Hurry, He’s Waiting

"Hey, you got a spare lighter? Mine's dead."

You glance up from the tent peg you're wrestling into the hard-packed dirt, squinting against the late afternoon sun. Some guy, maybe mid-thirties, stands a few feet away, holding an unlit cigarette between two fingers. He's got a scruffy jaw, a faded flannel hanging loose over jeans, and a kind of tired, easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. You're at this nowhere roadside campground off the highway, just a quick stop on your way to meet your husband at that cheap motel twenty miles down. A little road-trip surprise, you’d told him on the phone last night, giggling about how you’d make the detour worth his while. But now, here’s this stranger, asking for a light, and you're digging through your bag before you even think twice.

"Yeah, hang on." You fish out the little Bic from the side pocket, toss it to him. He catches it one-handed, flicks the flame to life, and takes a long drag. The smoke curls lazy in the still air. He hands the lighter back, but his fingers brush yours, just for a second, and you feel a stupid little jolt. Not because he's some Adonis or anything—he's just a guy, rough around the edges—but because you're alone out here, and your husband's voice from last night's call is still in your head, teasing, "Don't pick up any strays, babe." A joke. Always a joke.

"Thanks," he says, exhaling. "Name's Travis, by the way. You camping solo?"

You hesitate. Shouldn't have. Should've just nodded and gone back to your tent. But you don't. "Just passing through. Meeting someone soon." You keep it vague, but your voice wavers, and he notices. Of course he does. His head tilts a little, like he's reading something you didn't mean to write.

"Gotcha. Well, if you need help with that setup, I'm just over there." He jerks a thumb toward a beat-up tent a few sites down, half-collapsed like he gave up halfway. "Not much else to do out here."

You laugh despite yourself. It's a small, nervous sound. "I’m good. Thanks though." But you’re not good. Not really. The tent’s a mess, you’re sweaty, and there’s this itch under your skin you can’t name. Maybe it’s the way Travis lingers a beat too long before nodding and walking off, cigarette still smoldering. Maybe it’s knowing your husband’s waiting, probably already checked in, texting you to hurry up. Or maybe it’s just you, always playing with edges you shouldn’t touch.

You finish setting up, barely. The tent’s lopsided, but it’ll hold for a quick nap before you hit the road again. You crawl inside, zip the flap, and lie on the thin sleeping bag, staring at the nylon ceiling. Your phone buzzes. A text from your husband: "Room 12. Got a bottle of that cheap wine you like. Don’t keep me waiting." You smile, but it fades fast. Your fingers hover over the screen, then drop. You’re not sure why you don’t reply.

Outside, you hear footsteps crunching on gravel. Slow, deliberate. You sit up, heart ticking faster, and peek through the mesh window. Travis is walking by, carrying a bundle of firewood, but he glances over. Catches your eye. Doesn’t look away. You should drop the flap, pretend you didn’t see him. Instead, you hold his gaze for a second too long, and he stops walking. Just stands there, maybe ten feet away, like he’s waiting for something.

"Hey," he calls, voice low, almost careful. "You sure you don’t need a hand?"

Your mouth’s dry. You know what he’s asking. Not about the tent. Not really. And you know what you should say. But the words stick. "I… maybe. If you’ve got a minute."

He drops the firewood right there, no hesitation, and comes over. You unzip the flap, let him duck inside. The space is tight, barely room for two, and his knee brushes yours as he sits cross-legged. He smells like smoke and something earthy, like he’s been out here too long. You’re hyper-aware of how close he is, how the air feels thicker now. You point at a loose pole in the corner, mumble something about it not staying up, but you’re not even looking at it. Neither is he.

"Look," he says, voice quieter now, "I don’t wanna overstep. Just say the word, I’m gone."

You swallow hard. Your husband’s face flashes in your mind—his goofy grin, the way he always kisses your forehead before bed. You’ve never done this. Never even come close. But there’s a pull here, a reckless hum in your chest, and Travis is watching you like he already knows you’re not gonna tell him to leave.

"I shouldn’t," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. But your hands are trembling, and when he shifts closer, just an inch, you don’t pull back.

"Neither should I," he says, and there’s a roughness to his tone, like he’s fighting it too. But then his hand’s on your knee, light at first, testing. Your breath catches, loud in the tiny space. You could stop this. Right now. One word, and it’s done. But you don’t say it. Instead, you lean in, just enough, and his mouth finds yours.

