All Mah Feels

...but you know how they'll all be, this is the height of cozy sweaters, cute hats, and engagement ring season at the orchard. Invariably, some sweet fella, looking adorable in aforementioned sweater, maybe a field jacket over it, looking nervous but excited... well, he's going to ask if you wouldn't mind being ready with his camera when he asks his equally delightful honey in a pompom hat, sweater, and puffy vest to marry him.

It's warm in the kitchen; your sweater is discarded, and you have a flour-covered apron over a T-shirt. The last of the donuts has been pulled from the oil, and you're just finishing rolling them in cinnamon sugar, when the bell over the door in the front tinkles brightly.

Then the bell on the counter dings.

"Sal? You out there?"

Nothing.

"Sally?"

"Um no," answers a voice that is definitely not Sal's. It's deep and warm... "No Sally, just me-"

You dust yourself off as best you can and wipe your hands on a towel as you rush through the swinging kitchen door.

"-Marcus," finishes, well, Marcus apparently, with warm, soft eyes and a crooked smile to match that voice, and a beard, not enough to hide the dimple his smile reveals. "Hi."

"Hi."

beat.

beat.

"Geez! I'm sorry, can I help you," comes out of you in rush as you stride behind the counter.

"Don't you worry about it," Marcus says, voice warm and inviting as winter spices. Instead of being irritated at you, his smile widens with a lick of his lower lip, and his eyes crinkle as they join the merriment.

"What can I get you, Marcus." You smile after giving your head a little shake.

"Well, I was hoping -" Marcus looks surreptitiously over his shoulder, and you can't help but deflate, just smidge.

Sweater.

Field jacket even.

You inwardly sigh.

"-I could get one of the warm donuts. I could smell them and to be honest I could use a pick me up."

It's your turn to smile widely, though it was laced with sympathy.

"Of, course, just a sec."

You come back from the kitchen, with a tray of the warm donuts.

"I usually put a sign in the window when they're warm, and for everyone who knows I ring the bell out front."

"May I?" Marcus crosses to the door.

"Be my guest!" you then declare, "TWO BELLS!"

On the porch, he gives the brass mariner bell fixed to the post two smart clangs, and returns.

"A pick me up?" You ask, putting a few donuts in a waxed paper bag.

"The woman who told me she wasn't ready to get married is getting married... so it wasn't so much ready to marry- as it was to marry me."

Your face falls with sympathy as Sally enters, with several people at her heels. She's a 20-some, in overalls. She looks at you and then Marcus. She can feel something hanging in the air... her mouth twitches as her eyebrows rise. When she passes Marcus's line of sight, and only you can see her expression, she gives a sly thumbs-up, with approval. You purse your lips, trying not to laugh.

She quickly dips behind the counter to help the other customers.

You come to Marcus, bag in hand, as you give it to him you murmur a small sorry.

"What do I owe you?" He shrugs. You fill two cups at the drink bar, cover them and return to Marcus by the door. With a little shake of your head you then give a little nod to the door.

He opens the door for you, and when you are on the porch you hand him a hot cider.

"Its on me," you smile. "Want to take a walk?"

Brown eyes on yours, Marcus nods, those things are dangerous, you think.

In the orchard, it's the picture of Autumn. Brisk air, intense blue sky, crunching leaves underfoot, the smell of apples and wood smoke mingle in the air.

"This is my wedding-that-never-happened-iversary," the words tumble out of you, but it seems right to share with this virtual stranger. "So, um, I understand."

"Damn," he murmurs and takes a sip from his cup.

"Yup."

As you walk and tell each other your stories, the cold, or maybe its the emotions of the story, make your teeth chatter a little. Marcus' brows knit and his field jacket is off in a blink.

"Here," he says, a little muffled because he's holding his second donut in his mouth to free up both hands to slip the coat over your shoulders. The trapped warmth envelopes you. His warmth.

You cover several more yards quietly, passing families.

"I always thought that would be me," Marcus looks over his shoulder as a preschooler, probably three years, gets swooped up onto her dad's shoulders, giggling.

"I," you pause, who is he? Right now, just a handsome fella. With possibilities. Rip the band-aid off- " I've never seen kids in my future, I guess... always been satisfied with friends' kids, nieces and nephews, and so on..."

Beat.

