diana

Javi came into your life three years ago. You were attending a work conference at the Hilton; unbeknownst to you Javi was rooming at the same hotel for his best friend’s bachelor party. You first made eye contact at the lobby when you checked in; he and his friends were already at the bar before noon.

Callie pointed him out first, “Mustache over there is checking you out”

You shook off her words, “Cmon we’re going to be late”

The conference was an absolute borefest. Just the usual 6 hour blah blah bullshit bullshit; you felt exhausted by the end. You decided a little drink at the bar wouldn’t hurt; it was well deserved. Sipping on your third apple martini the familiar gentleman, from earlier in the day, sits on the other end of the bar. He orders a whiskey, drinking it slowly as you continue to fuck eachother with your eyes. Bringing the cocktail to your mouth, your eyes dart to the empty barstool and back at him. He takes the hint and sits next to you. The night started with casual conversation, the cliched “what's your name, what do you do?”. Small talk turned into another round of drinks, along with shots of tequila, ending with multiple orgasms and $200 worth of hotel damage to your room.

After a year and a half of dating, Javi met Frankie at a BBQ hosted by a mutual friend. They bonded over similar interests and became very close friends. Frankie would hang out at the house often watching sports with Javi and you would casually join them to watch the gamr. Eventually, Frankie became the little wingman any time Javi and you went out, but you didn’t mind. Frankie was very sweet and you adored his company.

Eventually, Javi could see him start to develop a crush on you. It was obvious by the way his face lit up when you walked into the room, or how his eyes glanced a little too long at your ass. So one night while playing Truth or Dare at the house, Javi dared Frankie to kiss you. Taking you both by surprise, Javi said it was all in good fun. With Frankie being so shy, you made the first move by delivering a harmless peck to his lips. Expecting him to pull away, Frankie kissed you back, hard. Getting lost in his sweet puppy dog eyes while he tangled his digits along your curls, your palmed cupped his hard bulge peeking through his jeans. Javi would never confess it, but a fantasy that would occasionally twist the back of his mind was seeing you with another man. You were a goddess in the sheets and he wanted a lucky bastard to experience the ecstasy. He trusted Frankie, he wanted to make it worth his while. The game ended with you and Frankie in bed, while Javi pumped his cock watching you ride his friend. Between Frankie losing himself with every roll of your hips and Javi’s lustful eyes enjoying the show, the three of you knew this wasn’t going to be a one time fling. Deep down, neither of you wanted it to be for just one night.

…

Turning into the neighborhood, you pull up into the driveway of your home where you find Frankie mowing the front lawn. Baseball cap hiding his tousled curls, your mouth waters at the sight of his skin glistening in the scorching sun.

“Hi, handsome” you cheer from the car.

Frankie smiles under his cap and walks over to you. Going in for a hug he warns, “I’m sweatin like a hooker in church”

Laughing, you tug his damp shirt “You know I don’t mind gettin’ dirty”

The crisp flavor of Corona on Frankie’s lips ignites an appetite making you desperate for more of his taste. Like the vines on an ivy plant, your hands creep into his shirt running your nails up his sweat trickling spine. Frankie chuckles lacing his fingers into yours, “That tickles”

“How’s the beautiful birthday girl?” He questions, caressing the dip along your hips.

“Even better now that I’m home” you nod.

His gentle eyes curve at the sound of your voice; Frank exudes comfort and love. Giving another peck on the lips, he tells you Javi is inside making dinner. You’re hoping he’s making your favorite, chicken parmigiana. Releasing yourself from Frankie’s embrace, he says “I’ll be done in 5 minutes”. You nod your head and make your way up the front porch steps. The sweet smell of fresh cherry tomatoes and basil welcomes you inside.

Closing the front door you holler, “What’s cookin, good lookin?”

Following the aroma, you find Javi slaving away in front of the stove preparing your favorite dinner. His eyes focus on perfecting everything to a tee for you. He’s so sexy when he’s in his zone. Not wanting to cause too much of a distraction, you hug him from the back resting your face on the smooth fabric of his pink button down.

“You’re wearing my favorite shirt” you mutter into his back delivering a kiss on his spine. Javi’s back vibrates from a soft giggle as his hand finds your hair. Turning himself around, he cups your face letting his thumb make circles on the edge of your mouth. Patience thinning, he kisses you tenderly. Wrapping your hands around his torso, you lean against the kitchen sink letting his stance tower over you. Javi moans as the heat between you too escalates.

“Whoa, slow down tiger. Let’s eat dinner first” you joke.

Sliding his hand up your skirt, he rubs your sensitive pearl along your lace panties making you gasp his name.

The little devil dips his fingers into his mouth, “Bon appetit”. Before he could set you on the kitchen sink, Frankie comes through the front door.

“Later, baby” you smirk, biting his bottom lip.

“Dinner ready yet?” Frankie questions.

“Just about” Javi responds.

You grab three sets of plates and utensils from the cabinet and set them next to Javi. You walk over to the dining room table to light the candle sticks nestled in the beige holder.

“White or red wine?” Frankie asks from the kitchen.

“White por favor”

Frankie pours a glass of wine for you, a whiskey for Javi and a beer for himself. Javi sets the plates on the dining room table while Frankie places the drinks in the designated places. Javi on one side, Frankie on the other, and you sandwiched in between. Raising your glasses to cheers, Javi toasts, “Happy Birthday, Princessa”. The glasses clink and you deliver a kiss to both men. The meal carries on with rotating conversations about everyone’s eventful day followed by drinks getting refilled two more times. But in the middle of dinner, the mood shifts from amusement to melancholy. You sense it quickly.

“What’s up?” You question.

Frankie and Javi look at eachother setting their utensils down.

“We have some news, honey” Javi starts.

“Is everything okay?” You question.

Frankie looks at you sporting his baby browns, “Yea, honey everything’s fine. I just got some news today at work… I’m gonna have to leave for a few days”

You sigh in relief, it’s common for Frankie to travel out of town. You explain that it’s okay, but then Javi says he has to travel out of town in the same week.

“Ohh…”

Although you understand traveling is a requirement for both of their careers, the idea of having them absent at the same time tugs at your heart. You grab for their hands, planting kisses on their skin.

“I understand traveling is part of your job. I love you both so much and we’ll spend as much time as possible together before y’all leave”

Frankie cups your face and gives you a kiss, “You’re so sweet. How did we get so lucky?”

“I’m the lucky one” you say smiling at both of them.

Taking a gulp of his whiskey, Javi tries to bring light to the situation “So, present time?”

“A Present?!” You exaggerate.

“It’s your birthday, honey. Of course there’s presents! Now, close those pretty eyes”

“Okay okay” you chuckle, giggling while putting your hands over your eyes. Javi’s footsteps echo in the hallway, the stairwell closet creaks.

“Is she looking, Frankie?”

“Nope!”

Javi comes back to the table, you hear what sounds like a bag ruffling on the table.

“Okay, open..”

“Well well well. What’s this?” You question raising an eyebrow.

Your fingers trace along the black ribbon resting to the side of the pink Victoria’s Secret bag. Delicately removing the pink tissue paper springing from the top of the bag, you smile at the gift waiting inside. A black sheer balconette, leaving very little to the imagination, with matching bottoms. Behind the lingerie was a garter belt along with black stockings and a pair of gloves that went up to the elbow. Of course Javi would buy you something he could rip off in seconds.

“Ohh Javi… it’s beautiful, baby” you kiss his lips showing appreciation

“It’s gonna look unbelievable on this gorgeous body,” he mutters, delivering another kiss.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and relax for a while, sweets. We’ll clean up” Frankie insists.

“Are you sure? You guys did most of the work”

“Well, Javi did,” he jokes.

Thanking both men with a smooch you grab the Victoria Secret bag off the table and take it with you upstairs.

Walking down the hall, you open the door to the master bedroom you share with Javi and Frankie. You gasp at the sight of rose petals scattered along the floor like a trail. The path leads you to the king size bed; sweet scented rose petals engulf the white linen comforter where a small white envelope and turquoise Tiffany & Co. box rests in the middle. Opening the envelope, a birthday card awaits with a polaroid Frankie shot of you two on the beach in Hawaii last year. Your eyes follow the words written in the card:

Mi Amor,

Words can’t describe how thankful I am to have you, my sweet girl. It’s crazy how after all this time together, the first thing I want to do when I open my eyes is see you nestled into me with the sunlight glowing along your gorgeous face. One touch of your skin, one glance at those mystical eyes I wonder if this life is all a dream. Eres mi corazon y mi alma. Thank you for making me the luckiest man in the world and I hope this birthday is the best one yet. I love you to the moon and back ❤️

Feliz Compleanos, Hermosa

Love,

Frankie

Smiling through the tears, you place the picture and card back in the envelope. Opening the box, a rose gold necklace with a heart shaped diamond twinkles back into your eyes.

“Oh my gosh” you shriek.

You take the necklace and place it around your neck; it falls perfectly against your chest. Laying your digits along the flashing diamond you smile at the idea that Frankie is a part of you everywhere you go. Rummaging through the pink bag, you place all the garments on the bed. Setting the mood, you shout “Alexa, play Fever”. The sensual combination of drums and piano flow like a river through your eardrums. Stripping out of your work clothes, you glance at the reflection of your naked body. Butterflies flutter in your tummy knowing that every inch of your skin has been adored by Javi’s sinful mouth and Frankie’s gentle touch. You had the best of both worlds; Frankie being a love maker and Javi being a feral sex machine.

