Page 54 of The Lies Always Told

“Youalready took care of that.” Her eyes dart to my pants, and when she sees the wet spot on them, her eyes widen.

“Did you…?”

I nod. “I told you, just looking at you had me fucked. Then my hands were on your body, and that whole thing…was straight out of my dreams. So yeah, I did come in my pants. I’m a grown-ass man, Nellie, and you have me so wrapped around your fingers, I don’t know what to do. How’s that for some honesty?” I take my jeans off and step into the bath to join her.

“Come here.” I motion for her to cross the small space between us and sit between my legs. “I’m the one taking care of you. I need you to let me without worrying about doing something for me, okay? Your pleasure brings me pleasure. Knowing you’re taken care of is the highlight of my day. Let me.”

She turns her head to look at me but doesn’t say anything. “You trust me in bed. You trust me with your body. Trust I’m doing what I want. If I ever want more, I’ll let you know.” She nods, and I bring her hand to my lips, kissing each finger softly. I cover her body in suds and water, taking my time with every inch of skin I bit, licked, kissed, or touched, taking care of her.

After she’s clean and I can feel her heartbeat slow, I help her stand and step out of the tub. I grab one of the towels next to it and open it for her. She walks to it, and I wrap her up, kissing her forehead. Grabbing another towel and wrapping it around my waist, I guide her back to the bed by her hand. She lets out the softest, sweetest yawn, and I smirk.

“You tired me out,” she says, blinking slowly at me as I let her sit on the bed. “I had plans for us to play board games and stay up all night.”

“And I have plans to take care of you, and right now you need to rest.”

“Can you do me a favor?” she asks.

“Anything.” She snaps her eyes open to look at me. I give her a gentle smile and draw slow circles on her hand.

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“It doesn’t matter. For you, it will always be yes, no matter what it is.” She holds my gaze, her green eyes gleaming.

“What do you need, baby girl?”

I caress her cheek as she closes her eyes and whispers, “Could you get me the lotion from the cabinet in the bathroom? I need to put some on; my skin’s been so dry lately.”

I get the lotion from the corner of the bathroom sink. I squirt some on my hands and rub it between them, warming it up before I make it back to Nellie. I bring my lotion-covered hands to her arm and spread it gently and evenly over her arm.

“I could have done it,” she whispers between a sigh and a moan as I make circles down her arm, spreading the lotion.

“I’ll take any excuse to get my hands on your body, any day.” I make it to her wrist, turning her hand around and continuing the circular motion, this time over the two tiny, faded scars she has there. She’s never told me about them, and I won’t ask. I wonder, though, if my assumptions are correct, how much pain was she in to hurt herself like this. How long ago was this, considering these are almost gone? They are so small, almost imperceptible, but I notice. I notice everything about her. I bring her hand up to my lips and kiss her fingers, the palm of her hand, and finally, her wrists. I press my lips gently over the raised skin before lowering her arm. I repeat the process with the other arm, wrist, and hands.

“Lay down,” I say. She lays flat on the bed and lets me slather lotion all over her body—her breasts, her abdomen, her legs, her ass, her hips. Here, she has a combination of scars and stretchmarks dancing together, telling a story I wishI knew, a story I will wait until she’s comfortable enough to share with me. I bring my lips to them, just like I did on her wrists, and worship every single one.

“They’re ugly, aren’t they?” she says, and I can hear the fear and sadness in her voice.

“Nothing about you is ugly,” I reply, kissing one of the scars on her thigh.

“They are from a long time ago, back when I had no way out.”

“No way out of where?” I ask, still caressing her scars, giving her the space she needs.

“Out of my head.” She sits up, clutching the towel like armor around her body.

Her fingers hover over the scars on her wrists, tracing them like old wounds that still whisper when the night gets too quiet. I can see the way her jaw tenses, the way her shoulders pull in, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.

“They were my escape,” she admits. “My thoughts were too much sometimes, and when everything got too loud, too heavy…this was the only thing I could control.”

I don’t speak right away. I just watch her, letting her take her time, letting her decide how much she wants to give me, how much she wants to tell me.

She exhales, shaking her head, as if she wants to erase the words, take them back before they make her too vulnerable. But then, she looks at me, really looks at me, and I see it—the years of pain buried beneath her skin, the echoes of a girl who didn’t know any other way to quiet the storm.

“I didn’t know how else to make it stop,” she continues. “The thoughts, the feelings, all of it. It was like drowning in my own head, and this…” she gestures to the scars, her fingers ghosting over them like an old habit, “this was the only way I could breathe.”

I reach for her hand, slow and steady, giving her the chance to pull away. She doesn’t.

“You don’t have to explain,” I tell her. “Not to me.”

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