"Yeah, maybe I need to adjust my expectations. I do have great niblings."

Marcus finishes his donut-

"Really good"

You smile at him, possibilities still intact.

He squares off with you on the path, his arresting chestnut eyes peering into yours, "I really like your donuts."

You laugh, "thank you, I like yours too."

“Excited for Halloween?” he asks.

"Mmhmm," you say, nestling back into him, breathing in the scent of sawdust and crisp autumn air on him.

October has flown by quickly, the days falling like the leaves of the cherry blossom tree outside of your home. The fall chill that’s settled over the valley has you taking Joel’s flannel with you whenever you leave the house, the blanket you knitted laid across the bed you share.

This month has been quite busy for both of you. Joel’s been back at work full-time for the past week. His injury doesn’t even register to you anymore, until you see the fresh scar of it, darker than the faded ones spread out across his body. On some days, you’re even home before him, the construction team has a habit of working late as they try to beat the approaching freeze, checking off things high on their list like sealing windows with caulk, stuffing wool insulation into gaps, and fixing the cracks in the walls of the more worn buildings.

It feels as if October in Jackson is just a race to beat the winter. Prepare, prepare, prepare. Food reserves are piled high with harvested crops that are canned and preserved, clothing swaps are held, and firewood is cut and delivered to each home.

Even the clinic has had to prepare for the upcoming cold, sending you and Steven on another trip out to forage for medicine before the frost kills everything useful.

You could tell Joel still didn’t like the idea, the way you put yourself at risk outside the walls, the way you refused to let his protective ways control your decisions. You thought it would be a fight, but this time, he only held you tighter the morning you left, and the argument you’d prepared for never came.

“Come back to me,” he’d said that morning at the gates, slipping the wooden Jefferson into your pocket.

You returned to the meadow with Tommy, Jesse, and two other patrol members. Tommy had assured you that patrol had just been there the day before and found no signs of infected, but the entire time, you still kept an eye on every subtle movement, constantly telling yourself that what you’re doing is vital—bringing medicine that would save lives when winter came.

You kept the radio in the same pocket as Jefferson, checking in with Joel every thirty minutes. He never told you he was worried, but you could hear it in the way his voice would catch whenever you were a little late checking in.

You came back tired but satisfied, with satchels full of herbs and flowers. The same horse, Hope, had brought you back to Jackson again. Joel was at the gates to greet you, his strong arms held you tight before he helped unload the plants.

That night, after he washed your body clean in the shower, he had made love to you. “My brave girl,” he whispered against your skin, making you feel as if he had finally accepted all parts of your career and your love for Jackson.

Because you do love Jackson and being such a vital part of the community that allows you to now celebrate small things and grand things, one after another.

You’ve heard how special Halloween in Jackson is, almost like a reclaiming of normalcy, a hint of the life before the outbreak. The only rule is: nothing scary for the kids. No zombies, no fake blood, nothing that might even hint at what’s outside the walls. Monsters are already part of the world.

Halloween is an unofficial off day for Jackson’s children; school isn’t in session, and the kids are already out in costumes during the afternoon. Cats, ballerinas, princesses, and baseball players all galavant down Main Street holding frayed baskets, faded pillowcases, and buckets, collecting homemade treats and trinkets along their way.

You spot Benji, wearing the Yoda hat you knitted him out of all the green yarn Maria could scavenge and trade for. The ears you painstakingly recreated, flopping as he runs alongside his friend dressed as a bumblebee, complete with black stripes drawn over a faded yellow hoodie.

Other kids are just as disguised, faces painted with charcoal whiskers or smudges of bright colors from old eye shadow pallets. You and Wendy are outside the clinic, manning a small treat table topped with your homemade sunbutter fudge squares, dried apple rings made by Dr. V’s wife Jane, deer jerky from Linda’s husband Macon, and Steven’s hand-drawn cards featuring vampires, bats, and cute ghosts with only smiling faces.

Something is comforting in the way the whole town comes together like this, a tacit agreement to protect and nurture what remains of childhood. But once all the treats are gone, the sun has set, and the kids have crashed from all of the sugar, that’s when the real fun begins. You’ve heard about it all month. The Tipsy Bison Halloween party, with a barrel of spiked cider and bottles of whiskey, ready to be enjoyed by all who want to partake. 