Swaying to the slow rhythm of the music, you take your time putting on the lingerie. You’re impressed at how the delicate fabric of the balconette cups your breasts perfectly making them look larger than usual. The bottoms accentuate your ass and there’s something erotic about the straps of the garter belt gently digging into your thighs. And the gloves sliding up your arm complete the look like the cherry on top of a sundae. The sweet scent of Chanel No.5, gifted by Frankie from Valentine’s Day, creates a cloud around your aura. Tousling your curls, a gasp escaped your lips. Your reflection accentuates overwhelming sex appeal; it almost seems unrealistic. The garments hug your hips and breasts like a charm. It almost feels sinful to admire yourself in such an excessive manner.

Losing yourself to the sultry voice of Peggy Lee, your hips swivel to the beat. Your gloves clutch the bed frame as you perform a sexy striptease in front of the mirror. Closing your eyes, you tilt your head to the ceiling and steadily shimmy down. A wolf whistle howls from behind you making you break character. Following the sound you find the two men practically drooling at the mouth seeing you in the lingerie.

“Jesus Christ, carino” Frankie says, putting his hand to his heart.

“You’re…” Javi’s stutters, his mind isn’t capable of comprehending syllables. You seductively strut closer to Javi and Frankie, bringing your gloved hands out to both of them.

Biting your lip you request, “Instead of telling me, why don’t you gentlemen show me”

They make no protests. As if under a lewd spell, Javi and Frankie place their palms into yours accepting the invitation. Guiding them like two pets on a leash, you release their hands and crawl to the middle of the bed. The rose petals crinkle under your legs. They watch your back arch like a cat as you give them a little show. Frankie’s cock twitches in his jeans when he sees your cunny peek through your panties..

Sitting up on your knees, you glide your hands along your thighs giving a little spank to your ass.

Turning to them you motion, “Come here, Frankie”

While Frankie positions himself behind you. You call Javi’s name signaling him to stand in front of you. He moves to the opposite side of the bed kneeling in front of you.

“Ffuck…” Javi licks his lips at the sight of your cupped breasts.

“Show them some love, Mr. Pena”

His eyes darkened with lust as his hands wasted no time fondling your chest. You grasp at his brown locks to sink his head deeper into your bosom. He growls like a vicious beast devouring its prey, his mustache trickles along your sensitive skin. You lean into Frankie as Javi nibbles and kisses your tits.

Frankie’s hand cups your ass while the other snakes along your core.

“Frankie…” you whimper, as his hand disappears into your sheer panties. He muffles your moans with a sloppy kiss allowing your tongues to perform a wicked dance.

“Is this all for us, baby?” Frankie pants when he feels your excitement dripping off of his fingers. A pitiful “mmhmm” squeaks out. Javi’s hot breath coaxes along your tits while Frankie’s digits tease your pears. The erotic encounter spikes a wave of ecstatic intoxication through your veins. They cherish you as if you were gifted directly from the heavens while you greedily indulge every touch. And why shouldn’t you? You’re the birthday girl.

Devouring your neck and shoulders, Frankie grins at Javi while unclipping the balconette. A grunt rumbles in Javi’s chest at the sight of your exposed breasts.

“Have fun” Frankie says, backing away while stripping out of his clothes.

With no hesitation, Javi tosses you on the rose petals making you shriek in excitement. Kissing him hard on the mouth, you rip the buttons off of his pink blouse. The warmth from his skin exudes onto your bare chest. Feasting on your lips and neck, his hands pin your wrist over your head making you gasp.

“Now.. where was I?” Javi asks, reflecting back to your interrupted mischief in the kitchen.

His digits slide down your gloves until they find your voluptuous tits. Cupping the flesh in his hand, Javi drew his mouth along your tender nipple making your body arch in response to the warm suckling triumph. His eyes burned at the sight of your face contorting in expression of titillation; it only encouraged him more. Trailing his tongue down your sternum, he paints wet intricate kisses along your tummy.

“May I” he asks gripping at the bottoms. You nod in agreement. Javi rolls the bottoms and garter belt off your thighs leaving you sprawled on the bed in nothing but the gloves. He made no attempt to remove them. Kneeling in front of your naked body, he swooped your legs over his shoulders. Hands massaging your thighs, his mouth made contact with your smooth leg, traveling up to your knee, until he reached your inner thigh. Your gasps dragged on heavier as his breath was inching closer to your cunny. A grunt echoed when he saw your glistening folds ready for him. Without warning, Javi’s tongue drew a long stroke up your cunny making you grasp the bed frame.

“Ohh my God’ you yelped, clawing the bed frame. Like a starved man, Javi’s mouth devoured every inch of your flesh. His tongue does a choreography of kissing, suckling, and licking making your hips buck against his mustache creating tickles. With Javi gripping at your thighs and holding down your torso, you have no choice but to take it. You turn to watch Frankie sitting naked on a chair pumping his hard cock in his hand. You bite your lip and moan Javi’s name.

“Ja-Javi I’m gonna cum…” you whimper into the pillow. His head dips lower and his pace fastens making you scream.

“Cum in his mouth, carino. Feed him like the good girl you are.. Cmon, baby.. c'mon” Frankie praises.

Your legs spasm against Javi’s shoulders as he does not slow down his pace when you climax. He latches onto your pearl making the high last longer than usual. Clenching onto his curls you beg him to stop for the sole purpose of almost passing out. Giving one last kiss to your cunny, Javi lays next to you unbuttoning his jeans. His cock springs out of the opening hard as a rock. Trying to catch your breath from the intense climax, Frankie kneels next to you. You grab his face and kiss his lips.

“You tired, princessa?” Frankie asks, gliding his thumb along your cheek.

“Not even close” you pant.

“That’s my girl”

Frankie picks you up off of the bed, your back collides with the wall making a picture frame fall to the floor. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, you guide his cock inside of you making you moan. He knows this position drives you crazy. Your nails rake into his shoulders and back as he guides you up and down on his shaft. The long low strokes fill your cunny hitting all the sweet spots. Looking over his shoulder, you wink at Javi who’s watching the show.

“Mmmm yes Frankie…” you hiss, grazing your teeth around his earlobe.

Your hot breath against his ear sends goosebumps along his skin. Whispering in his ear that you wanna ride his cock, Frankie carries you over the chair. He sits down on the cushion while you straddle his lap adjusting to his size. Bouncing your hips in a steady pace with his digits gripping the meat of your thighs, Frankie tilts his head to the ceiling wallowing in the tightness of your drenched cunny. Javi comes up behind you planting a kiss on your neck. Pulling your arms together behind your back, you’re unable to move.

“Fuck her harder, Frankie” Javi commands. Frankie’s hands dig into your thighs holding you down as his cock slams into your tummy.

“Mmmm fuckkk!!!” you sing out in mercy.

“God honey, you're so sexy dripping all over my lap” Frankie gasps while bouncing you up and down on his cock.

“Her pussy is so beautiful and tight” Javi compliments clutching your torso.

Grinding harder into his lap, you squeal, “Mmm Frankie… I love your dick so fucking much aaahhh”

“Come for him, hermosa… milk his cock with your sweet juices” Javi whispers in your ear.

With one hand gripping Frankie’s hand and the other tugging at Javi’s curls, your orgasm clenches around Frankie’s cock. Cursing through the intense pleasure, Javi’s rough voice moans, “Good girl” over and over in your ear. Frankie’s climax follows with a loud grunt, spilling his hot seed into your cunny. His head falls into your chest as if they were his own personal pillows. Kissing his forehead, you veer to Javi, delivering a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck… that was” Frankie is left breathless.

You giggle leaning into Javi, what you say next throws them for a surprise.

“I wanna try something…” you declare.

Nibbling your cheek while thumbing your nipples Javi questions, “And what is that, cumpleanera?”

“I..I want you both.. at the same time”

Frankie’s brown eyes widen, Javi’s breath hitches.

“Is that what you want, honey?” Frankie questions.

You nod your head. Javi sports a mischievous grin.

“She’s the birthday girl, anything goes. Get on the bed, carino”

Javi hoists you off Frankie’s lap and you grab Frankie's hand.

“On all fours” Javi commands. You do as you're told.

“Cmere, baby” you say to Frankie, patting down on the white linen comforter. His naked body stands in front of you while Javi lines his cock against your folds. Kissing down Frankie’s tummy you remove your glove with your teeth. Slowly rubbing up and down on his shaft, his digits tangle in your hair pulling you closer to his flesh.

“Please?” You ask pouting your lip.

He smiles, thumbing your chin,“You never have to ask, baby”

Taking all of him into your mouth, his head tilts back. His grip grows tighter around your head moaning in satisfaction. Bobbing up and back, you gasp at Javi’s cock slowly hitting your walls. Your hand grabs hold of his thigh but he smacks it away. Starting out steady, Javi’s rhythm grows faster… harder. Leaving indents on your thighs,Javi’s aggressive thrust makes Frankie’s cock smack the back of your throat. A tear trails down your cheek when Javi plants a hard smack on your ass. Your cunny clenches around his thick cock, he knows you’re getting closer. You can feel the release peeking for both of them.

Sucking harder around Frankie’s shaft, you feel his flesh pulsating. Gripping your jaw he whimpers. “Ahh just like that, baby. God… like getting sucked off by an angel… fuck”

Lips swollen, cunny aching; you feel like your body is about to break in two as your third orgasm is heating up in your torso. Whimpering from the intensity of pleasure, Frankie gets concerned.

“Are we hurting you, honey?” He questions.

Moaning the word “no”, Javi chimes, “She wanted this… she’s gettin it”

Catching your breath, you look up at Frankie as you swallow his cock; mascara runs down your bright eyes.

“Come for me, Frankie. I need to taste you.. mmm please” you tease brushing your tongue against the head of his shaft. He gives in with a loud grunt; his warm come coats your tongue letting it flow down your sore throat. He falls to his knees so he’s face to face with you. He can tell you’re growing exhausted from the fuck fest between you three.

“I’m so close” Javi whimpers. You squeal that you are too.

