Page 108 of Whiskey Kisses

Eyes sparkling, she presses her lips to mine.

“I’d love you even more out of it,” I whisper against her mouth.

“Guess what?” she whispers back.

I duck my head, running my nose along the fragrant column of her neck. “What?”

“I’m not wearing underwear.”

“Fuck.” I stiffen, everywhere, and my hands clamp down on her hips. I realize belatedly that the photographer’s found us, and he’s been snapping away for who knows how long. Hopefully we can Photoshop my erection out of the pictures. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Evie snickers. “I didn’t want a panty line.”

“We need to stop talking about your panties before I make a scene,” I tell her, head swimming deliciously with whiskey, the scent of her perfume, and arousal.

The photographer meets my eye with a hopeful nod. “Let’s head over to the garden. I’d like to get a few shots of you two by the fountain.”

I slipmy hand into Evie’s as we leave my favorite tattoo parlor in South Boston, where I’ve had most of my ink done over the years. “How’re you feeling?” I ask, glancing down at the film of plastic covering part of her arm.

“Fine,” she says with a little shrug. “Kinda hungry, actually.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“You must be rubbing off on me.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “I’d love to rub off on you. Or on you, whatever.”

“You think about sex almost as much as you think about food,” she says, sticking her tongue out.

“You knew what you were getting into.” I yank her into my side, careful to avoid her fresh tattoo as I sling my arm over her shoulders. It’s a perfect fall day, the brisk October air scented with deliciousness from the ramen shop a few doors down. “How about noodles?”

“Perfect.” She wraps her arm around my waist. “How’s your tattoo feeling?”

“Not too bad,” I say. “Stings a little.”

“Worth it, though.”

“Definitely.”

Evie’s always been obsessed with the origami I make for her, so when we found out that first anniversary gifts are traditionally paper, she suggested we get origami tattoos. Like paper, but permanent. Paper cranes symbolize longevity, hope and healing, so they seemed like a fitting choice. We had them done in the line art style, so they match with the rest of Evie’s art. Meanwhile, my paper crane looks like the newest cast member of a fever dream starring Aslan and a troop of Celtic-style horses.

The new tattoos are the most meaningful ones we share, but they’re not the first. We also got tiny tatts on our wrists one hot, sticky, special-brownie-infused night a few months ago on Tybee Island. Hers is a small red Q with a crown on top and a heart on the bottom, like a Queen of Hearts playing card. My design is nearly identical, with a K for the King of Hearts. I’d suggested getting them as kind of a joke, but Evie had actually loved the idea.

“Queen of my heart,” I tease now, tracing the tiny Q on her wrist with my thumb. She laughs and swats me away, but not before I catch the fondness in her eyes.

“King of mine.”

THE END

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