After work, you head to Wendy's to get ready for the party. She promised that she had the perfect cowgirl costume for you, after she scoffed at your “idea” of a costume being a pair of jeans and a button-up plaid shirt. 

The frayed edges of the denim skirt she hands you barely reach mid-thigh. The red and white checked sleeveless button-up shirt is almost too tight, but she swears you look amazing in it. The black vest pinches at your waist when you button it, making you feel even more ridiculous. But when you tug the cowboy boots on and Wendy whistles at your complete cowgirl look, you know the slight discomfort will be all worth it.

“I’ve never had my makeup done by a pirate before,” you jest, as Wendy lines your eyes with kohl.

“It’s Halloween! Anything can happen,” she muses, with a smile.

She pulls your hair into two pigtails and ties a red bandana around your neck.

“Joel’s going to flip!” she excitedly says when she steps back and takes the sight of you in. “You look hot. Like, really hot.”

You roll your eyes and assess yourself in the mirror. You really do look good, damn good. Joel is going to flip.

The night air is chilly, it bites at the exposed skin of your legs, but you welcome it as you walk arm in arm with a pirate to the Tipsy Bison. The lights strung across Main Street are lit tonight, and carved pumpkins glow from every stoop. Nothing goes to waste here, they’ll be cut up and roasted tomorrow.

Laughter and music grow louder as you approach the Bison. Gone are the kids, some volunteers and teachers have taken them to the church for a sleepover, allowing the adults to party properly.

“Ready?” Wendy asks, one of her eyes blocked by her eye patch.

“Ready,” you respond, already reaching for the door handle.

The Bison is alive and chaotic in the spookiest, best way. Paper bats hang from the ceiling with fake cobwebs, the bar is lined with orange lights, and there’s even a black light hanging above the dance floor. There’s a riot of costumes: vampires, astronauts, and even a showgirl. You wave at Dr. V and his wife, and they raise their glasses in greeting, both of them wearing orange shirts with Jack O’-Lantern faces drawn on the front. 

“We need drinks! Come on,” Wendy says, pulling you towards the bar. “Let’s warm up.”

Wendy dips the ladle into the spiked cider, handing you a cup before she takes one for herself.

The cider is sweet, and it leaves a nice warmth that burns. You will the alcohol to help calm your nerves, feeling a little too exposed from your short skirt and skimpy top while you wait for Joel’s arrival.

The door swings open, and Ellie and Dina walk in. Ellie’s wearing a red hoodie, her brown ponytail accented by a pair of devil horns, while Dina’s in a flowing white dress with a wire halo fashioned from an old coat hanger..

“Hey!” Ellie calls, spotting you and Wendy as she navigates through the crowd with Dina in tow.

"Angel and devil, huh?" Wendy asks, eyeing their costumes. "Fitting."

Dina laughs. "It was my idea.”

“Where’s Joel?” Ellie asks, looking around. “Don’t tell me he didn’t want to come and dress up.”

“He should be here soon,” you reply, trying to sound as casual as you can, as your eyes glance at the door again. “He promised me he’d be here in costume when I left this morning.”

“This party better be as good as last year's,” Ellie says, leaning against the bar. “It was so fun… from what I remember, at least.”

You’re only half-listening, your attention captured by the doors each time they open. Another group, no Joel. Another couple, no Joel. You try not to look too eager, but with each new arrival, your heart pounds a little harder with anticipation.

And then, the door swings wide open, and he’s there. You feel like the whole bar turns, because there are only so many men in Jackson built like Joel. Rugged, tall, broad, and handsome as hell. He stands in the entrance, his body filling the doorframe, backlit by the string lights outside, and you stare, your drink paused halfway to your lips.

Your greedy eyes roam over him, from the ground up. He’s wearing Tommy’s brown cowboy boots, making him stand even taller and more commanding than usual. His faded denim jeans are tight, so tight, they hug his strong legs in a way that makes you gulp. His blue shirt strains at the buttons where it tucks into his belt, the fabric stretching across his wide shoulders, his sleeves rolled up, exposing the gold of his forearms. You’re already thinking of getting home and ripping the snaps of his shirt open. There’s a bolo tie around his neck, crooked, the ends fraying, one side longer than the other. Beneath the shadow of a black cowboy hat, his eyes search the room. He’d be quite the intimidating cowboy if it weren’t for the way you can notice how he looks uncomfortable, like a fish out of water. The hard line of his jaw softens when his eyes find yours.