This excites Javi. Gripping your hair, his rough thrusts ram in and out of your aching cunny. You hiss at the sudden discomfort of your back being arched to the extent. Guiding you to achieve one more orgasm, Frankie kisses and cups your face.

“Alright baby… come on.. you’re doing so amazing, carino. Just come for us one last time”

“God… I love you, Frankie… I love you, Javi”

Javi clutches your torso as he releases deep inside your cunny igniting your climax. Your body shudders as the excitement blinds your vision and wrenches every muscle fiber. Javi dips lower, kissing your back as your body dives on the rose petals. Energy is sucked from your veins, you don’t have the capacity to even talk. Your body quivers trying to come back to reality; Javi’s touch is more gentle.

“You okay, baby? Talk to us” he questions moving the hair out of your face.

“I think we may have been too rough” Frankie’s tone expressing regret.

Nodding your head, “N—No.. no. That.. was remarkable. Thank you..”

Both men kiss your skin, worshipping how well you did. Frankie walks into the bathroom to turn on the shower faucet. Javi lays next to you making circles with his digits on your upper thigh. He kisses a visible bruise that must have formed when grabbing you.

“Relax, honey… you’re coming back” he whispers as your soul returns to your body. A little scoff escapes your lips. Javi picks you up and brings you in the shower. Letting the warm water rejuvenate your muscles, Javi scrubs your body while Frankie massages the shampoo into your scalp. They take care of you the same way you take care of them. You thank them in return. Wrapping you in a cozy robe, Frankie untangles the knots out of your hair with a brush. Once everyone is in pajamas, you climb into bed together. Like always, Javi on one side, Frankie on the other, you in between.

“Did you have a nice birthday, hermosa?” Javi questions.

“The best one yet” you respond, kissing both men before slowly drifting into a sea of slumber.

For a second, everything from last week floods back at once: the heat of his mouth, the low sound he made when you begged. The way he’d buried his face against your throat and whispered the filthiest things you’d ever heard.

He doesn’t look away.

His gaze drags down your front—like he just can’t help it—and when he drags it back up again, something in his expression flickers.

He’s trying to be neutral. Professional. But he isn’t ignoring you. And that almost makes it worse.

You take a slow breath, moving to your usual workbench. He watches you go, wiping his hands on a rag he keeps tucked in his back pocket.

“Morning,” he says, voice low. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you since he left you in your car with your hands still shaking.

Your heart beats too fast. “Hi.”

He hesitates like he wants to say something else. But the classroom door bangs open behind you—other students filing in, heavy boots echoing across the concrete—and whatever he was going to say dies before it can reach you.

You drop your bag on the stool, pulling out your notes and trying not to fidget.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you a moment longer before he clears his throat and calls the class to order.

“Alright,” Joel says, voice steady but quieter than usual. “Listen up.”

He shifts his weight, bracing one hand on the edge of the workbench, the other still worrying that rag.

“For your final project, you’re gonna do a complete brake system overhaul. Pads, rotors, calipers—front and rear. You’ll bleed the lines, verify pressure, and log every step. If it doesn’t stop on the test drive, you fail.”

Someone groans behind you.

“Yeah,” Joel says flatly. “That’s the point. It’s meant to be hard.”

He sets the rag aside, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you have questions, you ask. Don’t guess. Don’t half-ass. And don’t touch anything you’re not ready to finish.”

His eyes flick to yours again—just for a beat—and your stomach flips.

“Get started,” he says, voice low. “I’ll be around.”

The group breaks apart in a shuffle of boots and muttered complaints. You exhale slowly and pick your way toward your assigned bay, heart thudding.

You spend the next half hour working in silence, carefully removing the first caliper. You can feel Joel nearby—hear the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice as he checks on the others—but he doesn’t come over to you.

You’re trying to focus. Really. But the memory of his mouth on your skin keeps blurring the edges of everything.

That’s probably why you don’t notice Kyle until he’s too close.

“Careful,” he says, leaning an elbow on your bench. “You’re gonna strip the bolt if you keep wrenching it like that.”

You pause, glancing at the caliper bracket in your hands. “No, I’m not. I’m backing it off a half turn at a time so I don’t crack it.”

He smirks, ignoring you. “If you want, I could help you after class. Maybe go over it together? Over dinner?”

Heat crawls up your neck, part embarrassment, part annoyance. You set the part down carefully, wiping your hands on a rag.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, smile widening. “No offense, but it looks like you’re struggling. Wouldn’t want you to mess it up.”

“She’s not.”

You both turn.

Joel is standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest. He’s not pretending to check the other bays anymore. He’s just watching.

Kyle shifts, trying for casual. “Yeah, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Joel cuts in, voice low. “She’s doing it right. Let her work.”

Something in his tone makes Kyle’s smile flicker. He glances at you like he expects you to jump in. When you don’t, he huffs a little laugh and backs away.

“Whatever you say.”

You don’t look up until Kyle’s gone. When you finally meet Joel’s eyes, they’re darker than before—something quiet and furious simmering underneath.

“You don’t need him,” he says, voice rough.

“I know.”

He holds your stare a second longer. Then he pushes off the beam, turns, and walks away—like he has to physically remove himself before he does something about it.

***

The rest of the afternoon drags.

You try to keep your head down, focused on reassembling the caliper and logging each step in your notes. But every time you glance up, Joel is there—never watching directly, but close enough you feel it anyway.

You can tell he’s making himself stay occupied. Finding excuses to check inventory, update paperwork, do anything that keeps him from looking too long.

And you hate how much you like it.

By the time the clock above the door clicks past six, the last of the class is packing up, slamming their lockers shut. Someone mutters a goodbye on the way out. Another kid laughs, cursing about how much his hands hurt.

You pretend to be absorbed in double-checking your torque specs, but your heart is hammering.

You don’t look up until the door closes behind them.

Then it’s just you. And him.

Joel is at the desk again, one hand braced on the top, his other rubbing slow over the back of his neck. He looks tired. Not the usual end-of-the-day tired—something deeper, heavier.

You wipe your hands on a clean rag and gather your notes, forcing yourself to move like nothing feels different. Like the room isn’t too quiet. Like the memory of his mouth on your skin isn’t still playing behind your eyes.

Your boots scuff over the concrete as you cross to his desk.

He doesn’t look up.

“I finished the checklist,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

He flips a page in the logbook, staring at it without reading. “Leave it there.”

Your pulse thuds in your throat. “Joel.”

Nothing. Just the tick of the old clock above the tool cabinet.

“I don’t—” You hesitate. “I don’t want this to feel like a mistake.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t lift his gaze. “It was a mistake.”

You swallow, fingers flexing on the edge of his desk. “You didn’t look like you thought that at the time.”

He drags a hand over his mouth, exhaling slow. “Don’t.”

You take a step closer. The air between you feels too thin.

“You don’t mean it,” you whisper.

He lifts his head then, finally meeting your eyes—and whatever you were braced for, it isn’t that look.

Wrecked.

His hand curls into a fist on the desk. “You think this is what you want?”

You don’t back down. “I know it is.”

He shakes his head, rough and disbelieving. “You don’t.”

Your voice drops, steady and soft. “Then show me.”

His breath shudders out. For a long second, he just looks at you—like he’s waiting for you to take it back. Like he’s hoping you will.

You don’t.

And that’s when he moves.

He comes around the desk in three slow steps. Stops just shy of touching you, so close you have to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then finds your jaw. His thumb drags along the edge of your mouth, the touch so careful it makes your heart ache.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me for,” he says, voice low and ruined.

Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. His thumb drags across your lower lip, callused and warm, and you see the moment something in him fractures.

“I’m asking you to fuck me,” you breathe.

He goes still. Completely, utterly still.

A ragged sound tears out of his throat—half growl, half plea—and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

The kiss isn’t careful. It isn’t soft. It’s all teeth and heat and desperation, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been clawing at him for weeks. His hands find your hips, dragging you into him so hard you lose your breath.

“Jesus,” he mutters against your mouth, voice hoarse, like he hates himself for how good this feels. “Fuck—”

You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Your hands slide up under the hem of his work shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the hard planes of his stomach. He shudders when your nails scrape lightly over the trail of hair leading lower.

“Goddamn it,” he rasps, and without breaking the kiss, he reaches past you.

The heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding home is deafening in the hush.

He keeps his mouth sealed on yours, like he can’t bear to stop touching you long enough to think about what he’s doing.

He walks you backward, slow but unrelenting, until your hips hit the edge of the nearest workbench. The cold metal bites through your coveralls. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, groaning into your mouth like it’s killing him.

His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing your hips, dragging up your ribs. When he finds the zipper at your chest, he hesitates for just a heartbeat.

“You sure?” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You fuckin’ sure?”

“Please,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

He tugs the zipper down in one slow pull, the rasp of it loud in the quiet. His palm slides over your chest, thumb brushing the thin fabric of your bra. The contact makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“You have any idea,” he growls, mouth hot against your throat, “what you do to me?”

You try to answer, but he’s already dragging his mouth lower—nipping at the side of your neck, the curve where it meets your shoulder. His free hand rucks the coveralls down your hips, bunching them at your thighs. You feel the rough scrape of his calluses on bare skin, and the noise that slips out of you is embarrassingly needy.

“Look at you,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear. “All fuckin’ sweet now. All mine.”

You drag your hands up his chest, fisting the collar of his shirt to keep yourself steady. He catches your wrists, pins them to the workbench behind you, and holds you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You think that little shit had a chance with you?” His voice drops lower, almost a snarl. “You think I was gonna stand there and watch him touch what’s mine?”

The possessiveness in his tone makes your breath stutter. “Joel—”

“That what you want?” he demands, words hot and ragged against your mouth. “Some fuckin’ boy who doesn’t know what to do with you?”

