His silent, intense thrusts devour me as our panting echoes into the crisp autumn air. I begin to feel myself working up to a release, as he grinds his hips slightly while plunging his length deep inside of me.
He brings his thumb to the tip of his tongue, wetting it slightly, before lowering it to my already aching pussy. He matches the rhythm of his thrusts with small circular motions of his thumb working my clit.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let go, Sen,” he encourages me as he picks up the pace, still focusing his thumb on my now throbbing and ready center. I’m so lost in the moment, I don’t have time to reply before he crashes his release into me just as I feel my walls beginning to pulse, meeting his finish with my own. He stays inside of me as I feel him still pulsing against my wet walls. Finally, he releases me from his intoxicating grip as he rolls over, joining me on the blanket.
We both lay there for a moment, entangled in each other taking in the stillness of the night. There is not a star in sight, only the beaming full moon shining down on us like a vibrant lantern in the sky. I nestle my head in his chest as he wraps his strong arms around me, kissing the top of my head.
He speaks, breaking the silence: “Hey, what do you say we go get those locket tattoos tomorrow? Figure it would be a nice birthday outing.”
“What locket tattoo?” I ask, confused.
“The one from your poem. Let’s get a Jack and Sally locket. My side will be Sally and your side will be Jack. It’ll be perfect, our favorite movie. Two broken souls who found love together. That’d make a sick tattoo.”
A flutter forms in my chest as I hear his idea. I love that my poem made him think of our favorite Tim Burton movie and, honestly, probably one of our favorite movies of all time. We watch it for Halloween, for Christmas, pretty much year-round. There is such nostalgia intertwined in the animation that has always intrigued both of us. The Pumpkin King and his stitched-together, beautifully broken Queen, destined to be one. There is a somber, yet playful, vibe to it that’s so …us.
“You’re serious? Won’t that like … hurt?” I ask, unintentionally sounding like a valley girl.
The thought of inflicting such deliberate pain on myself has never dawned on me. I have dealt with enough agony in my life, so paying to be poked by needles hasn’t really been on my radar.
However, the more I think about it, that intentional pain might feel therapeutic in a weird way. Momentary pain to remind yourself, “Hey that hurt like a bitch, but I survived with a souvenir I can wear forever.” I could get on board with that. As cliche as matching tattoos can be, I kind of like the idea of branding my skin with a permanent reminder of him. I like it even better that he, too, will be marked with a constant reminder of me.
He nudges me slightly with his elbow. “C’mon. It’ll be my treat. It’ll be our first tattoo. We’ve been each other’s first everything else, so …” He can’t even finish his sentence without flashing a cocky grin.
Blushing from his statement, I move the conversation back to the tattoos. “Shouldn’t we have a sketch or something to give the artist for reference, right?”
“Don’t need one. Your poem painted such a beautiful picture. My cousin knows a guy in the city who works part-time at the shop in town. He is super artsy. I’ll just have him read the poem over, and I’m telling you, he will crush it.”
My face becomes flushed. It took me years to finally allow Leo to read my writing, and now he wants some tattoo artist I don’t know to read it.Jesus Christ. Well, I guess it’s better that I don’t know the guy and I’ll only have to face him tomorrow, as he stabs my skin with a needle. Could be worse, I guess.
“Can I borrow the page with the poem on it? I’ll give it back; I just want him to read it so he can visualize it better,” he asks, pouting his full lips.
I roll my eyes, of course, I’m going to say yes. He knows this already, but I appreciate him playing along and asking. “Sure, just be sure to give it back so I can crumple it up and sulk in embarrassment as he tattoos us tomorrow,” I say sarcastically.
“You sound so emo, Sen.”
“Because I am, duh,” I tease.
Bringing my hand to his lips for his kiss, he presses his lips on my skin. “I know and I fucking love it,” he whispers.
Chapter2
Sienna
12 YEARS AGO
October 31st Halloween
Hand-in-hand, Leo and I walk toward the tattoo shop. As we step onto the sidewalk, I notice the flashing marquee with the name “Oogie’s Ink” hanging from the large window next to the double wood doors. From the outside, Oogie’s has a very Vegas-inspired look, with flashing neon lights going off around the window. As we approach the entrance, I notice a large painting of a roulette wheel in the middle of the two joint doors.
Leo goes to grab one of the handles of the door, when I notice it is adorned with a vibrant, multi-colored snake slithering down the curved iron of the handle. As Leo opens the door, I continue studying the ornate design of the painted wheel, noticing the distinct wrought-iron bugs in the snake design. This place is unlike any of the tattoo shops in our town, not that I have been to any yet, but I have lived in this town long enough to notice that most businesses around here have a lackluster appearance, at best.
Still holding his hand, I follow Leo’s lead into Oogie’s when I suddenly notice how cold and clammy his palm feels. He squeezes my hand as we walk through the doorway, and we are immediately greeted by the scent of burning incense mixed with the distinctly pungent aroma of weed.
The aroma’s intent is to create a calming atmosphere, I’m sure, given the amount of piercing and stabbing that takes place here. Though, for some reason, as we make our way through the small vestibule before the front desk, I can’t help but get an ominous vibe. I don’t know why exactly. There is just something that feels off with Leo suddenly.
He has barely said a word to me since he picked me up from my house, which isn’t exactly groundbreaking given that I am more of the talker between the two of us. However, the lack of conversation, coupled with Leo incessantly checking the rearview mirror while he was driving here, has made me begin to feel uneasy. Even now, as our hands are still intertwined, I have caught him twice checking over his shoulder toward the front window of the shop. I even look over my shoulder, squinting, trying to see something, but I see nothing other than onlookers and a car or two pass us by.
Just as I am about to ask Leo what is wrong, I’m met with an even stronger scent of weed as an older man just as tall as Leo emerges from behind the tall oak desk. Leo lets go of my hand as he goes to greet the man. I’m immediately struck by the number of tattoos covering most of the man’s body. Despite the sea of ink splashed about his skin, I am drawn to a small tattoo on the side of his face. It’s a small frog perched on a branch with some sort of flower to its side, done in a traditional style, with black and grey shading.
