🪽

No matter how hard you tugged on the front of his shirt, begged him gently, baby, please take me right here on the kitchen table—on your desk—in your truck—really anyplace, Joel would shake his head and tote you away to his room. Then he’d blow your back out on a plush and cushy king-sized bed exactly how a gentleman should.

“Wasn’t raised to treat a lady any different,” he’d always say, sucking a breath through his teeth as he plunged his cock inside you from the comfort and quiet of his sheets.

‘Whatever you say, old man’ was your habitual response.

It was one that more often than not ended with you walking funny for the next couple days, thanks to that twenty-something stamina Joel was still able to boast.

So, with sore legs and a warm load leaking out of your cunt every night, you shut up. You didn’t mind being confined to his bed if it meant getting fucked like that. But you would let him know, every now and again or as often as you happened to be ovulating, that there was a freestanding offer for him to just…take, if he ever felt so inclined. The first time you’d said the real word for it, Joel had just smiled and kissed you on the top of your head.

“I’ll sure keep that in mind, sweet pea,” he’d chuckled.

Or, in boomer-speak: ‘No way in hell am I doing that.’

You’d made your peace with it. You’d quit wearing open-gusset undies in the hopes of getting bent over the sink while doing the dishes on a random Tuesday afternoon. You’d put all thoughts of freeuse out of your head and now just waited patiently under the covers at night if you wanted some action on the go. That was more than okay.

And when Joel thundered through the door an hour late one night, you just offered up a smile and a sleepy wave.

“Hi, handsome.”

You were splayed out comfortably on the sofa, and your favorite show was playing in a dim, muted glow on TV. Joel toed off his boots and ducked his head in the closet.

“I said he-llo, you big hunk.”

You regularly alternated between handsome, hunk, and some form of baby or beefcake if he appeared extra large that day. You hadn’t gotten a good look at his form coming in, but you figured you’d give it a stab, shoveling more popcorn in your mouth before returning to Narcos.

Somewhat garbled: “Well hello to you too, babycakes.”

It was either going to piss him off or earn you a big, wet kiss on the cheek—or both, if you were lucky. The words had scarcely hung in the air for more than a second or two, and your popcorn was going down in one slow, crowded gulp, when something fell heavy at your feet.

Your legs were stretched as far as they would go to the end of the couch, and Joel had just dropped his weight right next to them. Then he was leaning back, gingerly.

Carefully.

Joel groaned.

“God, he looks stupid,” he said, staring straight ahead.

You coughed. You winced at a sharp, lone kernel that had snagged your throat going down, and when it passed, you sat up and glanced over to where Joel was looking.

All you saw was a sexy, if not slightly anachronistically-mustached man with tight pants and a slutty stance onscreen.

“Javier Peña?” you asked him.

The man’s nostrils flared in response.

“With that stupid fuckin’ Members Only jacket— dumbass aviators, too, he looks like the biggest dou—”

“Joel!”

You blinked at your boyfriend in disbelief. He knew better than to abuse your favorite DEA agent right to your face. At last, Joel met your gaze, and his cheeks tinged pink.

“What? You wanna fuck him or something?” he snapped.

You turned back to the TV and pretended to consider.

“Hmmm…I don’t know, would Agent Peña come home an hour late with no explanation and then start griping about another man’s clothes when I try talking to him?”

“Yeah. And he’d probably backtalk you, too. In Spanish.”

“Púdrete.”

Joel scoffed.

“Oh yeah? Fuck me?”

You raised both brows as if to say, ‘Yeah, dude, fuck you.’

Maybe there was a smile behind your eyes as you said it.

You didn’t mean to give in, or let him off so easy, but there was just no grappling with a man in blue jeans and a sweaty, dirt-sodden shirt giving you a look like that.

His eyes smiled back.

You didn’t protest when Joel muscled his way over across the couch and pushed you back on your side. Yanking your hips to lay flush with his front, taking up most of all usable real estate on the sofa just to lie behind you and curl his bicep around your belly. He nosed against you and inhaled deeply. He hummed.

You spooned and watched Narcos in silence.

“Bad day?” you murmured at length.

“Bad don’t even begin to cover it.”

Joel let out a breath, and you felt it migrate through your skull. The whole weight of the world, or, more likely than not, some dipshits at work who’d cost their team a bid or delayed a project by a week, ten, or twenty, was hanging somewhere close over his shoulders and depressing his whole demeanor. His grip on you tightened even more.