“No,” you gasp, thighs clenching around his hips. “Want you.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like it’s breaking him to hear it. “You fuckin’ do.”

He lets your wrists go—only to shove your coveralls the rest of the way down. The cold air kisses your skin, and he palms your ass, dragging you flush against the thick line of his cock straining his jeans.

“Feel that?” He grinds against you, making you whimper. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you look at me like you want it.”

Your hips rock into his, chasing the friction. “Please.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough, “gonna give it to you, baby.”

He kisses you again, messy and deep, while his hand drags between your legs. When his fingers find how wet you are, he groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck me,” he rasps, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re drippin’.”

His fingers slide through the slick heat, circling your clit just hard enough to make you bite your lip. He watches every reaction like he can’t look away.

“You want me to take my time,” he mutters, thumb pressing harder, “or you want it fast?”

“Fast,” you gasp. “Please—I—”

He cuts you off with a low, filthy laugh. “Course you do.”

He doesn’t waste another second. One hand fists in your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you again while the other tugs at his belt, freeing himself. The blunt head of his cock bumps your thigh, hot and heavy, and your breath breaks.

He flips you before you can think, palms flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the cold workbench.

“Stay,” he growls, his voice so deep it scrapes something raw out of you.

You brace yourself, fingers curling around the metal edge, and look back over your shoulder.

His eyes meet yours—dark, starved—and something in them flickers.

“Gonna fuck you so good you forget about every other man,” he mutters. “Gonna fill you up so full you remember you’re mine.”

He drags the head of his cock through the slick between your thighs, teasing you just long enough that you whine.

“Say it,” he rasps, hips nudging forward, the stretch already making your vision blur. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choke out, voice breaking. “You—fuck—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, sinking deeper. “All fuckin’ mine.”

When he bottoms out, his hand wraps around the front of your throat, tilting your head back so he can hear every gasp. His hips pull back—and when he slams forward again, the sound it makes is obscene.

Your fingers slip on the workbench. His grip tightens around your throat—just enough to hold you steady—and his other hand slides over your hip, guiding you back to meet each punishing thrust.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice ragged. “So tight—so fuckin’ sweet for me.”

You whimper, every thrust sending sparks up your spine.

“That little shit,” he pants, hips snapping harder. “Thought he could even touch you—”

He drags his hand lower, finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that make your knees buckle.

“Tell me,” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Tell me who makes you come.”

“You,” you cry, voice splintering. “God—Joel—please—”

“That’s right,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Only me.”

The pressure builds so fast you can’t think. Can’t breathe. His cock drives into you, relentless, and you know you’re close—so close—

“Come on, baby,” he groans, thumb pressing harder, pace turning erratic. “Come for me.”

Your vision goes white. You shatter around him, hips jerking back into his as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, unstoppable.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps thrusting through it, hips snapping against your ass, low curses pouring from his mouth.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—”

You can feel every ragged breath, every shudder, right before he finally spills inside you with a rough, broken sound.

When it’s over, he stays there—forehead against your spine, breath gusting across your skin.

As the last tremor leaves your body, you collapse forward onto your elbows, cheek pressed against the cool metal.

Joel doesn’t move for a second. Just stays bent over you, his hand splayed wide across your stomach, breathing like he’s just run every mile he’s ever owed.

After a moment, he drags in a shaky breath. His palm slides up, brushing the underside of your breast, lingering like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He slips free with a low groan and tugs your coveralls up enough to give you a shred of modesty. Then his hand cups the back of your neck, warm and heavy, like he can’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“C’mere,” he says softly.

You let him help you turn around. Your legs are unsteady, and he notices—his big hand bracing your hip until you’re upright. You can’t look at his face for a second. Not when you feel so wrung out. So full.

His thumb drags along your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes flick over your face, something complicated and unspoken in them. Guilt, maybe. Hunger that hasn’t faded. A tenderness you weren’t ready for.

“You wanna come by my place?” he asks, voice low. “Get cleaned up…maybe eat something?”

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest. “Yeah. I—yeah.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Good.”

He steps back, adjusting himself and tucking himself away with one hand, moving like a man who knows he’s going to hell and still can’t bring himself to care. He re-zips your coveralls, slow and deliberate, his knuckles brushing the tender skin of your chest.

When he’s done, he smooths the zipper flat. His thumb grazes the little metal pull tab.

“You got a dorm room, right?” he says, trying for casual and failing. “Probably not a lot of privacy there.”

You huff a laugh, still a little dazed. “Tiny. Thin walls. You’d be…pretty hard to hide.”

He lifts a brow, mouth tugging at the corner. “Yeah? You think I’m worth hiding?”

“Think you’re worth a lot more than that,” you murmur.

A groan rumbles in his chest—soft but unmistakable. He dips his head, pressing his mouth to yours, slower this time. Not careful, exactly. But different.

When he finally pulls back, he nods toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll drive.”

You trail him toward the door, your heart still tripping over itself.

Just as he unlocks the deadbolt and pulls the handle, you clear your throat.

“So…” you say, voice small but teasing, “does this mean I pass?”

Joel goes still.

Then—very slowly—he looks back at you over his shoulder. His eyes are still dark, but there’s something softer there now.

“No,” he says, voice low. “Means you’re gonna need a lot more practice.”

And before you can think of something smart to say, he leans in and kisses you again—like he already can’t wait to fail you all over.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

Joel laces around your jawline to the nape of your neck. His beard scratches at your cheek, making you nudge closer into him. A growl rumbles in his chest at your powerful scent; a perfect mixture of Chanel and sin coat along your collarbone. His hands find the ties that wrap around your velvet dress. Taking his time, Joel’s digits unfasten the fabric like you're his own personal present. The dress comes undone, your pink and black silk bra with matching panties makes Joel foam at the mouth.

“These are cute”

He interlaces your hands into his and slides your arms down to your side. Slipping the velvet garment onto the floor, your breath hitches at the feeling of Joel’s calloused but gentle touch on your bare skin.

He tells you to open your eyes, the dim lighting details every gorgeous feature on his face. His eyes dark and hungry, his skin rough but undeniably handsome. Drawing him into your embrace, you eagerly whine, “Bedroom”. You don’t need to beg him twice. Joel picks you up, placing one hand on your back and the other along your round ass. Your legs hug around his waist while your arms wrap around his warm neck. Carrying you in the hallway, fixtures rattle along the walls as your bodies bump into everything in sight; you kick your heels off not giving a damn where they land. Grunts escape his mouth as your digits rip the buttons off of his denim shirt uncovering a god- like body with a beautiful coarse of chest hair that runs down his torso.

“That was my favorite shirt” he jokes mid kiss.

“I’ll buy you a new one” you gasp, grabbing the steel handle forcing the bedroom door open.

Sitting you on the dresser, Joel strips out of his shirt while you fiddle with his belt buckle. Unzipping his jeans, your thighs pull down his pants leaving him in boxer briefs. His lips and tongue dip down to your chest, your head tilts back as your palms caress his face. You whimper at the spark of arousal forming in your tummy but also the overwhelming sense of embarrassment. You know you can’t keep your secret hidden from him. He’s older than you and well over-experienced to know when a woman could be….

“Joel.. I— I have something to tell you”

“What is it, baby girl?” he utters into your chest. His digits fondle with the clamps of your bra.

“I..um… shit”

He senses that this is serious and stops. His eyes express concern when they meet yours. Gliding his thumb along your temple he asks, “Honey, is… this your first time? If it is, I’ll be very….”

Your eyes widened as you interrupted, “Ohh no, Joel. It’s nothing like that”

You both giggle at the idea of confessing that you’re a 29 year old virgin. He plants a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Go ahead, sweets. What’s this secret? I promise I won’t laugh”

Resting your head on the mirror, you close your eyes, “I- I’ve never had an orgasm before… during sex”

Waiting to hear a burst of laughter rip from Joel’s chest, the room is quiet.

“Honey, look at me…” his hand caresses the back of your head.

“No man has ever made you come? Ever? That’s what you were afraid to tell me?”

You nod your head, “It’s not that they didn’t try. I just.. can’t manage to get there… like something is wrong with me. I felt the need to tell you because you’re… old enough to know when a woman could be faking… I just don’t want you to be disappointed, Joel”

Your confession is more pathetic than you thought. He’s probably thinking you’re not worth killing his ego. Expecting him to put his clothes back on, he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“My sweet girl, there’s nothing wrong with you”

“I know it’s common for women to fake it, but everytime? With every man I’ve dated? It’s definitely me..” Joel could hear the hopelessness in your tone, which oddly started to make his cock twitch.

“Those boys weren’t in it for you, baby. They weren’t paying attention to the whimpers this pretty mouth made…”

His thumb brushes along your bottom lip as he kisses your shoulder. Joel reaches behind you, unclipping your bra, letting it float off of your body.

“Joel” your voice chokes.

“They didn’t pay attention to what made this beautiful body tremble with excitement…”

Clawing at his back, Joel firmly grips at your thighs squeezing the meaty flesh. Grazing his beard along your cheek he whispers, “But, if you give me the chance… I could show you the stars tonight”

The ache between your legs becomes unbearable, a combination of desire and frustration. You’ve accepted the fact that it will never happen and you don’t want to be left with a broken promise.

“It’s.. im-impossible. Trust me” You breathlessly whimper.

“Nothing’s impossible, honey. Let me show you how a man is supposed to satisfy a woman… trust me”

Your tummy clenches at the motion of Joel’s digits tracing along your panty line. Your eyes flicker at the sight of him; nodding your head you accept his challenge. Grinning at your submission he clenches your silk panties, “Let’s take these off” he mumbles, slowly sliding the garment off your thighs,you’re left naked on the dresser. Your heartbeat rings like church bells in your ears knowing what Joel is about to do, or what he’s attempting to do. Hooking your legs over his broad shoulders Joel kneels before you.

