Please

Private thoughts become real need.

April, 2008

The car rumbles my seat, vibrating, heightening the arousal I am trying to hide. I swear not to look, to smell, to taste, but you’re always so close, so few inches away, sharing my seat, my car, my space, my breath. My hands grip the wheel—tighter and tighter—so one won’t stray to touch your thigh, long and lean. Your own hand rests there, the fingers brushing close to your groin, yet you don’t notice. Your familiar voice shares thoughts that my mind doesn’t want to know, unless those thoughts are about me.

Are they? Could they be? Please?

*~*~*

I can’t stop speaking, and I can’t close my legs. I try to disguise my erection with my hand on my thigh, and I try to shift my long legs into less contortion and more comfort.

You’re focused on your driving, your hands at two and ten, your eyes scanning for danger, for leads. I wish you’d look at me, see the truth I’m trying to hide.

I want to touch you, move closer and invade your driver’s territory, make you notice, make you see.

Could you ever want me? Would you ever want me? Please, Starsk?

*~*~*

Train crossing arms have come down, red lights flashing through the darkness. I must stop and be still, and now I can’t fight thinking about you. I am drawn to look at you while we wait. You fade in and out of existence. One heartbeat, there, the next, gone.

Anxiety fills me and I reach out, needing to affirm you’re by my side. My hand stops in midair, shaking. What do I say when you ask me why?

I hover too long. One flash, you turn. The next flash, my hand’s in yours.

Why, Hutch? Why are YOU touching ME?

*~*~*

Your hand hovers near, as if you are not sure if I would be disturbed by your touch. Of course I won’t. Have I ever been? Haven’t I always wanted your touch?

Do you know that?

I don’t know why you’re reaching out, but in the dark spaces between the red throb of the lights, I feel your need.

I can’t hold back. I brush your hand, grasp it, pulling it towards me. Your body follows easily, our gazes meeting. You want this too, don’t you?

The train arrives, rushing past us, jolting a gasp from us both.

Please, Starsk?

~end
April, 2008

Chapter End Notes:

Notes: For Marion for her birthday, and Hutchlover, who asked for more. This was two sets of double drabbles, brought together for one snippet.