“‘M’sorry,” he said.

“Me too.”

Joel’s fingers seared a string of small crescents in your skin through the fabric of your nightie. Realizing he was pressing in too much, he eased back. Flexed his hand.

“Ain’t no need to be—it’s on me.”

You felt a kiss land on your shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered as a scene of chaos broke out onscreen with some ill-fated raid or other, and Joel’s hand traveled up your side. It cupped one of your breasts through the sky-blue satin material, and just as fingers began to knead—

“I don’t actually wanna fuck Javi,” you sputtered, dumb.

Joel kissed the space between your shoulder and neck.

“I figured.”

Then his index and thumb found your hardening bud and pinched it between them, rolling the skin in soft, languid strokes. That, paired with the movement of lips up the length of your neck, had your head lolling back gently and your eyes struggling to focus on any of the mayhem unfolding in time. You wanted to turn away from it all—meet Joel’s mouth with a feverish kiss of your own—but when your torso jerked the slightest bit, trying to move, the arm around your front kept you pinned to the spot. Joel’s grey, stubbled chin tickled the shell of your ear.

“Keep watching, darlin’,” he mumbled.

A low whine sounded in your throat, a noise Joel was no stranger to. It bubbled up, almost reflexively, and then was swallowed back as by force when his left hand shifted from toying with your nipple to joining the hem of your dress. Your breath hitched when you felt the pads of three fingers make an easy, careless sort of petting motion between your legs. Stroking you gently there.

“‘M’sorry I was late comin’ home,” Joel continued in the same attritional vein, gliding his middle finger between where he felt the seam of your folds through your dress, “Makin’ you wait up, wasn’t too kind of me, huh, baby?”

“D-Don’t mind,” you shuddered, just as the tip of his pointer finger found your clit and made a circle around it with the other two—a torturous loop that lacked just enough pressure to make it feel really good, and teased.

You would’ve liked to press on, were it not for him, again:

“Aw, hell, honey.”

Your eyes snapped open, and fear seized you momentarily. Had something gone wrong?

Instead, when you glanced between your legs, you saw a stain—a crude Rorschach-looking splotch in its place. With all rational thought currently suspended and your brain in a primal fog of just wanting to fuck, you groaned.

“Joel, please.”

You know what to do. You know what you’re doing.

Joel continued to carry on as though he hadn’t heard you. He rubbed the wet spot even harder with his middle finger and let out the faintest trace of condescension with his breath, fanning warmly across your cheek. It was as though you could feel his big, stupid mouth forming a grin behind your head that made you purse your lips together and force back a whimper when he pressed.

“Left a real mess missin’ me here,” he chided, voice low, “Poor thing hasn’t been fucked in…what, twelve hours?”

You imagined the spot growing larger, gaining warmth and wetness and slick from the timbre of Joel’s voice alone. Nevermind the fact he was practically smearing it all through your panties, through your dress; you’d be soaking his hand in a puddle if he didn’t let up soon.

“Then fuck it again,” you gritted, hips stirring.

“But you’re so busy watchin’ your new man, I—”

At the last, you bucked pathetically against Joel’s hand.

“Don’t want him, Joel,” you moaned, “I need you.”

With what little strength you had left, you tried to turn your body to face the man behind you. He didn’t let you.

In fact, his hold constricted all the more unforgiving, and his right arm curled around your front from underneath you while his left hand took the plunge beneath your dress, finally. It was as torturous as it was fused with any pleasure, though, as his fingers made a pass through your panties, between your folds, and into your heat with little warning at all. Just a kiss to your cheek and then two thick fingers working inside your cunt all at once. You writhed at the stretch, and Joel nosed you again.

“I said you’re busy, baby,” he shushed, “Keep watchin’.”

Keep watching.

Like that wasn’t the most nonsensical instruction he’d ever given you, with his arm twisted over your front and his face in your hair and his fingers pumping in and out.

In and out.

“Don’t care about the fuckin’ show, Joel,” you keened.

He brushed the heel of his palm against your clit, and you could’ve cried from the sheer influx of pleasure.

“Sure you do, sweet pea, you’ve just been so—”

Joel pressed another kiss to your cheek and kept going.

“—busy, lately, it’s only fair I get to have my way, hm?”

Oh.

Oh.