“Gotta warm her up, first” he murmurs looking up at you. Eyes roll back biting your lip, Joel plants kisses and nibbles along your inner thighs. His mouth waters at your dripping cunny staring back at him, waiting to be devoured. Flattening his tongue, he licks a long slow stroke up your folds making you gasp his name. And then another, and another with more suckling around your pulsing pearl. Grasping the back of his gray curls, you endure the pleasure heating up in your chest. His groans vibrate along your flesh making you moan. Although he would love to taste your spilled juices on his tongue, he’s destined to feel your climax on his throbbing cock.

Sensing you’re ready for more, Joel delivers one last kiss on your swollen pearl and pulls himself up. Before he can ask how he did, your lips crash onto his like a wave meeting the surface.

“C’m here” he picks you up off the furniture and walks to the bed. Easing you down on the comforter with his hand behind your head, he kisses you softly.

“You okay?” He asks hovering over you, grazing his digit along your flushed cheek.

“Yes, Joel” you reply with a sweet smile.

His palm rests on your bare chest, your heart vibrates along his digits, “Just relax, honey. Don’t force it. Just allow me to make you feel good”

For once, you taste the slightest bit of hope. Maneuvering himself out of his boxer briefs, Joel’s erect cock makes your cunny flutter. Its length is longer than average, its girth sculpted to perfection with a trace of a vein leading to his throbbing head. You need to know what it feels like.

“Joel… can I be on top?”

“Of course, baby”

Joel lays his head against the bed frame, you climb onto him, tracing your hand along his cock. Taking in a breath, you ease down on his shaft, letting it slide along your warm aching walls. You shriek at the overwhelming ecstasy of Joel being inside you. The feeling of Joel compared to other boyfriends is like night and day. Joel’s cock fills your tight cunny like he was meant for you and only you. His length curving up into your core, you’ve never experienced this feeling before.

“Joel” you pant, grabbing onto his solid torso.

“Let her adjust, baby. You feel me all the way inside you? Hitting all your sweet spots, kitten?”

“Mmmhmm”

Your hips roll at a steady pace. There’s no need to rush, you don’t want to rush anything that’s going on.

“F-feels so good, honey. Take everything you need. We have all night”

Joel watches your face contort into expressions of pleasure with every thrust and grind you deliver on his cock. His hands steady on your thighs start to trail up your tummy to your tender breasts. Your body shudders at his touch, letting a giggle echo from your lips.

Smirking, Joel asks, “You liked that, my hands fondling you right here?”

His digits tickle at your pebbled nipples forcing out a whimpered, “Yes”

Listening to your whines, his hands circle and pinch at your tortured flesh making your back arch. He listens to you, he observes you, he cherishes you.

“Joel… what are you doing to me?” You gasp. You’ve never felt such a crippling sensation building up in your core, like a ball of fire.

“Tell me what it feels like, kitten”

“I… I can’t… there’s no words” you end the sentence with a loud moan.

“Does it..mmmm.. feel warm?” He groans.

“Mmhmm right here..” gliding your hands to the center of your tummy.

“Good girl.. you’re doing so good. Do you trust me?”

“Mmm yes, Joel”

Sitting up, he kisses your mouth and tells you to turn around sitting on your knees.

“Lean forward alittle. Hands flat on the bed frame. Just like that, kitten”

Joel positions himself behind you, his lips kissing up your spine to your shoulder blade.

“Ready?” He whispers

“Yes, Joel”

He snakes his arm around your torso, and glides his cock in your cunny. The fire grows from within.

“Ahhhhh”

The curve of his cock hits a sweet spot that you didn’t even know existed. Slow at first, Joel’s hips rock a little harder. The more he hits the spot, the more the fire burns at your muscle fibers. You feel that little ball make its way down your tummy to the regions of your tight cunny. Like a flower about to bloom, you feel an intense build up of something unfamiliar. Like a glass about to tip over, a rocket being ready to launch, that first drop on a roller coaster.

“Joel… Joel… oh god..”

“Let go baby, I can feel her clutching me. Look at yourself… so beautiful”

Your eyes lock into the reflection in the mirror, Joel’s body loving and feeding you with immense passion. With your cunny about to hit the peak of ecstasy, he pulls one last move.

“Suck” he commands, bringing two digits to your mouth. Your tongue moistens his fingers, and what he does next sends your body into overdrive. Rubbing the digits against your pearl, you yelp his name and claw the wooden frame.

“You feel that baby? The excitement building in your pussy? You’re gonna come,honey.”

“Joel— it’s too much”

“Let go for me, baby. Wanna feel you collapse on me. Don’t fight it.”

Like a volcano about to erupt, your body gives in and it’s the most staggering experience of your life. Body seizering, voice cracking, stars blinding your vision. It finally happens.

“Joel… I’m… I’m coming!! I’m coming! Oh my god, I’m coming!”

“Mmm look at you… look at you” Joel teases, feeling you fold on his thick cock while his digits torture your pearl.

Hearing your cries of pleasure, Joel’s climax spills inside you. For a minute the world drifts away and it’s just you and Joel, together.

Easing back from the intense high, you turn towards him. He kisses your mouth without moving a muscle.

“You were amazing, kitten”

Exhaling a sigh of satisfaction, you murmur “Thank you, Joel”

He kisses your head as a way of saying “You’re welcome”

Laying on his chest in a sea of blankets, Joel caresses his digits into your hair; the best remedy to help you fall asleep. Nuzzling against him, you let the hums of his calm breaths rock you like a lullaby.

“Honey?”

“Yes, Joel?” your voice sleepy as you try to focus.

“Do you like waffles or pancakes?”

“Mmmm… pancakes”

He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Noted”

Joel stays the night, he spoons your restless body never breaking away from you.

The next morning, you’re awoken by the rain tapping on your apartment window with the roar of distant thunder. Rubbing the fatigue from your eyes, you stretch your arm out in hopes of finding Joel. Your head lifts off the pillow when all you feel is the sheets. At first, you figure he’s gone but his denim shirt lies ruffled on the floor. You roll out of the comforter and scamper along the room. Pulling his shirt off the floor, you wrap it around yourself. Leaving it open, you throw your hair in a messy bun and make your way down the hall. Walking closer to the kitchen, the comforting smell of coffee and blueberry pancakes wafts along the space.

Peaking through the wall, you find Joel in his boxer briefs whisking batter while whistling an unfamiliar tune. You watch as he takes a sip of coffee and flips pancakes up in the air. He’s so cute in his own little world. His eyes meet yours and smiles, “Hey, sleepyhead”

You emerge from your hiding spot, “Good morning, Mr. Miller”

He hands you a sunflower coffee mug and you stand on your tippy toes to deliver a kiss.

“Nice shirt,” he jokes.

“Borrowing it from a friend” you say while taking a sip of coffee.

Sitting at the barstool watching Joel’s cooking show, you’re impressed by how he flips pancakes into the air and gets them to land perfectly in the pan.

“That’s quite a talent” you compliment.

He scoffs, “It’s years of practice. My daughter Sarah loved watching The Food Network as a kid, so I was pretty much forced into learning how to flip pancakes in the air”

He tells you more about his daughter. She’s a college student studying to be a doctor and she loves soccer, horror movies, and of course her dad. Questions about her mom floated around your head, but you didn’t want to open that can of worms.

Taking another sip of coffee, Joel turns off the stove and waltzes over to you. Cupping your face, he glides his thumb along your cheek.

“What?” you giggle.

“You’re just so…cute”

Before you can reply, Joel picks you up off the stool making you shriek. He lays you on the edge of the dining room table. Kissing his coffee scented mouth, his digits glide along your tummy opening the shirt.

“What about breakfast?”

“It’s laying right here” he mutters, tracing his mouth down your body.

He makes you see the stars twice before sitting down to finally eat breakfast.

🥞🫐☕️🌌💋

Tagging: @jazzy11scorpio @baronessvonglitter @mani-pedro @deaneatspie @katssecretdiary @littledes1re @tateypots @fairylights-throughthemist @pascalispunkczechia @xbeababyx

And Joel Miller is under your car with his shirt rucked up to his ribs and your ability to think clearly lodged somewhere between your thighs.

You shift on your feet beside the garage lift, arms crossed tightly against your chest. The fan in the corner of the bay blows hot air in lazy circles, mixing with the burnt tang of rubber and the sharp, dry bite of old oil. It smells like heat and metal and him—soap and skin and sweat, overlaid with that cologne he probably applies without thinking. That kind of clean, masculine scent that never fades. Just clings.

He’s flat on his back beneath the undercarriage of your car, a socket wrench clutched in one thick, stained hand, the other braced against the metal frame as he mutters something under his breath.

You can see a bead of sweat roll from the edge of his hairline, down the side of his temple. His shirt’s damp at the neck. There’s a streak of grease running from the side of his palm all the way up his forearm.

You’ve never been so jealous of a car in your life.

Joel’s voice cuts through the thick air, deep and rough like gravel dragged over concrete.

"How long’d you let it rattle like that?"

You blink. “Uh… not long. Just since yesterday.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters, scooting further underneath with a scrape of denim against concrete. “This belt’s dry as hell. It’s been slippin’ for at least a week.”

You scowl down at his legs—long and solid, boots planted wide, knees slightly bent.

“I didn’t know it was a big deal.”

“It’s always a big deal when a car sounds like it’s tryin’ to cough up a lung.”

You bite your tongue.

Not because he’s wrong.

Because it shouldn’t do that to you when he gets short with you. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten and your face heat. You shouldn’t like the way he throws the full weight of his attention behind a reprimand, like your stupidity is a personal affront.

