish?” he whispers playfully as another finger slides in. My answering moan has his mouth closing over mine again.
In the back of my mind, I’m aware that I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car in a parking lot. I should be horrified. But I quickly rationalize that the windows are black and no one is around. Soon, with the way Ashton deftly moves his hand, knowing exactly the right speed and pressure to make my body relax and my thighs fall apart, I realize that the car could be circled by zombies and I wouldn’t care.
He doesn’t complain at all when I tug at his hair or accidently bite his lip. By the way his breathing speeds up and his mouth turns more aggressive, I know he’s enjoying this. And when I feel the sensation build in my lower belly, Ashton’s hand somehow knows to move faster, making me squirm and writhe and rock against it.
“Let me hear it, Irish,” he says in a strained whisper, just as my body starts to shudder against his hand. With his mouth pressed against my throat, I cry out in response, my fingernails digging into his bicep as the waves hit me.
“That was f**king hot, Irish,” he murmurs into my ear, his forehead pressed against my headrest. I blush as I pull my thighs back together. But he doesn’t move his hand away yet and I don’t push it away. “Did it help you forget?”