You hadn’t heard his belt come undone. You were so focused on your own pleasure, and getting it fast, that you hadn’t stopped to consider for a moment whether Joel might be testing his ‘free pass’ after all this time.

And, as if to dispel any doubts, Joel kissed your shoulder.

“C’mon, baby, let me use this pussy how I need to.”

He couldn’t have made your body any more pliant and willing than if your limbs had been made of wax.

It was all happening like a dream, almost too good to be a real, flesh and bones man with his hand in your panties, your man, pulling the fabric aside and making you lie on your side while he tapped the head of himself right there.

The hand that had once been toying with your clit was now lifting your knee, parting your legs to make space for him behind you, just outside of you—sliding his dick back and forth at first while he left trails of kisses down your skin. You could cum from the friction of that alone, the little squelches of his skin on yours and the fact that you weren’t in a bed, for once, and he was doing it now. He was making use of your body and cherishing it whole.

In spite of that gaping chasm between you in strength and size, he was obeisant, in a way. Painstakingly slow.

“This okay, baby? Can daddy fuck you right here?”

Joel pressed the head of his cock right against the weeping ring of muscles, felt it pulse against him, and groaned. He let just the cusp of your folds suck him in, forming the slightest, shallowest ‘o,’ only for him to retreat, moving his dick back up and down your slit.

You’d already cried and told him, yes, yes, you can fuck me there, daddy, please—but Joel was too busy tilting your head back up to the screen. Making you open your eyes and watch the show, loath as you were to focus on anything else but the soft, steady brush of his member.

“Remember, hon, you gotta stay focused,” he said, too sweet, “Chin up and keep those legs spread for daddy.”

They were. You were. Your head was up, just barely, and your eyes were nearly brimming with tears from just how badly you needed him inside you. You whined when he kissed the side of your mouth, but loved it all the same because it made you feel safe where you were. At ease.

Joel held you open for him, the shelf of his belly nudging at the small of your back and only pressing harder as he sank in deeper. It was a sensation that felt almost foreign, the first inches he’d breached, as he filled you from a new angle and held you close, you whimpered.

“Fuck, that pussy stretches out so nice for me,” Joel let out in a groan, “Feels like she’s made just for me, huh?”

At that, you felt a hand pinch both of your cheeks, forcing your mouth in a little pout as you nodded fiercely.

“Y-Yes, daddy, she’s made for you, all for you.”

One inch retreating, three more pushing in. Joel’s breath was hot on your ear again, and you could feel the soft grey tufts of hair on his tummy fold into themselves against your back as he pushed even deeper. His cock parted the insides of your walls and fucked you open like it was nothing at all. Your eyes stayed fastened on the television screen, but, frankly there wasn’t a thing on the LED display that was registering more than a passing thought. You felt the hand on your face squeeze even tighter, then release. Then your head was tilting sideways of its own volition, and your body was not—being moved by Joel’s gentle thrusts now—and your lips somehow met his in a kiss. One of his moans bled into your mouth.

“Look so. damn. pretty. when you’re like this,” he panted, “Never look better than when you’re fucked out on this cock, don’t ya, sweet pea? Nod your head and tell me.”

You nodded. You told him. Or whimpered it, anyway.

It was exactly the same and somehow nothing like you’d felt with him before: a new place, a new position, but then just the way you were letting him have you was a territory left entirely uncharted for you both. He could take, and take, and take, keep fucking you until his old joints gave out, and you were a vessel for that pleasure. Your body was limp; Joel’s frame was imposing and always holding you up, milking from your cunt what he needed and always praising you for how good it felt.

“My pretty girl,” he murmured, words like syrup. Then, each new one punctuated with a thrust as he sped up, “Gonna let daddy cum inside this tight little pussy?”

And, to his shock and yours, the hole he’d been using all this time grew wetter, more slick, then was pulsing with arousal as an influx of pleasure washed over your body—your brain had barely registered his words before the rest of you was making an even bigger mess of it, welcoming Joel deeper each time as your cunt spasmed over again.

Pressed into the sofa with your hips tilted down, now, you didn’t need to supply a verbal answer, just pulling Joel closer and pleading in broken moans to paint you white inside. He, like you, probably couldn’t have kept it from coming out if he tried. His hands were gripping your body, pushing you down with the weight of his grasp and his thrusts and feeling too fucked out to even know how much of himself he was pouring inside you as he came.

But it filled you to the hilt, all the way down his length.