You glance toward the open bay door, sunlight slanting through the wide space, picking up dust and sawed-off shadows. No one else is here. Not Kenny. Not Zack. Not your friend. Just Joel. Just you. Just the lazy whir of the fan and the rhythmic click-click-click of the ratchet in his hands.

You hear him grunt.

Then he slides out from beneath the car, slow, like a movie scene you’re not allowed to be watching.

The first thing you see is his stomach.

Exposed skin.

Not toned. Not soft. Just… real. Solid. Covered in a sheen of sweat that catches the light.

You look up fast. Too fast.

But he notices.

His brows twitch just slightly as he sits up, shirt still bunched halfway up his chest, hands braced behind him as he stretches his back.

You pretend to be deeply invested in a smudge on your shoe.

Joel wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and pulls the rag from his back pocket, scrubbing at his forearms in slow, rough strokes. You swear you hear the fabric drag over his skin.

“You’re lucky,” he says, low. “Could’ve been worse. Belt’s dry but not cracked. I’ll grease it, retighten the pulley.”

You nod, because your mouth is dry and your throat is tight.

“Thanks,” you say. It comes out softer than you mean.

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just grabs another rag from the workbench and scrubs at his arms in hard, focused strokes. You watch a streak of black fade from his wrist to his elbow, leaving behind red, raw skin.

He doesn’t look at you.

“You can sit,” he says, voice low. Almost gruff. “Be a bit.”

You hesitate, then take the bench near the wall.

He drops back under the car without another word.

And you sit in the heat, listening to the hum of the fan and the click-click of his wrench, pretending you’re not watching every flex of his arm, every shift of his shoulders, every slow drag of breath that smells like grease and soap and skin.

You hadn’t expected to leave your car overnight. When Joel told you it might take a few extra hours, you’d figured you’d linger around the garage, kill time scrolling your phone or walking the nearby strip until it was done. But then the sky started to dim and he said he wanted to run diagnostics before letting you take it back out—"just to be sure," he’d said, voice unreadable—and you knew it wasn’t a request.

Your dad offered to pick you up without hesitation. “No sense in waiting around that late by yourself,” he’d said over the phone. “Besides, I haven’t seen Joel in a while.”

You hadn’t thought much of it until your dad pulled into the lot, familiar truck rumbling low and slow into the driveway, just as the last of the sun dipped behind the trees. Joel stepped out of the garage as the headlights flicked off. And then, in an instant, you weren’t standing next to a man who barely looked you in the eye anymore. You were standing next to someone your father trusted.

Your stomach turned.

“Been a while,” Joel said with an ease that didn’t match the way he spoke to you. “You still tryin’ to squeeze another hundred thousand outta that Ford?”

Your dad laughed like it was an old joke. “Still runs, doesn’t it? And you’re still the only bastard I trust to keep it that way.”

They clapped hands and exchanged a look that made your chest tighten. There was history between them—respect, camaraderie, the kind of bond built in shared years and broken engines. It was a good thing. Normal.

But you couldn’t ignore the twist in your gut. Couldn’t stop the guilt from blooming beneath your ribs as you remembered how your eyes had lingered too long on Joel’s exposed skin earlier. How you’d sat on the bench with your legs crossed too tight, pretending not to watch the flex of his arms, the drip of sweat at his temple, the dark smear of grease along his collarbone.

You didn’t say much on the ride home. Just stared out the window, jaw tight, heart louder than the radio.

–

You return to the garage the next morning just after opening. Your dad dropped you off with a request to “give Joel my best” and a promise he’d see you later that night at home. The air is still heavy with late-summer humidity, thick enough to cling to your clothes as you step across the gravel lot. One of the bay doors is rolled halfway up, casting a slanted beam of sunlight across the concrete floor. You spot your car immediately—hood popped, turned sideways in the center bay—and Joel standing beside it, already elbow-deep in the engine.

He doesn’t glance up when you enter. Doesn’t greet you. Just wipes his hand slowly down the length of a clean rag and gestures toward the car with a small tilt of his chin.

“Found something else.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Timing’s off. Slight knock. You’d never hear it unless you knew what to listen for, but it’ll wear out the internals if it keeps runnin’ like that.”

You step closer, the scent of motor oil and dust growing stronger as you cross into the shadow of the open bay.

“I didn’t hear anything,” you say.

Joel finally looks up. His expression is unreadable, jaw set, brow faintly furrowed. “That’s ‘cause you weren’t listenin’.”

There’s no malice in his tone—just honesty. Matter-of-fact. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

He turns away before you can respond and grabs a slim metal tool from the bench. His movements are deliberate and calm, but his silence feels thick, pressing in at the edges. There’s something different about him this morning—focused, yes, but quieter. Like something unspoken is coiled beneath his skin, just waiting for the wrong word to shake it loose.

“You’re not careful with it,” he says, his back still turned.

You blink, startled by the bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“You drive it too hard. Push it when it’s not ready. Ignore the sound of it strugglin’. It’s not invincible, you know.”

The words are soft but direct. No raised voice. No frustration. Just a quiet kind of judgment that lands harder than it should.

You cross your arms, the heat creeping into your chest. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I’m not givin’ one.”

He sets the tool down with a soft clink and turns toward you. The sunlight hits the edge of his face, casting a sharp line down his cheekbone, the smear of grease on his temple darker now in the angled light.

“I’m offerin’ to teach you,” he says.

You falter, unsure what to say to that. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. No teasing. He just watches you, steady and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

“I don’t know how to do any of this,” you admit quietly.

Joel nods once.

“Then come here.”

You step forward slowly, each footfall echoing faintly across the garage floor. The closer you get, the harder your heart pounds. By the time you reach his side, your hands feel clammy and your breath sits too high in your chest.

He points to a specific piece tucked within the open frame—metal and rubber and coiled tension that means nothing to you by name, but everything to the way the car moves.

“This is the tensioner,” he says. “Keeps the belt in place. If it’s too loose, it slips. If it’s too tight, it pulls too hard. Either way, it’ll eat through the engine.”

You nod, pretending you understand. You don’t. Not really.

“Here.” He reaches for a wrench—clean, heavy—and offers it to you. You curl your fingers around the handle. It’s warm from his hand. Solid.

But he doesn’t step back.

Instead, he shifts in behind you, one arm sliding carefully around your waist to reach for your hand on the tool. His chest brushes your back, and you freeze.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t lean.

He just breathes.

“Hold it like this,” he says, voice low near your ear, almost a whisper. “Let it lock. Then turn.”

His hand stays over yours as you move, guiding you through the motion. His palm is rough, callused, the press of his fingers steady and firm. You feel every ridge, every tendon. The heat of his body behind yours makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t move away.

You stare down at the engine, willing your pulse to slow, willing your knees not to shake.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You’ll feel the pull when it’s right.”

And you do, but not from the belt.

From him.

Then, slowly, Joel pulls his hand back. Steps away. The space between you widens, but the air doesn’t clear.

He clears his throat and wipes his hands again.

“Good,” he says.

The word hangs there. Unfinished. Weighted.

You stand still for a long time.

Neither of you speaks.

—

You don’t hear the bell at first.

Your shop is too warm, too quiet. The kind of stillness that settles when you’re alone with routine—focused not by calm, but by the familiar rhythm of your hands. You’re stripping peony stems at the prep table near the back, thumbs slick with sap, the faint cut of green staining the pads of your fingers. The water’s cold against your skin where it splashed your forearms earlier. You’ve been too busy to wipe it off.

The scent in the room is thick and clinging. Wet leaves. Rosewater. A sharper, bitter green where eucalyptus hangs to dry in bundles from the rafters. Everything around you feels alive—stems reaching, petals opening—but there’s no sound besides the slow rustle of your hands moving, and the steady beat of your heart, louder than it should be.

Until the bell above the front door rings.

You glance up, mildly surprised. The morning rush is long over. No one usually comes in at this hour except the mailman, and he never—

It’s Joel.

Your hand stills.

He stands framed in the doorway, backlit by sunlight, boots planted solid on the threshold like he’s deciding whether to come all the way in. He’s in the same navy work shirt as yesterday—buttons undone at the collar, sleeves rolled halfway to the elbow, the edges of his white undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. There’s a smudge of something dark near his wrist. Oil, probably. Or maybe grease. His hair’s a little mussed, like he’s already run a hand through it more than once.

You don’t say anything. Not at first.

Neither does he.

Eventually, Joel steps forward, the door closing behind him with a quiet click. His boots are loud on the wood floor, the sound somehow more invasive in the softness of the shop.

You go back to cutting stems, or at least pretending to. He stops a few feet away, just close enough to fill the air with that familiar scent—soap, sweat, whatever cologne he wears that clings too deep into his skin to be store-bought.

He doesn’t browse. Doesn’t look around. Just stands there watching you work, like he has every right to.

“I tried calling earlier,” he says after a pause.

Your hand doesn’t slow. “I saw.”

“You didn’t answer.”

You reach for another stem. “You didn’t leave a message.” You glance up, “I figured you’d call back if it mattered.”

Joel’s expression doesn’t give much away. But his hands are in his back pockets, and you’ve seen him long enough to know that means he doesn’t trust them right now.

“What do you need?” You ask, voice calm. Cool, even.

His eyes flick to the flowers. Then to your hands.

“Just checkin’ in on the car.”

You don’t smile, but something shifts behind your ribs. That same pressure you’ve been carrying since the garage. Since you left his space and came back to your own, only to realize neither really feels neutral anymore.

“It’s running fine,” you say simply.

Joel nods once. Slow. His gaze lingers for a second longer before dropping.

There’s a bucket of hydrangeas on the floor to your left—half-submerged in murky water, their stems a tangled mess. You nudge it toward him with your foot.

“If you’re going to stand there, you might as well do something useful.”