You’re already hopping off the stool, bounding towards him, weaving through the crowd. The lines around his eyes crinkle, and his mouth does that half smile that clutches your heart when you reach him. You throw your arms around his neck, almost knocking the hat off his head.

“Howdy, handsome,” you greet, kissing his cheek, feeling the admiring eyes of every bar patron on the two of you.

He tips his hat. “Ma’am,” he rumbles.

You step back to get a better look at him, hands lingering on his chest. “You clean up nice.”

He glances down at your costume, and you see his jaw flex as his eyes linger over every curve shown off by your skimpy-for-the-apocalypse costume. “Right back at you.”

“Looks like we’re right out of Lonsesome Dove, right?” you wink.

He chuckles, his body relaxing slightly, "We do, now c’mon baby, I need a drink so I feel less ridiculous.”

He takes your hand, leading you to the bar, and you can’t help but stare at his ass and thank yourself. 

This cowboy costume idea was a great idea.

—-

Joel is not a party man—never has been, even before the world went to hell. The noise, the crowds, and the social expectations all rub against him. He feels self-conscious, this is the first time he’s dressed up since Sarah was a little girl all those years ago.

Ellie had nearly doubled over in laughter when she first saw him, teasing him relentlessly in the way only she could get away with it, and for a second, he felt a bit shy under her giggling scrutiny. Then, he thought about last year’s Halloween and how he sat inside his cold, lonely home with the lights off, convincing himself he’d only impede on Ellie’s fun. So he shook his head and accepted all of her high-pitched giggles and teasing. Besides, Tommy looks just as ridiculous as he does, if not more, with his detective hat and tan overcoat.

Tonight, you’re by his side, his arm around the back of your chair, your cowgirl skirt riding up your thigh as you laugh at something Tommy says. Joel takes another drink of whiskey, letting the warmth of it spread through his body and brain, before he offers it to you. You take it, downing the rest before standing and heading to the bar for another round.

He can’t keep his eyes off you, you resemble every troublemaking girl from every western he ever watched. A possessive pride swells as he notices others glancing your way, also watching as the fringed edges of your skirt shake with each movement of your hips.

He remembers the last party—Dina’s birthday—where he watched you laugh and galavant with others, feeling so far from you, seething with jealousy. And then later that night, in his bed, when you showed him how you felt using your hips and lips. Now, you’re all his, and he feels like the luckiest cowboy as he watches you happily strut across the floor with two glasses of whiskey in your hand.

“C’mere,” he says, patting his lap when you reach the table.

You smirk, your eyes lit with mischief and something heated, before you settle across his lap, your arm wrapping around his neck, fingers playing with the curls at the nape there. His arm wraps around your waist, thumb pressing against the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up. He wonders what others might think when they see someone like him this free and open with his girl. He doesn’t care. Not anymore. Let them see. Let them know you chose him.

“You’re getting friendly tonight,” you whisper against his ear. He can feel your smile.

“Mmm,” he agrees, adjusting the way he’s sitting, the heat of your body against his lap tempting him more and more. “Hard to not be with you lookin’ like that.”

You press your lips to his, quick and reckless. He tastes sugar and salt with the slight burn of whiskey when he kisses you back. He forgets about the rest of the room until Maria, on her third glass of cider, catcalls from across the table.

Your lips leave his, and you hide your face in his neck, giggling against his skin. Joel feels his cheeks heat, a bit of red lighting them, especially when Tommy shakes his head at him from across the table with a joking tsk tsk.

Brittany and the Jug Boys finish their song to scattered applause, and then the familiar opening notes of “Wild Horses” begin.

You pull away, your eyes staring into his with a wide smile. Before he can react, you’re off his lap, hand extended towards him, “Dance with me, cowboy?”

His body tenses, even when he wills it not to. Dancing in public isn’t something he does, the thought of everyone being witness to his awkward movements, his stiff leg…

But then, there’s your smile and your hopeful eyes. How could he say no?

He sets his glass down, leaving his cane leaning against the table. Joel takes your hand, small in his hold, and lets you lead him toward the dance floor.

