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“Then let’s start our journey,” I say, and then I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Freya asks, but she’s laughing too.
It’s like we can’t resist it, as though suddenly we’re giddy on each other, higher than any drug could ever get us.
“Before I met you, I never would’ve said anything like that. But you’ve changed me, Freya. You changed me the moment I saw you.”
“You changed me too,” she murmurs, our eyes locked.
This is the moment.
I could tell her, explain it all, but then the moment passes as she guides the tat gun toward my arm.
She pushes it against my skin, breathing slowly.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “It would hurt more not to have it.”
Without looking at me – she’s entirely focused on her work – her eyebrow quirks upward. “What does that mean?”
“It means it would be painful to me, Freya, for your first time to be meaningless. I mean, it hurts far morenothaving a symbol of….”
Our love.
I almost don’t stop. I almost say it, as senseless as it would seem to her.
“Of us,” I finish.
“Is it bad I care about this more?” Freya asks a moment later, moving the tattoo gun deftly. “Us, Felix, me, and you. I care more than Mike, Mr. Red, or whatever that sick freak is called. I care about it more than what Julie told me about her dad. I care about us more than anything that’s happening.”
“Me too,” I say, my voice shivering with emotion and desire. “That’s why Kenny and I are going to handle this bastard. Once he’s gone – arrested or dead – we’ll be free to be together.”
“As long as Mom approves,” Freya mutters.
“You don’t think she will?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Dad was fifteen years older than Mom, so it would be sort of hypocritical if she made the age thing an issue. I just think she’ll be protective. She’ll want us to be….”
“What, Freya?” I ask when she pauses both her words and the tattoo gun.
“More than a fling, I guess. Something…I don’t know, serious?”
She makes it a question at the end, and I answer it, even if it brings me to the unspoken hunger within.
“We are serious,” I say.
She flinches, but then she goes on with her work, leaving my declaration to hang there. We sit in peaceful quiet, the buzz of the tattoo gun and her occasional ball-tingling short breaths the only noises, as I realize something.
I have to tell her.
During our first time, I don’t want anything between us but our flesh and bodies. I want my seed to pump into her, to give us a future.
What if she doesn’t want that?
It’s not fair to go ahead without telling her.
Soon, the tattoo is done.