It’s not soft. It’s hungry, messy, like you’ve both been holding back too long. His stubble scrapes your chin, and his hand slides up your thigh, firm, like he’s already decided. You grab his shirt, pull him closer, and the guilt’s there, sharp in your gut, but it’s drowning under the heat of his tongue, the way he groans low in his throat. You’re on your back before you realize it, the sleeping bag bunching under you, and he’s over you, one hand pinning your wrist above your head.

"Goddamn," he mutters against your neck, breath hot. "You’re trouble, aren’t you?"

You laugh, short and breathless, because yeah, you are. Always have been. But then his mouth’s on your collarbone, teeth grazing, and you’re not laughing anymore. Your shorts are off in a clumsy tangle, your shirt pushed up, and his calloused fingers are everywhere, rough but precise, like he knows exactly how to take you apart. You’re aching already, embarrassingly wet, and when he slides down, kissing a jagged path over your stomach, you tense up.

"Relax," he says, voice muffled as he settles between your thighs. "Lemme take care of you."

You shouldn’t let him. You know it. But his tongue flicks against you, slow at first, teasing, and your hips jerk without permission. He chuckles, a low rumble you feel more than hear, and then he’s not teasing anymore. He’s focused, relentless, lapping at you like he’s starving for it, and your hands are in his hair, pulling harder than you mean to. The sounds you’re making—sharp gasps, little whimpers—echo in the tent, and you’re glad there’s no one else around to hear. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still, and the pressure builds fast, too fast, until you’re shuddering under him, biting your own hand to keep quiet.

He doesn’t stop, not right away, dragging it out until you’re oversensitive, squirming. When he finally pulls back, his mouth’s slick, and he wipes it with the back of his hand, grinning like he just won something. "Told you," he says, voice rough. "Knew you’d taste like that."

You’re still catching your breath, but you tug at his shirt, needing more, needing to forget everything else. He strips quick, flannel and jeans hitting the ground, and there’s a fumble—his boot gets caught, and he curses under his breath, nearly toppling onto you. You both laugh, a sharp, real sound that cuts through the haze, and for a second, it’s just… human. Two people, messing up, figuring it out. But then he’s back over you, bare now, and the weight of him, the heat, wipes the laughter away.

You wrap your legs around him, pull him in, and when he pushes inside, slow at first, you hiss at the stretch. He’s not gentle for long—can’t be, not with the way you’re clinging to him, urging him on. It’s raw, desperate, the kind of rhythm that jars your whole body with every thrust. The tent shakes a little, fabric rustling, and you’re both slick with sweat, the air heavy with it. His breath’s ragged against your ear, muttering stuff you barely hear over the blood pounding in your head—just fragments, "so damn good," "can’t stop now."

You don’t want him to. You’re close again, teetering, and when he grinds down just right, you’re gone, clenching around him, nails digging into his back. He groans, loud, almost pained, and you feel him tense, feel the heat of him spilling inside you, no barrier, no second thoughts. It’s reckless. Stupid. But in that moment, you don’t care. You just hold on, riding it out together, until he collapses half on top of you, both of you panting.

Reality creeps back slow. The sticky heat between your legs, the ache in your muscles. The quiet outside, just crickets and distant highway noise. Travis rolls off, lies beside you, staring at the tent ceiling like you were earlier. Neither of you speaks for a minute. Maybe two. Then he turns his head, looks at you with something softer than before, something that makes your chest hurt.

"You okay?" he asks, and it’s not just about the sex. You can tell.

You nod, but you’re not sure. Not really. Your husband’s waiting. Room 12. Cheap wine. And here you are, with a stranger’s scent on your skin, his warmth still lingering inside you. You sit up, start pulling your clothes back on, movements jerky. Travis watches, doesn’t stop you, but he doesn’t get up either. Just lies there, hands behind his head, like he’s giving you space to figure it out.

"I gotta go," you say finally, voice small. "He’s… he’s waiting."

Travis nods, slow. "Yeah. I figured." There’s no judgment there, no bitterness. Just understanding. Maybe regret. You don’t know. You don’t ask.

You zip the tent flap behind you, step out into the cooling evening air. Your car’s right there, keys in your pocket. You could be at the motel in under an hour. Tell your husband you hit traffic. He’d believe it. He always does. But as you stand there, looking back at the tent, at the faint shadow of Travis still inside, something shifts in you. Something you didn’t expect. It’s not just guilt. It’s heavier. Deeper. Like you’ve left a piece of yourself in there, with him, and you’re not sure you’ll ever get it back.

Your phone buzzes again in your pocket, but you don’t check it.

You’re not sure you ever will.