You turn to face him when you reach a small clearing of the couples already swaying, your arms sliding up around his neck, your hips swaying lazily in time with the music and he rests his hands against them. He holds you close, near enough to smell the faint scent of perfume you dabbed on your neck earlier. Floral and sweet, a scent that makes him want to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder.

He can’t remember the last time he slow-danced with someone; it was well before the end of the world. The music is off-key, the singer trying hard to sound like Mick Jagger, but it doesn’t matter to him, not when your fingers are brushing against the hair at the nape of his neck.

Wild horses couldn't drag me away Wild, wild horses couldn't drag me away

“See? Not so bad,” you whisper.

He grunts a response, a slight smile lifting his lips. He pulls you closer, his hands resting right above the curve of your ass. You place your head against his chest, and he feels the world outside of you fade. It’s just you and him, in a world that tried hard to kill his every last bit of softness before.

Years ago, Joel Miller would’ve found a night like this unworthy of his time, maybe even ridiculous, but your sweetness makes him see he was only lying to himself, because now, with you and the life he has, he’s learned to savor moments like this. The simple act of holding you, moving with you, being in this moment doing something he never expected to do… holding a pretty girl in his arms, while music plays and a gentle buzz of alcohol softens the hard edges of the world.

For so long, his happiness came in small, fleeting moments—a successful hunt, a safe return after patrol, a night without nightmares. But now, it’s all different. This feels sustainable, like something he can build his life around. You, who healed him with your ways and patient heart, have taught him that he’s allowed to have more than just survival.

All of these thoughts come to him on the dance floor of a bar, in the middle of an apocalypse, holding the woman he wants to spend every day with for the rest of his life. For so long, he let himself believe that this life isn’t one he deserved, that he could never allow the softness of someone like you into his life. The old-fashioned way of love always seemed so impossibly out of reach for him after all the things he’s done to survive. But now, as he holds you closer, he allows himself to dream, closing his eyes, imagining himself dancing with you on your wedding day, wanting to make it all real. 

The song ends, and you pull away, the dim lights of the Tipsy Bison light your face, and Joel’s breath catches at the sight of you. You’re so happy and beautiful, he still can’t believe you’re his. The music changes to something faster, but Joel barely notices, transfixed by how goddamn perfect you look right now.

“Let’s get a drink,” you say, tugging his hand and leading him to the bar.

You take a seat at the bar, and he stands behind you, caging your body between his arms as you order another whiskey.

Seth slides the whiskey glass in front of you, and Joel leans closer, his chest pressing against your back. You lean back into him, your head resting against his chest, before you take a sip and hand the glass to him.

People filter in and out of the barstools next to you. You know every single person, greeting them with a smile. Steven approaches with Wendy and a couple of other people you know. Steven sends Joel a nod, and Joel sends one back. He’s surprised to find he doesn't feel the usual prickle of discomfort around him. Maybe it's the whiskey, or the way you're leaning into him so obviously, but Joel finds himself relaxing rather than tensing.

Jesse joins the group soon after, a pretty girl with curly hair on his arm. "This is Solána," he introduces, his voice soft and adoring. Joel recognizes the look he gives her, the way his body angles toward her. It's the same reverence Joel feels coursing through him whenever you're near.

Conversation flows, laughter growing louder and louder as the night continues.

Joel watches as you take a drink, your tongue darting out to lick a drop from your bottom lip. Heat pools low in his belly, and he knows it’s not from the alcohol. You catch him staring and smile, sending him a wink that makes his heart race.

He’s lost count of how many drinks he's had tonight, but he knows he's happier and looser than he's been in a long time. He can feel the music in his bones as your body sways slightly against his. When you reach for your glass again, your skirt rides higher on your thigh, and Joel's hand tightens on your waist.

You look up at him, and Joel leans down, his lips against your ear.

"We should get home, cowgirl," he growls, feeling the shiver of your body against his.

You nod, downing the last of the whiskey and setting the glass on the bar with a decisive clink. "Let's go.”

Waves of goodbye are sent across the room before you stumble out of the Tipsy Bison. It’s getting damn cold out, the alcohol coursing through your bodies keeps you warm. You press against him, your hand on his chest, his arm wrapped around you as you make your way down the street.

You giggle when you misstep and he catches you, his arm tightening around you. “God, I’m drunk,” you say, looking up at him, grinning widely.

