Vandy is right, the pain isn’t so bad. At least I don’t have to worry about sporting wood as the artist inks my skin, because pain has never done it for me. Nevertheless, when she takes my hand in hers, holding it in her lap as she cringes along to the harsh sound of the gun, I don’t say anything.
Freshly inked and armed with written instructions on how to take care of our new tattoos, Vandy and I walk out of the parlor into the cool night. My Jeep is the only vehicle in the lot.
“Do you need a ride?”
“Actually, yeah,” she says, gripping the strap of her bag. “I’m supposed to call Emory, but that’s probably out of his way.”
This time, when I open the door for her, she accepts it. She also takes my hand, which sends another wave of electricity across my skin.
“So, listen,” I start, rocking back on my heels. I have no clue how to handle this moment. How do I tell the girl who’s off-limits, who’s a one-way-ticket back to military school, who will destroy my relationship with her brother, that my brain isn’t going to start working until I kiss the shit out of her again? Repeatedly. “I think—"
“I’m hungry,” she blurts, cutting me off. “Starving, actually. Do you want to get something to eat?”
I assess her quietly. “Like, at a restaurant?”
“Do you have any food at home?”
The image of a bare refrigerator comes to mind.
“No.” I run my hand through my hair. “Sorry.”
“I could go for a hamburger. Actually, the bacon avocado cheeseburger at The Nerd would be amazing right now.” She looks at me expectantly, normally, like we hadn’t just gotten secret society tattoos and made out while doing it.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, trying to find my footing and failing miserably. “I could eat. I mean, I can always eat.”
The hum of electricity continues to crackle between us as I drive across town. I want to hold her hand. I want to reach out and touch that strip of leg again. I want to look at her and have her look at me. I have this policy, though. Whenever Vandy is in my car, my attention is on the road, hands fixed at ten-and-two.
I take a left, into the abandoned K-Mart building that’s a few miles from The Nerd. The parking lot is enormous and bare, and when I roll into a spot and put the Jeep in park, I have to sit there for a second, hands clenching tight around the steering wheel.
The cabin is quiet enough that I can hear her soft inhale right before she speaks. “What’s wrong?”
I look at her, too many answers swirling in my head—none of which I can give her. That my insides feel like they're magnetized. That my blood feels like lava right now. That my balls ache, and my chest hurts, and I’m not safe to drive, because I have this gorgeous girl in my car and all I can think about is burying literally any part of myself between her thighs, and that all of that is the easy part. Because being horny is one thing, but whatever I’m feeling right now is some crazy mess of nervous want that I have no idea what to do with.
There’s no doubt the tension rises the longer I stay silent. I’m just not sure what the tension means. Regret? Fear? Want?
I know what it means for me. I feel it every fucking day, the impulsive urge to take what isn’t mine, an urge I rarely push back against. I didn’t resist at the tattoo parlor, and I can’t resist now.
The faint shred of control doesn’t slip away so much as it plummets.
The kiss is borderline embarrassing. We’re flying at each other over the console, lips meeting hungrily, but our seatbelts are straining against us, pulling us back. It takes me three tries before I have it unlatched, but once I do, my hand is in her hair, tugging her closer. If I’d taken that kiss back at Thistle Cove, it probably would have been ice in comparison to this—the way I fuck my tongue into her mouth with greedy kisses.
She makes a sound deep in her throat, this quiet little whine that has me pushing closer so I can swallow it, keep it for myself. Mine now. I know I’m being too rough, that I’m pulling her hair, and she probably can’t even breathe with how desperate my mouth