In fact, there was a moment Joel feared he might’ve stuffed you more full of cum than you could take. You’d just barely come down, still moaning and shaking and dripping with more nectar than you’d ever felt before.

Joel tried to wipe the pussydrunk look from his eyes—terrible and greedy and wanting to see what he’d left—and he was just about to pull out to make sure you were alright, when he felt something grip him. On him and around him, pinching his wrist and squeezing his length inside you, you couldn’t help but turn back to face him.

Your eyes were smiling again.

One hand had just started to inch up his arm, kneading the flesh like you needed something from him then too. Only now your gaze was drifting down to the place where your body and his were still joined, and from that look, Joel sensed there had to be a lot of him there—which is why he was shocked when next you said sweetly, softly,

You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.

Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them. 

And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.

“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”

But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway. 

Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.

All rise at your entrance.

Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.

Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.

“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”

You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.

After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.

Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.

“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.

Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.

He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!

“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”

“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.

And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.

Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”

The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.

All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.

Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.

Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.

Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.

And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.

Baelor does not look pleased as you do.

His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.

“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.

You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.

“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”

“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.

Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”

His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.

Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.

“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”

Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.

“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”

Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.

“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”

“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.

The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.

Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.

You cannot hold it any longer.

A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully. 

He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.

Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.

“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”

You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.

Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.

“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”

“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.

“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”

His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.

Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”

“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”

His beautiful eyes narrow.

You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.

“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.

His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”

Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.

“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”

His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.

“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.

You leaned against the arm of the worn leather couch, nursing a drink in your hand, trying to play it cool, enjoy the music, listen to some conversations but…

…your body had other ideas.

Ovulation hit you like a train this time, that deep, insistent ache blooming low in your belly, spreading heat through your core. Your nipples, hard and pebbled, were straining against the thin fabric of your tank top, every brush of the cloth sending sparks straight to your clit. 

You shifted your thighs together, feeling the slick wetness gathering in your panties, your pussy throbbing with a need that made your skin flush hot. 

Stubborn as ever, of course, you weren't about to let it show. Not here, not with Joels dark eyes flicking to your way every few minutes from across the room.

He stood by the kitchen doorway, broad shoulders flexing in his flannel shirt, a beer bottle dangling from his hand. Joel had that quiet authority in him, the kind that didn't really need words—his gaze said everything, sharp and knowing, like he could read the tension coiling in your muscles from just twenty feet away. 

You caught him watching you earlier, when you'd laughed a little too forced at one of Tommy's jokes, your hips subtly grinding against the couch cushion for friction you oh so desperately craved. 

Now, as the song shifted to something slower and quiter, he pushed off of the wall and made his way over to you.

"You alright?" His voice was low, eyes locking onto yours. His eyes narrowed slightly, taking in the flush on your cheeks, swollen lips, the way your chest rose and fell a bit too quick.

You nodded, forcing a smile, even as another wave of heat pulsed through you, your clit swelling with need. "Yeah, just...the party's great." 

Lie. Your body screamed for relief, for him to pin you down and fill the emptiness aching inside you.

Joel's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to your fidgeting hands, then back up. He leaned in, voice dropping to a rumble only you could hear. "Can take you to the bathroom right now. Get you all sorted."

Heat flooded your face—you already knew what he meant, that stern look in his eyes promising he'd handle it, take control like he always did. But stubborn pride still flared over you; you weren't some kind of damsel crumbling at a party.

You shook your head, meeting his stare. "I'm fine, Joel. I can handle it."

He straightened, exhaling a rough breath through his nose, those dark eyes pinning you in place.

"Then keep yourself together," he gruffed, voice like worn leather. "You're practically humpin' the couch, doll. Don't make me come drag you off it."

Your breath hitched at the words, the way he said them so matter-of-fact, no filth, just that authoritative edge that made your knees weak. 

He lingered a second longer, eyes tracing the curve of your neck where your pulse hammered, before turning back to the kitchen with a nod, like the conversation was over. But you felt his gaze on you the rest of the night, heavy and watchful, stoking the fire he was trying to tamp down.

And you tried. God, you really tried. Mingled with Maria, laughed at stories from the guys, even swayed a little to the music when Tommy cranked up an old country tune. But every step rubbed your soaked panties against your swollen folds, every laugh sent a quick jolt through your sensitive breasts.

The ache built, so relentless, cunt clenching around nothing, begging to be stretched, filled. 

Joel's words echoed—keep yourself together—and it only made you wetter, imagining him enforcing it.