He raises an eyebrow but crouches down anyway. Lifts one of the dripping stems with care he probably doesn’t even realize he’s showing. He holds it up awkwardly.

You reach for it.

The water rolls off in a slow line down your wrist.

“Clean the end. Diagonal cut,” you murmur, barely glancing up. “About an inch off.”

Joel watches you for a second, then steps closer. The flower still rests in his hand, suspended between you. You reach for the shears, grip light but steady.

He doesn’t move away.

Not even when your fingers brush his.

Not even when the cut lands too close to the base of his thumb.

The scent of the flowers is heady here. Sweet. Almost cloying. But it’s his breath you feel. His eyes you sense. The tension in your own body has nothing to do with the work and everything to do with the silence stretching taut between your bodies.

Joel looks down at your hands—your bare forearms, your stained fingertips. The soft pull of your mouth as you focus. He doesn’t speak again.

He doesn’t need to.

The weight of his gaze says enough. Too much.

You drop the stem into a clean vase and step back before you can do anything stupid. Before either of you says something that can’t be unsaid.

You drop the stem into a clean vase and step back before you can do anything stupid. Before either of you says something that can’t be unsaid.

But Joel doesn’t move.

He stands there longer than necessary, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder. He’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch—like he’s weighing something in real time, trying to decide whether or not to let instinct win.

Then, slowly, his hand lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches just past your ear, fingers brushing the edge of your hair as he pulls something free—a small, green leaf caught near the base of your braid. He holds it between his fingers for a second too long. Doesn’t look at it.

Doesn’t look at you, either.

Then his eyes flick down to your chin, and his brows pinch—just a little. Like he notices something out of place.

“Hold still,” he mutters.

You do.

He lifts his thumb, presses it gently to the corner of your jaw—light, dry, careful. He wipes away something—sap, maybe. Or dirt. You don’t know. You can’t think with his hand on your face.

The pad of his thumb drags over the soft line of your skin. Not a caress. Not quite.

But close enough.

Too close.

You feel your pulse jump in your throat, sharp and sudden. His touch is too warm. His breath too steady. You feel him before you see him—the weight of his stare, the quiet fall of his focus as he lingers there, not quite pulling away.

Then Joel blinks.

And the moment shatters.

He steps back like he’s burned.

“Shit,” he mutters. Not loud. Not angry. Just… resigned.

His hand drops to his side. He glances toward the door, jaw tightening.

“I shouldn’t—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “I need to go.”

You don’t say anything.

You couldn’t if you tried.

He turns and walks out without another word.

The bell chimes once behind him, sharp and bright against the silence he leaves in his wake.

And you stay there, heart pounding, cheek still warm, wondering how much longer either of you is going to keep pretending.

—

The garage lights are off when you pull up in your dads car, except for one dim bulb still glowing behind the open bay.

The rest of the lot is dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that settles when the world has moved on for the day—when businesses are closed, sidewalks are empty, and the only sound left is the cooling tick of your engine as you park.

Your heart is already pounding.

You told yourself you were coming for your wallet. That you thought maybe you left it in the center console after your dad dropped off your keys that morning. It’s a stupid excuse—thin and see-through—but it’s all you could come up with when you hit call on his number.

He didn’t answer.

But the door was unlocked.

You step into the bay before you talk yourself out of it, the soft echo of your boots on concrete announcing you before you speak.

He doesn’t turn right away.

Joel is bent under the hood of your car—again. Elbows braced, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. There’s music playing somewhere in the background—something low and twangy on a half-broken radio, the notes floating around like smoke.

You see him pause. Hear the click of the ratchet stop.

Then he exhales and straightens slowly, his movements tight. He glances at you just once before turning toward the utility sink near the corner of the bay.

You watch as he pumps soap into his palms, head down, shoulders tense. The water runs loud for a moment—harsh and quick—while he scrubs his hands under the stream. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t linger either. When he shuts the tap, he wipes his hands off on the worn towel beside it and finally turns back to face you.

His shirt is still damp. His hair curls behind his ears. And even from where you stand, you can still smell the oil on his skin. It clings to him like heat—faint and bitter and unmistakably Joel.

“I left you a message,” he says, voice low and rough. “Heard from your dad you’re driving upstate this weekend. Figured I’d check the plugs. Run a final scan.”

You nod, like you’re grateful. Like you’re not dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now.

“Wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” you manage. “I thought I left my wallet.”

Joel tilts his head slightly.

“Didn’t think you were comin’ back tonight.”

Your stomach flips.

“I thought I left my—”

“I know what you said.”

He says it quiet. No edge, no push. Just a statement. Heavy with something he won’t name.

You don’t move.

The silence stretches.

He tosses the rag onto the bench without taking his eyes off you.

“Find it?” He asks.

“What?”

“Your wallet.”

You swallow. You haven’t even taken one step towards your car, “No.”

Joel takes a step forward after closing the hood of your car.

Just one.

The lighting is bad. Harsh overhead, buzzing faintly. It casts long shadows across the concrete and catches on the sweat at his collarbone, the dark smudge near his temple. His fingers are still streaked with oil.

You don’t know if you want to touch them or fall to your knees.

He doesn’t get closer, but the air between you tightens. Pulls taut like a cable ready to snap.

“You need to stop,” he says suddenly. Voice quiet. Hoarse.

Your breath catches.

“Stop what?”

Joel shakes his head once. Slow. “Comin’ around like this. Lookin’ at me like that.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

His tone isn’t cruel. It isn’t even angry.

It’s worse.

It’s regretful. Raw. Like he’s already halfway through losing this fight and trying to pretend he isn’t.

You force a step forward.

Maybe two.

The scent of the shop rises up—rubber, fuel, sweat. And underneath it, faint but familiar, him.

He watches you like he’s daring you to keep going.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

That lands hard.

You stop walking. Swallow.

He’s still standing perfectly still, jaw tight, chest rising a little faster now. His fingers flex at his sides like they want to grab something. Hold it. Break it.

You want to say something sharp. Deflect. But nothing comes.

You meet his gaze, and the silence between you stretches tight, drawn so thin it could tear with a whisper. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you breathes. And then—almost imperceptibly—he shifts.

Joel moves first.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just one slow, deliberate step forward, and then another, like he’s already made up his mind and his body is only now catching up. There’s no hesitation in the way he closes the distance—only weight. Only heat.

Like this was always going to happen.

Then his hands are in your hair and your back hits the side of the car hard enough to knock the breath out of you.

His mouth finds yours before you can gasp—hot, rough, desperate. All teeth and tongue and punishment. Like he’s mad at himself. Like you’re a sin he can’t stop touching.

Your fingers claw at the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it whole, one hand cupping your jaw, the other anchoring low on your hip. His thigh wedges between yours, hard and hot, pinning you in place.

“You have any fuckin’ idea,” he growls into your mouth, “how hard I’ve been tryin’ to be good?”

You shake your head, dazed, drunk on him already.

He kisses you again—filthy, possessive, not asking.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he mutters against your throat, licking a stripe up the skin before biting down gently. “And I sure as hell ain’t supposed to be doin’ this.”

“Then stop,” you whisper.

He growls.

“Too late.”

He lifts you effortlessly—hands under your thighs—and sets you down on the edge of the workbench with a low grunt. Tools rattle somewhere behind you, but neither of you notices.

Joel grabs your face with one hand, his thumb stroking roughly along your cheek as he stares down at you, breathing hard.

“You want this?” He asks.

You nod.

He shakes his head.

“Say it.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

The rest comes undone fast.

Joel surges forward like he’s been waiting years for permission—like the second those words leave your mouth, there’s no universe where he doesn’t ruin you for anyone else.

His mouth crashes into yours again—open, messy, all heat and breath and hunger. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t precise. It’s needy. The kind of kiss that tastes like restraint finally giving out. You moan against his lips and it only spurs him on, his hands already sliding down the backs of your thighs, gripping hard like he doesn’t trust himself to let go.

He lifts you without warning, big hands digging under your legs, your back arching as he sets you on the edge of the workbench with a grunt. The cool metal bites into the backs of your legs, a stark contrast to the heat rolling off him in waves. Tools clatter somewhere behind you from the movement, but neither of you registers the sound.

All you can feel is him.

His fingers spread wide over your skin, anchoring you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

And when he leans back just enough to look at you—forehead pressed to yours, sweat slicking his brow, eyes gone dark and hungry—you forget how to breathe.

“You want this?” He asks again, his voice wrecked. Like maybe he just needs to hear it one more time to believe he hasn’t dreamed this.

You nod. Your voice barely comes out. “Yes.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Say it.”

And God, you want to be good for him. You want to give him everything.

“I want you,” you whisper, breathless, shaky.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second—like it hurts to hear. Like he’s been waiting for this and dreading it at the same time.

And then he drops to his knees.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t speak. Just spreads you open with both hands, and drags your skirt up so fast the fabric scrapes your skin. His breath hitches when he sees what’s waiting for him—slick, swollen, glistening under the dim light.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “No fuckin’ panties…”

You flush, your heart hammering in your chest.

“I didn’t plan on—”

“You didn’t plan on gettin’ fucked in my garage?” His voice is strained, but he’s already leaning in. “Coulda fooled me, sweetheart.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Open. Devastating.

He moans into your pussy like he’s starving—like he needs it to breathe. His tongue drags through your folds, slow and deep, and your head snaps back against the wall with a loud, broken gasp.

Everything goes hot.

The pressure of his palms on your thighs, the humid air clinging to your skin, the obscene sound of his mouth working between your legs—it’s all too much, too fast, and not nearly enough.

“Fuck,” he mutters into you. “This—this is what I’ve been thinkin’ about. Every night. Every time you walked through my shop like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.”

His tongue flicks your clit and your legs jerk.

