And then we just stand this way while the world moves around us. Him holding me. Me allowing it.

Me wanting it.

I had no idea how good it would feel. Any of this. All the moments I spend with him are charged and exciting and I feel them right in the center of my chest. It’s like he wakes up a part of me that’s been asleep for nineteen years. I appreciate so many things I didn’t think I would ever be able to appreciate.

I like being kissed by someone who actually respects me. I love that he’s so proud of me, he picked me up and swung me around. He went out of his way to scream like an idiot on the sidelines of a silly beach volleyball game just to make me feel good.

At some point during this hug, I started crying. It’s not a noticeable cry, but I can feel the wetness sliding down my cheeks.

I honestly don’t feel like we’re close enough, even though we can’t possibly get any closer. I want to melt into him. Become a piece of him. I want to see if I make the inside of his chest feel as alive as he makes mine.

It’s as if he can tell I don’t want him to let go. He lifts me until my legs go around his waist, and then he walks me straight to his house, away from the beach, away from the guys.

When we reach his stilt level, he lowers me to my feet. I reluctantly pull back to look up at him, but with the sun setting and being under the first floor of his house, I can’t see him as well as I wish I could. There’s very little light left, which is casting a shadow over his eyes. He takes both of his thumbs and brings them to my cheeks, wiping them dry. Then he kisses me.

We taste like a mixture of tears and grains of sand.

I pull away. “I need to rinse off. I have sand everywhere.”

“Use the outdoor shower,” he says, motioning toward it.

I don’t let go of his hand as we walk toward the shower. My whole body is sore and I’m still a little out of breath. Samson takes off his shirt and drops it to the ground before walking into the shower. He turns on the water and steps out of the way so that I can stand beneath the stream. I open my mouth to rinse some of the sand out of it. Then I drink some of it.

I take the showerhead off the holder and wash the sand from myself. Samson leans against the wall and watches me the whole time.

I like how he watches me. Even though it’s dark, especially in this shower, he looks like he’s soaking up every inch of me.

When I’m finished rinsing off, I replace the showerhead. I see Samson move out of the corner of my eye. Then I feel him behind me. He snakes an arm around me, pressing his palm flat against my stomach.

I lean my head back against his shoulder and tilt my face toward him. Samson brings his mouth down on mine.

We remain in this position while we kiss—my back against his chest, him wrapped around me from behind. His hand slides up my stomach and disappears beneath my bikini top.

He cups my breast, and I suck in more of his air in a gasp. Then his other hand begins trailing down my stomach. When he reaches the edge of my bikini, he dips his thumb inside, pulling away from my mouth. He looks in my eyes and gets his answer.

I do not want him to stop.

My lips are parted as I anticipate whatever it is he’s about to do.

He watches my face as his hand disappears between my legs. I arch my back and moan, and that move puts even more pressure behind his touch.

I’ve imagined what this would feel like since the night he first kissed me. His actual touch puts my imagination to shame.

It doesn’t take long for my entire body to react. It’s embarrassingly quick before I’m trembling beneath his fingers. I reach for his legs behind me and grip his thighs. He falls against the wall, pulling me with him, never stopping the rhythm of his hand. Luckily, when it gets to be too much, he covers my mouth with his and muffles all my noises.

When it’s over, he’s still kissing me. He pulls his hand from between my legs and he spins me until I’m against his chest.

I’m completely out of breath as I fall against him, my arms limp and my legs sore. I sigh heavily.

“I want to get a tattoo,” Samson says.

I laugh against his chest. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“That was my second thought,” he says. “I didn’t say the first one out loud.”

“What was the first one?” I look up at him.

“I think it’s obvious.”

I shake my head. “It’s not. I’m afraid you’re going to have to say it out loud.”

He dips his head and brings his lips to my ear. “I can’t fucking wait for our first time,” he whispers. Then he turns off the water and walks out of the shower like that thought was never whispered aloud. “You want one?” he asks.

I’m kind of in shock, I think, so I take a few seconds to respond to him. “Want what?”

“A tattoo.”

I never thought I’d want one until this moment. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Samson peeks his head back into the shower and smiles. “Look at us, deciding to get spontaneous tattoos. We are definitely fun people, Beyah.”

TWENTY-ONE

“I have an idea,” Marcos says with a mouthful of food. “My friend Jackson.”

Tonight is Baptismal Dinner night. Breakfast again. We haven’t been talking about anything specific, so none of us knows what Marcos is referring to. He’s met with blank stares, so he points across the table toward Samson. “Jackson has dark blond hair. Blue eyes. Your face structures are different, but it’s a tattoo shop, I doubt they really look at your I.D. too hard.”

Oh. That. Samson can’t find his wallet and it’s been three days since he suggested getting a tattoo.

You can’t get a tattoo without identification, and even though he’s torn his house upside down for the better part of three days looking for it, he hasn’t had any luck. He thinks the last renters might have found it and taken it. He said it’s always in his backpack, but we both looked in the backpack and it wasn’t there. Everything else he owns was though. I don’t know how he carries it around so casually; the thing weighs fifty pounds.

Samson chews on Marcos’s suggestion, then shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

“Tattoo shop?” my father asks. “Who’s getting tattoos?”

Sara immediately points at me and Samson. “Those two. Not me.”

“Thank God,” Alana mutters.

Not that I’m much more than her husband’s daughter, but that comment stings. It doesn’t bother her if I get one, but she’s obviously relieved her daughter isn’t getting one.

My father looks at me and says, “What are you getting?”

I point to the inside of my wrist. “Something right here. I don’t know what yet.”

“And when are you going?”

“Tonight,” Marcos says, holding up his phone. “Jackson just said we could swing by and borrow his driver’s license.”

“Nice,” Samson says.

“Do you know what you’re getting, Samson?”

“Not yet,” he says, shoveling a fork full of eggs into his mouth.

My father shakes his head. “Both of you are getting something inked onto your bodies for the rest of your lives in a matter of hours, and neither of you know what you’re getting?”