Page 54 of Headstrong Like Us
He throws the towel at my face.
My mouth hikes upward, and I’m about to lie back on my hands. But his eyes fasten on nothing. He’s gone deep-sea diving in his brain.
Good or bad, I’m about to find out.
“Maximoff?”
Shit, he looks upset. His brows knot, lips downturn, and my stomach clenches. I wave a hand at his face.
He focuses on me.
Concern seizes me completely. “Talk to me, wolf scout.”
His nose flares, quiet. I’m guessing he needs me to say more before he does.
I don’t mind. “Is it about your mom knocking on the door?”
“No.” Maximoff is rigid.
I glance around the room and pat his Spider-Man comforter that we never rolled down. “It’s about fucking on your teenage bed?”
He grimaces. “No, but thanks for the painful reminder.”
I’d smile, but I can’t when he’s this tormented by something. I sit back on my ass, close enough that I rest my elbow on his bent knee. And I ease into this conversation. “You haven’t been that aggressive in bed lately.”
Maximoff nods slowly, and I’m certain this is the issue that’s plaguing him. I expect him to add more, but he says, “Are you thirsty?”
I tilt my head, studying him. “I could get a drink.”
“Yeah, me too.” He slides stiffly off the bed and grabs boxer-briefs. I do the same, and fuck, I crave to hold him. To wrap my arms around him. He looks like he simultaneously needs me and space.
Waiting to embrace him is fucking torture.
Ditching shirts, we just go downstairs in drawstring pants. The kitchen is dark and quiet. We don’t turn on the lights.
I lean against the island while Maximoff tugs open the fridge, the glow inside illuminating his sharp features.
“It’s okay,” I say easily and quietly, my deep voice sounding louder down here. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”
He swallows hard and shuts the fridge door without grabbing any shit. Turning to me, Maximoff says, “52 days—actually, tonight makes 53.”
I frown. “I’m not following you, Maximoff.”
“I haven’t been inside you forthatlong, man.”
My brows shoot up. “You’re counting?”
“I have to.” His eyes redden.
I stand off the island, and I want to close the distance and touch him. Badly.
But I detour to the fridge. I open the door, grab two water bottles, and shut the thing in one seamless, calm movement. When I rotate to Maximoff, I hold out a water for him.
He exhales a tense breath and takes the water in a tight fist.
“You haven’t wanted to be on top in a while,” I say matter-of-factly. “Where’s the problem?”
Tears well up, but he fights that emotion. He shakes his head. “What if it’s a year or two years or five or a goddamn century, and I never top again?”
