mango

you cross your arms a little tighter over your chest as the wind picks up and the chill in the air prickles at your skin. running up the pathway to his doorstep, you’re practically screaming at yourself to not do this, reminding yourself that it’s not too late to turn around and go home. 

this isn’t worth it, you tell yourself. you’re throwing yourself at his mercy just so you can get laid, and you’re still going to end up in your own bed a few hours from now remembering how heartstricken you are because you’re nothing more than a good time to him. 

he’s a piece of shit and you know it. your heart shouldn’t jump in your chest solely at the sound of his name. the butterflies shouldn’t start fluttering in your stomach every time he tells you to come over. you’re better than this, which is why you should turn around right now and go home. 

and yet, as you stand there waiting to knock, you can’t resist the temptation. forget your longing heart, forget how badly you want something real with him; you’re here for one reason only. 

live now, think later. 

you practically bang down the door in your exasperation. why do you continue to do this yourself? why have you not learned how to say no to him? how have you not fallen out of love with him even if only because of his self-obsession? 

you hate the way you convince yourself that deep down, he’s a good man. he means well, that he does care about you. objectively, you know that it’s true.

but you can’t see anything objectively when it comes to him. 

the shit-eating grin on his face when he sees you standing on his porch reminds you of both exactly why you’re here and exactly why you shouldn't be here. 

you’re here because he’s the best sex you’ve ever had, and you can never will yourself to say no to spending the night with him. 

you shouldn’t be here because he’s a prick who knows that you can’t stop yourself, and the fact that you continue to show up time after time is just another boost to his already far too massive ego. 

“knew you’d come running when I called, sweetheart,” he laments. the smirk on his face only grows as he looks you up and down where you stand in his doorway, taking in the sight of you in the little black dress you’re wearing. “looking like a fuckin’ hooker, too.” 

anger rises in your chest, red-hot and broiling. you wish the comment was enough to send you away, to slap you back into reality. 

of course it isn’t. 

“fuck off,” you bite back at him, the chill continuing to bite at your skin. “are you going to let me in or not?”

he lets out a small chuckle as he tilts his head back up to your face, and even as he does so, he’s still looking down at you. the fact that he’s so damn tall never fails to make you both so angry and so turned on, and your body warms as he stares deep into your eyes with a look that makes you wonder if he can hear every thought in your head. 

“dunno. like seeing you out in the cold, your nipples poking through–”

he’s a pig, you tell yourself, and yet you shove past him to let yourself inside the house. making your way straight to his kitchen, you find your most frequented cabinet, the door that you know you’ll find the liquor behind. you know his place like the back of your hand by this point, which you know should most certainly not be the case. 

you shouldn’t be drawn to him. he’s terrible, he’s a womanizer, he…

“you drink as much as a hooker, too.” 

you’re madly in love with him, just like every other woman that’s ever laid her eyes on him. he’s tall, effortlessly handsome, and built with muscles like a Greek god. 

although unlike those other women, you actually get to have a taste of him. you get to know what he feels like on top of you, what it’s like to be in his bed, have his fingers on you, inside of you. and yet it still doesn’t mean you can call him yours any more than they can. 

you ignore his comment, proceeding to take a swig from the first bottle you manage to grab. 

tequila. you’ve never taken him for a tequila kind of guy, but–

it’s your drink of choice, and it’s a brand new bottle. 

no, no, no. this is not something to be read into. he is not a considerate person, and he did not buy a bottle of liquor just for you. 

as you stare at the wall, bottle still in hand, you feel the burn of the liquid going down your throat. the pattering of his feet against the floor fills your ears as he makes his way behind you, pressing himself up against you until you’re stuck between him and the edge of the counter where it digs into your stomach. 

you wish you hated him. you wish your disdain for him was stronger than the soul-crushing love you hold for him. 

your head drops to your shoulder as he leans in closer, his nose brushing up against the skin of your neck and his face burying itself in your hair. you can hear the sound of him sharply inhaling the scent of your perfume as his hips roughly pin you in place against the solid granite. 

“Ben,” you whine before turning your head in the opposite direction, bringing the bottle to your lips once more and taking one last drink before setting it back down onto the countertop. 

“found my little gift for you, did you?” he murmurs, one hand coming to drag your hair away from your flesh before beginning to suck a hickey into your skin. 

the fact that he’s deliberately breaking your rule to not leave any marks completely evades you as your mind is overtaken with thoughts about how he just openly admitted that he bought the bottle for you. 

“fuck off,” you respond softly, unable to come up with a real response, your voice lacking the confidence you wish to portray as you speak. except your heart is beating too fast in your chest as you let yourself read into the comment, let yourself believe that the gesture was made with heartfelt intention. 

it does not mean anything. he does not care about you. 

he inches closer to you, if even possible, his body heat seeping into your skin and blurring the lines of where you end and he begins. his hands trace up the back of your legs, underneath the hem of your dress where it sits just below the curve of your ass. as he drags the fabric higher and higher, exposing more of your skin for him to caress, his fingers make their way between your thighs up until he reaches the lace that sits skimpily on your skin. 