He groans, low and filthy, like he’s grateful for your reaction. Like he needs it.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he whispers, lips dragging across the sensitive skin there. “So soft. So wet for me. Fuck—you were made for this. Made to sit right here and let me taste you.”

You whimper. You don’t care how loud. You grind against his mouth because you can’t not, and he lets you. Encourages it. Holds you down with one arm across your stomach while he devours you like he’s trying to bury something in the act.

Your body burns. Your toes curl. Your fingers tangle in his hair and you pull, hard.

He groans and pushes a thick finger inside you.

You nearly scream.

“Jesus—Joel—”

“That’s it,” he breathes, pumping it slowly, curling it just right. “Fuck, baby. You’re squeezin’ me so tight. So fuckin’ good for me.”

His mouth finds your clit again and you shatter.

The orgasm hits like a truck—fast, hard, all-consuming. Your whole body locks up, your thighs clench around his face, and you cry out, loud and wild and unfiltered.

He moans against you while you fall apart, keeps licking like he can’t get enough, doesn’t stop until you’re trembling and panting and trying to push him away.

When he finally stands, he’s breathing hard. His beard is soaked with you. His lips are pink and swollen and glistening.

And he looks completely fucked.

“You okay?” He asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, unable to speak, your whole body still buzzing.

His hands go to his belt. His eyes never leave yours.

“You want me to fuck you now, baby?”

You nod again.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

“I want you inside me.”

He growls—actually growls—and frees himself with shaking hands. He fumbles with a condom, cursing under his breath, and when he rolls it on, you see how thick he is. How long. Your mouth goes dry.

He steps between your thighs and drags the head of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Shit,” he groans. “You feel that, darlin’? That’s how bad your pussy wants me. You’re so fuckin’ ready.”

You whimper again and he presses in—slowly, gently, watching your face.

Your mouth drops open. Your head falls back.

You’ve never felt so full.

“Goddamn,” he rasps, hips shaking. “Takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ right—Jesus, you were made for me.”

He doesn’t move for a moment. Just holds you there, bottomed out, letting you feel all of him.

Then he starts to move.

He fucks you slow at first, like he’s trying to make it last.

His hips rock into yours in long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch, your thighs tremble, your body arch. His hands are everywhere—cupping your jaw, sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist so tight you know you’ll feel the shape of his fingers tomorrow. The smell of oil and sweat still clings to him, thick in the air, mixing with the sound of skin meeting skin and the ragged, breathless groans spilling from his throat every time he sinks back into you.

“That feel good?” He grits against your ear, voice shaking with restraint. “Feel how tight you are, squeezin’ my cock like you don’t wanna let me go.”

You nod, gasping, already wrecked—and he kisses your shoulder, your neck, your mouth like he can’t pick where he wants to be.

But after a few more strokes, his rhythm stutters. His breath catches. And you feel it—the need, the desperation building behind every thrust.

Joel pulls out suddenly with a sharp, choked sound, and you gasp at the loss.

“Up,” he pants, grabbing your hand. “Come on—c’mere. Over here.”

You stumble down from the workbench, legs shaky, knees weak, and let him guide you across the bay—until the cool metal of your car’s hood hits the backs of your thighs.

He turns you gently, presses your palms flat against the surface, and says, low and breathless, “Bend for me.”

You do.

And then he’s behind you again—hot, heavy, hands greedy as he spreads you open, tilts your hips just right.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters when he slides back in. “That’s it. That’s the fuckin’ angle, baby.”

You cry out—louder this time. The stretch hits deeper now, every inch filling you so perfectly, so thoroughly it feels like he’s reaching parts of you no one else ever has. Your cheek presses to the hood, fogging the metal with your breath as he starts to thrust harder, rougher, the slick drag of his cock making your thighs tremble beneath you.

Joel groans behind you—long and low and needy—and his hand comes down on your ass in a firm, claiming grip.

“Goddamn, look at that,” he breathes. “Look at me, baby. Look at how pretty you’re takin’ it.”

You lift your head, barely, just enough to glance toward the windowed wall of the garage—and catch his reflection in the glass. His eyes are on you. Or more specifically, on the spot where his cock disappears inside you again and again, glistening and perfect and obscene.

“You see that?” He pants. “You see how good you look like this? Bent over your car with my cock buried deep in your tight little cunt?”

Your breath stutters. He presses deeper, and you feel your muscles start to tighten again, pressure coiling low and fast in your belly.

“Joel,” you whimper.

His hand slides up your back, slow and hot, until it curls around the base of your neck. He leans forward—chest against your back, mouth at your ear.

“You’re bein’ so good for me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Takin’ every inch like you were made for it. You feel me right here?”

He presses a palm against your lower stomach and thrusts once, deep.

You cry out.

“Incredible,” he groans. “You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

That wrecks you.

You come with a sob, body locking up, cunt pulsing around him so hard he nearly drops his head to your shoulder and curses into your skin.

“Shit—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he pants. “Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me—shit—gonna make me come—”

His rhythm breaks, thrusts getting sloppy, desperate.

And then he groans, deep and raw and wounded, as he spills into the condom with a final, shuddering thrust.

For a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the lights above, the soft click of cooling metal beneath you, and his panting breath as he leans against your back—sweat-slicked, trembling, completely undone.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, finally. “What the fuck are we doin’?”

You don’t answer.

You just feel his hand slide around your waist again, holding you close.

Because you both know—this isn’t the end.

Not even close.

—

The silence after is loud.

Joel doesn’t say anything when he pulls out. Just exhales, rough and uneven, and rests his forehead between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to remember how to breathe. His hands stay on your hips—one tight, one shaking—until your legs nearly give out beneath you.

Then he moves.

He tucks himself away, peels the condom off, and tosses it in the shop bin without looking at you. The air in the garage is cooler now. Your skin sticky with sweat, your heartbeat still trying to find its rhythm.

You’re about to speak—ask what happens now, what the hell that was—when his voice cuts through the quiet.

“C’mon.”

Just that.

He slides a hand beneath your shirt again—gentler now, fingers warm on your spine—and guides you toward the side stairwell, one that leads to the apartment above the shop. You follow him barefoot, legs unsteady, your skin still flushed and sore in the best kind of way.

The upstairs is small. Just a kitchen that opens into a living space, dimly lit, with a narrow hallway beyond it. Joel doesn’t pause. He just leads you straight to the bathroom, flicks on the light, and turns on the shower.

You stand there while steam begins to fog the mirror. Joel doesn’t look at you as he moves. Just grabs two towels, sets them beside the sink, and pulls his shirt off over his head. It’s only when he reaches for the hem of yours that his eyes finally meet yours again.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t have to.

His hands are slow this time—soft, careful—as he undresses you, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. When you don’t, he finishes pulling off what’s left of your clothes, then his own, and steps into the shower behind you.

The water hits first. Hot. Heavy. You lean into it instinctively, and he follows—arms bracketing you, one hand on the wall above your head, the other sliding gently up your side like he can’t help himself.

He doesn’t touch you like he’s trying to start something again.

He touches you like he’s still stunned you let him.

His fingers find your hair, work through it slowly. You close your eyes as he massages shampoo into your scalp with firm, steady hands, lathering without a word. When the soap rinses clean, he switches to your shoulders, down your arms, the curve of your spine, the backs of your thighs.

He scrubs the sweat and oil from your skin in reverent silence. Not a word spoken between you. Only the sound of water hitting tile, the gentle scrape of his calloused hands moving with surprising tenderness.

Eventually, you turn to face him.

He looks exhausted. Damp curls sticking to his forehead, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t come all the way down yet. His eyes trace your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

Then he lifts one hand—just one—and wipes the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. His hand lingers.

And before either of you can think better of it, he leans in—slow, hesitant—and presses his lips to yours.

It’s not like before.

It’s soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology wrapped in something warm. His mouth moves gently over yours, no hunger, no heat—just something quiet and aching, like he’s trying to say all the things he never will.

When he pulls back, your fingers find his face.

You touch his jaw first—just a ghost of contact—and then cradle his cheek in your palm. The coarse stubble, the heat of his skin, the way his breath catches when you do it—it’s too much and not enough all at once.

He leans into your touch.

Like it hurts to be seen that way. Like it’s been so long since someone’s touched him with anything other than need.

And for a moment, the garage, the rules, the guilt—all of it—just falls away.

It’s only him. Only you.

And the silence in between.

“I shouldn’t’ve let that happen,” he murmurs.

You don’t reply.

Not because you disagree—but because it’s already too late.

Later, in the quiet of his apartment, you find yourself standing in front of his dresser while he digs through the bottom drawer.

“Here,” he says, tossing something soft your way.

You catch it.

It’s an old garage tee—black, worn thin, with a faded logo over the left breast: Miller Automotive. It smells like him. Like grease, pine soap, and something warmer. Something that makes your stomach twist.

You pull it on without a word. It hangs long on you, brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Joel watches the whole thing from where he stands by the door, his expression unreadable.

“Bed’s this way.”

He nods toward the back room.

You follow.

The sheets are clean. The room is dim. When you climb in, he doesn’t hesitate. Just clicks off the bedside lamp and settles in behind you, one hand flat on the mattress between you like a line he doesn’t trust himself to cross again.

But he stays close.

So close you can feel his breath on your neck.

So close his voice, when it finally comes again, is barely more than a whisper.

“Shouldn’t’ve happened,” he says again, quieter now. “But I don’t think I could stop it even if we tried.”

You don’t say anything.

Just lay there in his shirt, still damp from the shower, the scent of him pressed into your skin, your body warm from where he’d touched it—held it—like something he wasn’t ready to give up.

Eventually, you fall asleep to the sound of him breathing beside you.

And the feeling of something unfinished still hanging in the air.

____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°• ____ ____ •°• ⚙ •°

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him. “You’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents at the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. 

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “Y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)