It got too much at one point, the room spun with too many bodies and too much noise. 

You excused yourself with a mumbled "be right back," weaving through the crowd to the hallway bathroom. 

The door then clicked shut behind you, lock snapping into place, and you sagged against the sink, breath coming in shallow pants. Your hands trembled as you hiked up your skirt, fingers diving under your panties to find your dripping slit. You were completely soaked, arousal coating your thighs, clit throbbing under your touch as you rubbed frantic circles. 

"Fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, picturing Joel's thick cock replacing your fingers, pounding into you until the need shattered.

A sharp knock rattled the door—three firm raps. "Open up," Joel's voice cut through, low and demanding, no room for argument.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fingers freezing mid-stroke. "Joel? I'm busy—go away."

Silence, then the knob rattled, his boot thudding against the wood like a warning. 

"Now, darlin'. Don't make me break it down."

Stubbornness warred with desperation, but your body won. With a shaky sigh, you pulled your hand free, slick fingers glistening, and twisted the lock. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the frame, jaw set, eyes dark with that knowing intensity. He stepped in without a word, kicking the door shut and locking it himself.

"Couldn't handle it, could you?" He murmured as he crowded you back against the sink. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, grounding you while your pussy clenched in anticipation.

You shook your head, breath hitching. "I—"

He cut you off with a look, those eyes speaking volumes: no excuses. One hand slid up your thigh, rough palm dragging your skirt higher, fingers brushing the damp fabric of your panties. 

"Shh. Let me take care of it." He hooked his fingers in the waistband and yanked them down, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your exposed pussy, making you gasp, folds slick and puffy from the earlier touches.

Joel's gaze dropped, taking you in with that stern approval, a low hum in his throat. 

He unzipped his jeans, freeing his cock—thick and heavy, the head already leaking pre cum, veins pulsing along the length. 

Your mouth watered at the sight, but he didn't let you drop; instead, he spun you around, bending you over the sink with firm hands on your waist. The mirror reflected your flushed face, his broad chest behind you, eyes locked on yours through the glass.

"Look at you," he growled softly, rubbing the blunt head of his cock through your soaked slit, coating himself in your arousal. "So ready for me. That's my girl."

His praise made your walls flutter. 

He pushed in slow at first, the stretch burning deliciously as inch after inch sank into your tight heat. 

You moaned, gripping the sink's edge, feeling every ridge and vein dragging along your sensitive inner walls. He was huge, filling you completely, the tip nudging deep against your cervix, right where the ovulation ache pulsed hottest.

"Goood," he cooed, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror, that stare holding you captive. "Take it all. You're doin' so well, openin' up like this." 

His hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you back as he thrusted forward, bottoming out with a grunt. The fullness was overwhelming, your pussy clenching greedily around him, juices dripping down your thighs.

He set a steady rhythm, hips snapping with controlled power, each plunge hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. The sink creaked under your weight, your breasts bouncing with every drive, nipples scraping the cool porcelain. 

Joel's breath fanned your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so you couldn't look away. 

"Eyes on me," he ordered, voice stern but laced with heat. "See how good you look, takin' my cock. Perfect, darlin'. So fuckin' perfect."

The praise sent you spiraling, your clit throbbing untouched as he pounded deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small room. 

The party noise filtered through the door—laughter, music—but it faded under your pulse, the building pressure in your core. His free hand dipped between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling with rough precision. 

"C’mon, baby.” he murmured, eyes intense. "Let go. I've got you."

It hit you like a wave, your orgasm crashing through you, pussy spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you cried out—muffled against his palm that clamped over your mouth just in time. 

Waves of pleasure ripped through your body, thighs shuttering, arousal gushing out to soak his balls. Joel groaned, thrusts turning erratic, his grip bruising as he chased his own release.

"That's it—fuck, yes," he rasped, burying himself to the hilt one last time. Hot spurts of cum flooded you, painting your walls deep, the warmth seeping into your fertile core. He held you there, cock pulsing as he emptied every drop, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, breath ragged.

Slowly, he pulled out, a trickle of his seed leaking from your stretched pussy, dripping down your inner thigh.

"Look at you," he said, thumb brushing your cheek, voice a low praise. "Handled that like a champ, huh? So beautiful, comin' apart for me."

You leaned into him, boneless, as he helped straighten your skirt, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Now, let's get back out there. And keep it together this time—unless you want round two."