He stops, gazing down at you, his smile matching yours. The air is just cold enough for little clouds of breath to escape between your lips as the string lights overhead cover you in a rich, golden glow. Sometimes he’s still in awe of how beautiful you are, how better his life is since he’s had you in it.

He glances around, noticing how empty the streets are at this moment, before he takes your hand, putting his finger up to his lip, “Shh.”

You nod, your eyes lit with mischief, before he pulls you to a dark alcove behind the clothing swap, pressing your back against a dark wall in the shadows, covering you with his body. His hat’s knocked askew when he bends down to kiss you, your mouth hot and tasting of whiskey. Your hands slide up his chest and grip the lapels of his shirt when you moan into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he growls against your mouth. “Do you know what you’ve been doing to me in this tiny skirt, baby?”

All night he’s been thinking about getting you home and finally radiating in the heat of your skin against his, tasting your tongue, feeling the tight squeeze of your pussy, he can’t wait. When it comes to you, Joel Miller is not a patient man.

He dips his hips, lifting your skirt up, grinding himself against your core. Your mouth is just as greedy against his, the small, sweet sounds you make for only him, making him even more desperate.

There’s a distant sound of voices and laughter, making you both freeze. Joel pulls back enough to see your face, your lips swollen, your eyes dark with the same need he feels coursing through him.

There’s no way he can let the doctor, an upstanding citizen like you, get caught with your skirt up in a dark alley.

“Home,” he whispers, righting your skirt. “Now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, he just takes your hand, tugging you back onto the street, walking as fast as his leg will allow. Every few steps, one of you pulls the other into another kiss, laughing against each other's mouths, drunk on each other and whiskey.

“C’mon, baby, let this cowboy take you to bed,” he growls when his house comes into sight.

—-

Joel’s taking forever to unlock the damn front door. His attention divided between the keyhole and your mouth. He’d probably unlock it a lot quicker if your back wasn’t pressed against the very door he’s trying to open.

You’re already unbuttoning your vest when the door finally swings open. Joel’s arm bounds around your waist, catching you before you fall back. You can’t keep your lips off of his, all night he’s looked like the cover model on every single worn and dog-eared western romance novel you’ve ever seen. Joel Miller is truly your dream man, and now he’s undoing his bolo tie, pushing you against the table of the entryway of the home you share with him.

He throws the tie over his head, and you finally get your vest unbuttoned and removed as Joel pulls at the buttons of your shirt. “Too many damn buttons,” he mutters against your lips. You laugh, helping him, your fingers just as clumsy.

You feel like the luckiest cowgirl in the apocalypse, when he pulls away, his eyes drinking the sight of you in the bright red bra Wendy gave you, before he bends to lave his tongue against your crimson-covered breast.

“Upstairs,” he orders, looking up at you, his face darkened by his cowboy hat.

You two don't even make it to the bedroom. Halfway up the stairs, on the landing, you push Joel against the wall. Finally, you’re able to do something you’ve been thinking about all night. Having to watch him exist in his too-tight jeans, bulging all over the place. You don’t want to have to wait any longer. You pull at Joel’s denim shirt, the pearl snaps of his shirt popping as you pull. You always love how he looks in an undershirt, the worn cotton turned thin and soft, the fabric stretched tight across his broad shoulders and chest, clinging to his stomach. You want to make sure Joel Miller knows just how hot you find him, so you drop down, your knees hitting against the hardwood floor of the landing.

You bunch his undershirt up with both hands, revealing the plush of his stomach spilling over the waistband of his jeans. You love the slight roundness of him here, showing he’s comfortable and has survived. You press your lips against his skin there, unbelievably warm and soft. Your tongue follows the line of dark hair down to the soft denim of his jeans.

He groans, his head falling back against the wall as your hand works at his belt, your other hand cupping around the shape of him already beginning to strain against his zipper. You unbutton and unzip, your mouth already drooling at the thought of stretching your lips around his cock.

To call Joel’s jeans tight is an understatement. The fabric is almost seared to his thighs, and you have to peel them down inch by inch. Once they’re mid-thigh, you press your mouth to the outline of his cock through his underwear, relishing in the way his hips jerk at the touch. He helps you shuffle him out of the jeans, and he kicks them to the side, the denim heap landing on the step.