“feisty,” he taunts in response to your stupid little remark, the retort sending another burst of anger through you that only serves to make you that much more desperate for his touch. he continues his work on your neck, biting and sucking more bruises as you begin whining with the realization that they’re his marks. that for now, you can delude yourself and let yourself truly feel like you’re his, if only for a moment. his fingers between your legs pinch and grab at your flesh as he taunts you, causing you to jolt and hiss with each motion he makes. 

you can’t help the way your mind begins to go cloudy, your eyes growing hazy. you’re entirely unable to peel them back open as his touch consumes the entirety of your conscious mind. 

“oh, Ben,” you can’t help but whimper as he begins rubbing your cunt over the dainty lace that barely covers anything. 

except he knows you so well, far too well by now, that he can tell when your mind begins to shut down. he knows that the alcohol doesn’t do a damn thing, that you’re drunk on nothing but the small, torturous pleasures he’s giving you. 

“yeah, that’s how we like her,” he mocks of you as one of his feet kicks the inside of your own, forcing your legs to part as he eases you forward, bending you over the beautiful granite countertop. he takes your wrists and softly folds them across each other before resting them against your lower back as your chest meets the surface in front of you, the cold feeling shocking your system as your cheek comes to rest against it. “look at you. so easy, just like a little whore, aren’t ya?”

“I’m not,” you try to bite back, but your words come out as nothing more than a jumble of sounds as his fingers begin to gently rub your clit over the lace of your panties. as much as you fight it, you know how you look right now: stupid and pathetic as you bend over and spread your legs for him without hesitating. 

your entire figure heats up as his other hand finds its way to your hip and gently shoves your dress out of the way before placing his palm, so warm and so large, against your skin to hold you in place. his other hand doesn’t let up on his ministrations on your clit, the sensations dizzying. 

biting your lip proves ineffective as you attempt to contain the weak noises that escape from your throat, every single little moan and breath you let out is just music to his ears, goading him on even further. 

with your dress displaced and bunched up around your waist, the lace hidden underneath becomes visible to his gaze. the deep green of the undergarment catches his attention. 

“never seen this before,” he mutters. his free hand begins tracing over the lines of the fabric, his mind whirring and beginning to draw his own conclusions. “you buy this just for me?” 

you could scoff at the audacity of his words, his egotistical nature revealing itself once more with the question he’s just posed to you. 

“absolutely not–” you protest, except once again, he cuts you off before you can finish speaking. effectively shutting you up as he harshly shoves the lace to the side and pushes two fingers inside you, so wet and ready already. 

no matter how irritating he is, how much of a fucking prick he is, you continue to bow down to his mercy every time.

“keep lying to me, see where that gets you,” he threatens, poking and prodding around inside you like it’s a punishment, yet another humiliation he inflicts to coerce you into obeying and telling him the truth. 

of course you’re lying. you can’t admit that to him so easily, though. 

another breathless mewl falls from your lips as he plays with your cunt like you’re just a toy for him, testing to see what reactions he can pull from you. you hate to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much of an effect he has on you, how easily he can pull you apart without even trying. 

this would be so much easier for you, you think, if his touch meant nothing to you. if you had no attachment, if you were only here to get off without the thought of anything more in your head. if you could turn off your feelings for only a night. 

life doesn’t work like that. 

his free hand moves to grip your bicep and gently pulls you back into a standing position in front of him, encouraging you to lean your weight against him. his hand adjusts to wrap itself around your chin, forcing your jaw to part before withdrawing his fingers from between your legs and bringing them to your mouth. 

he looks on with lust in his gaze as he stares down at the sight of your lips wrapping themselves around his fingers coated in your arousal. you don’t fight, don’t hesitate to do exactly as he pleases, because you know you always will. you’ll always give into him without question, happily. 

“look at me,” he murmurs into your ear, and your eyes open slowly, darting to look at him in your peripheral. yet again, he laughs, and the fluttering in your belly only increases tenfold at his acknowledgement of your debasement. “you look real pretty like this.” 

if only his compliments were genuine. 

“you gonna lie to me again?” he inquires, to which you softly shake your head no, not once breaking eye contact as you do. the smirk on his face only widens with your admission. when his fingers finally fall from where they rest against your tongue, your breathing heaves as you finally confess. 

“fuck, yeah. I did. I bought it for you,” you tell him between deep inhales, revealing the truth and pleasing him. 

