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He’s taking his time brushing. And I wonder, who takes this long to brush their teeth? It’s ridiculous.
“Is this how long you take to get ready for bed every night?”
He looks at me in the mirror.
“What do you mean?”
“Just, like, you take a long time to get ready,” I say, returning his gaze in the mirror.
I suspect he’s doing it on purpose. In the mirror above the sink, his eyes find mine, and a small smile lifts the corner of his mouth, even with the toothbrush in there.
He knows.
When he finally finishes and rinses, he turns to face me.
“I was thinking,” I start, “that maybe…since we’re here…and we have time…”
He leans back against the counter, his arms crossed, waiting for me to finish. His expression is curious and open.
“Maybe what?” he prompts gently.
“Maybe we could…” I can’t do it. The words get stuck in my throat.
He studies me, his eyes reading my face.
Maybe we could fuck…? I think, hoping he’ll see it on my face and I won’t have to say it.
“You want something from me?”
My face burns.
“What? No, I just—”
“You’re allowed to ask for what you want, Cam.”
I look down. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yes, you are.” He reaches out and tips my chin up with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“You’ve been trying to ask me since we left the highway.”
Oh God.
“Come on,” he says encouragingly. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
I shrug. I want to defer to him, to let him be the one to say we’re ready. I can’t take another rejection like the first time I asked, and he laughed at the idea.
“I think I’m just tired,” I say, but it’s a lie. I’m way too keyed up to sleep.
He turns to the mirror and runs his fingers through his hair, and I notice him watching me.
“Yeah, me too. Long drive,” he says.
He organizes his things on the counter, and his shoulders slump with exhaustion. I move behind him and grip his shoulders, my thumbs finding the knots of his muscles there, pouring everything I’m feeling into the touch. I want him to understand what I’m asking without me having to say it.
He moans and tilts his head back. I press myself closer, lean my chest against his back, and he goes still. He has to feel it. He has to feel how hard I am, pressing against his crease. He pushes back, and I know there’s no way he can miss it.
“Go shower,” he says. “Please.”