You pull his underwear down, his cock springs free, heavy, thick, and already leaking for you. You can’t help but moan at the sight, the sound escaping your lips as you take in all of him.

“You gonna just stare at it all night?” he growls.

You smile before leaning forward and spitting on the head of his cock, watching as your spit drips off his dick. Joel hisses, his whole body jerking against the wall, his fists clenched. 

“Fuck, baby,” he groans as you wrap your hand around him, beginning to pump slowly before pressing your lips to the tip of him. You kiss the crown of his cock before taking just the head into your mouth, moaning at the taste of him. 

Your tongue runs along the length of his shaft, and you take him deeper, cheeks hollowing to suck him harder. His hands move to your pigtails, gripping them gently, helping guide your movements. The whiskey has made you sloppier, your lips wet and messy.

You look up at him through your lashes, and the sight you see is almost too good to be real. Joel Miller, towering above you, cowboy hat tipped low, white undershirt bunched up against his chest, the edge of his lip curled up as he watches his cock disappear between your lips.

"Jesus Christ," he growls. "Look at you. So fuckin' pretty with your mouth fulla’ me. Touch your pussy for me.”

You can tell you’re drenched for him, your hand moving from the meat of his thigh to up your skirt and between your legs. Your panties are soaked through, you’re slick and swollen for him. You moan around his cock at the first touch against your clit. You take his cock so deep he hits the back of your throat, making you gag slightly. The wet sound drives Joel wild, his fingers tightening even more in your hair.

You pull back to catch your breath, looking up at him, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. You slurp it up before you spit it across his dick, pumping him with your hand. 

“You nice and wet for me, pretty girl?” 

You nod. “I’ve been wet all night for you.” 

“Christ!” he bellows. “Bedroom. Now. Need to feel that pussy.”

You scramble up the rest of the steps, Joel following right behind you. He slaps your ass, hard, and you yelp in delight as you burst into the bedroom. He wraps his arms around your chest, his hands rubbing against the lace of your bra.

“This looks good on you,” he whispers in your ear. “Damn good.”

“It’s a matching set,” you say, pulling away, turning to face him.

“Oh yeah?” “Yep,” you say, stealing the cowboy hat off his head, placing it atop yours with a wink. “Wanna see?”

He nods, bobbling his head up and down, his eyes wide and hungry. You press your palm against his chest, and he steps backward until his calves hit the mattress. He falls on the bed, the springs creaking when his back lands atop it with an oomph and a deep chuckle. He props himself on his elbows, his smile is pure hunger, wide and crooked as he watches you pull the zipper of your skirt down. You don’t let it fall, you keep it on, and send him a teasing wink. His eyes sweep over you, awestruck by you in the orange moonlight shining in. You want to see him go crazy for you.

“Stay there, I’ll be right back,” you say.

—-

Joel’s head thuds against the mattress, his head spinning from the whiskey and you. He can’t stop smiling. Tonight feels like another life, like something he never thought he’d experience, even in his life before. Allowing himself to enjoy the night, a good drink in his hand, and a pretty girl at his side.

The door creaks open, and he looks up at the sound.

He blinks, once, twice, not believing what he’s seeing. You’ve kept the cowboy hat on, it sits low on your head, your lips lifted in a tempting smile revealed under the shadow of the brim. You flick the light switch on and step into the room. Your skirt’s gone, revealing it is indeed a matching set, bright crimson red lace. A cowgirl in lingerie, how in the hell did he get so lucky?

The mattress underneath dips deeper as he props himself high on his elbows, his mouth drops open, and his greedy eyes wander from the red curve of your breasts down to the lace stretched across your hips. He tries to commit every sway of your hips to his memory as you strut towards him. He stares, unable to stop. You’re perfect.

His cock twitches, already hard as hell and aching for you, the whiskey definitely hasn’t dulled anything tonight. All he wants is to have you, to fill you, to fuck you so hard you scream his name. Tonight’s been a goddamn tease. And now, you’re here, standing at the foot of the bed in nothing but his cowboy hat and red lace.

You turn around, and his mouth waters when he sees the red thong disappearing between your ass cheeks. He can’t help himself when he sits up, a groan escaping as he reaches out to touch.

“You like it?” you tease, voice low and sweet, glancing over your shoulder.

He can hardly breathe. “Yeah, baby. Love it.”

Your hands run up and down your body when you turn around and lift a leg up onto the mattress, your hand trailing down to pull the edge of your thong higher and tighter. Joel watches, transfixed, as the lace digs into your lips. He can see the outline of you through the thin fabric, already damp with the want you’ve been spilling for him tonight.

“Kiss it,” you command.

Joel doesn’t hesitate, leaning forward to press his lips against your lace-covered cunt. Even now, after all this time, he still finds it hard to believe that you, the healer, the doctor who saved his life, has become such a tempting force in his world. He breathes in the essence of you, filling his lungs as he savors you.

You moan when he wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to his face. He tongues at the lace, desperate for the taste of you, licking your pussy through the fabric, looking up to see your face partially shadowed by the cowboy hat.

“Wanna see if you can tear ‘em, cowboy?” you ask.

He grunts an affirmative, gathering some of the delicate fabric between his fingers. With a sharp yank, the lace tears away, exposing your pussy to him. He lets out a deep sigh when he sees you glistening for him.

You giggle at his eagerness, a deep, tempting sound leaving your lips when you push him back down onto the bed and climb on top of him to straddle his hips.

Spit dribbles from your mouth onto your palm before you reach down to wrap your fingers around his cock, stroking him a few times, and he hisses through his teeth at the feel.

Then you're hovering above him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. You reach down, guiding him to your entrance before you lower yourself onto him. His head falls back, a sound like he's been punched escaping him as you take him all the way to the hilt. Fuck, you’re always so tight and perfect for him. You’re always so tight, wet, and perfect, he swears your cunt was made for him.

Your pussy strokes him slowly as you ride him languid and sweet at first, but when you reach up to keep the cowboy hat secure on your head, your hips buck faster, the rhythm starting to build as you take him harder. You brace yourself, hands resting on his chest, fingers digging into his skin as you bounce on him. Your moans and high-pitched keens mix with his grunts and groans.

Joel reaches up, his fingers traveling up your spine, finding the clasp of your bra. He pinches at the hooks, releasing your bra with a soft snap. You slide the straps down your shoulders, the red lace dangles from your fingertip before you twirl it around your index finger like a lasso, and throw it across the room with a playful grin.

The sight is so ridiculous and perfect, he can’t help but laugh—actually laugh—during sex. You join him and giggle, removing the cowboy hat and tossing it off your head in the same way. It sails through the air, landing squarely on the table lamp beside the bed. The lamp wobbles precariously for a moment before it topples to the floor with a crash.

You turn to assess the damage, but Joel reaches up, gently tugging one of your pigtails to bring your attention back to him.

"Don't worry about it, baby," he grits, pulling you down until your chest is pressed against his, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss.

He makes you forget about the broken lamp, gripping your hips as he plants his feet on the mattress, leveraging himself to pound up into you. The bed slams against the wall, your cunt and the wall collectively getting overwhelmed by Joel Miller’s power.

You're screaming for him now, gasping for air between broken calls of his name. Joel watches in awe as your eyes roll back, your body tensing above him. He can feel your cunt squeezing him impossibly tight as your orgasm crashes through you, your pussy pouring all of your desire for him all over his cock.

It’s too much. Joel fucks you harder, chasing his own release as you continue to pulse around him.

"Gonna cum," he grits out, his rhythm faltering as the pressure builds at the base of his spine.

"Fill me up, Joel,” you tell him, your lips against his neck, licking up the salty taste of his skin there.

He empties himself inside you with a shout of your name, his fingers locking against your skin so hard, he knows you’re going to be marked by him come tomorrow. He pulses in your cunt as his body lies rigid, a deep, guttural sound leaving him when you kiss him, sloppy and needy.

He’s still catching his breath when you climb off of him. He gets up with a grunt, assessing the broken lamp on the floor.

“I’m gonna clean this up before Jefferson thinks it’s a new toy,” he says. “Guess we’ll need a new lamp.”

“Mm,” you respond. 

“Marcus probably has an extra one around. I’ll ask tomorrow.”

As he puts his robe on, he looks at you, you’re on your back, one hand over your heart, staring at the ceiling, grinning with your pigtails in disarray. He wants every celebration to end just like this, you happy and light, lying in the bed he shares with you. 

—-

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