“that’s what I thought,” he grumbles as though exasperated. he soon diverts his gaze from yours to watch as his hands glide down your torso until they reach the bunched-up fabric of your dress. he tugs the dress up and over your head with ease, fully revealing the dainty green set you’re wearing underneath. 

he turns you around to face him, caging you in as his hands come to rest on the edge of the cold granite on either side of your figure. he leans in close enough that you can smell the faint scent of his shampoo on his hair as he looks you up and down, taking in the vision of your figure in front of him. you notice the way his pupils dilate, the way his jaw clenches before his eyeline meets yours once more. 

there’s a look in his gaze unlike any you’ve ever seen before, and you don’t know what to make of it. it’s as though the confidence on his face somehow falters as he glares into your soul through your eyes. you catch how his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows roughly before speaking again. 

“you let anyone else touch you like this?” he asks, and you refuse to let him see the way the words are like a punch in the gut. you can’t let him in; you have to hold your act together as you respond. 

“I don’t belong to you, Ben,” you say, keeping your voice steady and maintaining eye contact. 

he’s not pleased with your answer, which is obvious in the way he huffs, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to meet yours once more. 

“that’s not an answer, and you know it.” 

this is nothing more than his ego talking, his desperate need to be better than anyone and everyone showing itself in his line of questioning. he could care less about actually having you; he just can’t stand the thought of anyone else having you. 

because he’s a selfish, egomaniacal supe with an incessant craving for approval. 

that’s how you fit into his life: you’re just another thing for him to have whenever he feels like it, whenever he needs the ego boost. he calls you in his lowest moments not because he wants you, but because he needs you. 

you, meaning nothing but a means of validating himself. you, meaning a tool for him to use to fix the cracks in his facade. you, meaning a stepping stone that exists only to support him until he finds the next best thing, the next girl he sets his sights on. 

the next girl he calls beautiful, the next girl he fucks–

to his surprise, you suddenly turn away from him and reach for the bottle of liquor on the counter behind you. as you lift it to your lips to take another drink, he stops you, reaching out to grab your wrist and holding your arm in place mid-air. 

“what the fuck?” you hiss, but he doesn’t give you an answer, simply ripping the bottle from your hand and laying a quick slap on your ass. 

“you’re really starting to piss me off,” he snarls, turning you to face him once more, the look of anger on his face apparent. he brings one hand to your hip, his grip tight and bruising as his other hand comes to wrap itself around your neck, a reminder of your place. “I know you don’t think you’re running the show here, darlin’.”

he stares you down for another moment, his eyes glancing back and forth between yours for a couple seconds, scanning for something that you’re not quite sure of. he’s breathing quickly but steadily, and the look on his face is almost… apprehensive? 

you never know what he’s thinking, and you’ve learned at this point that you’re better off not knowing. you’ll only end up getting hurt even worse. 

you’re taken completely off-guard when he suddenly moves so swiftly that you can’t keep up as his hand drops from your neck, bringing it to your other hip and hoisting you up and over his shoulder. 

“Ben,” you shriek, to which he lands another smack on your ass as he carries you down the hall and to his bedroom. “I swear to god, if you drop me–”

“not gonna happen,” he assures you with a confidence you wish you were able to mirror. 

you wish this didn’t make you feel so giddy, being reminded of all the things about him that get you hot and bothered. how strong and sure of himself he is, even if he is overconfident as hell. 

you wish you didn’t have fun with him. you wish that he was boring, or that he was bad in bed, or anything just so you could snap out of your daze and realize how stupid you are for loving him so wholeheartedly. 

a few seconds later, you find yourself being tossed onto the soft sheets on his bed as he follows, climbing on top of you and smiling down at you.

“oh, I’d never drop you, sweetheart. can’t have anything bad happening to my favorite hooker, now can I?” he teases, both of his hands running up and down your sides with a gentleness you wouldn’t know he was capable of if you didn’t know him so well by now. 

you shouldn’t know him. you really wish you didn’t. 

a smile breaks out across your face as he grins so authentically back at you, his hair hanging down in front of his forehead, and you take the opportunity to admire how absolutely beautiful he is. you hate how much you love the way he looks at you, how goddamn fucking pretty he is up close like this. 

“I’m not a hooker,” you reiterate, still smiling like an idiot as your eyes trail over each and every perfect feature on his face. just by looking at him he makes your heart melt. 

“whoring yourself out just for me, then, huh?” 

you roll your eyes and try to wipe the smile from your face, try to ignore the way he looks at you like you’re the only girl in the world. 

it’s not real. you have to know it’s not, you have to remind yourself it’s fake.

“I told you, I don’t belong to you,” you repeat, the smile on your face finally fading as the reality of the situation comes back to you. 

his grin drops with yours. 

“thought I told you to stop lying to me,” he says, his voice deepening. 

and just like that, the bubble is broken. he sits back and brings his hands to your waist, barely having to put any strength into the motion as he quickly turns you over onto your stomach, your cheek being pressed into the pillow. his hand comes down on your ass a few more times, just enough to jolt you as he continues. “you’ve been lying to me all night. don’t think you deserve for me to fuck you,” he threatens. 

the sound of that pisses you off beyond belief, anger and some form of deep-rooted insecurity broiling in your chest. 

you’re not good for him. you’re not good enough for him. you could never be enough for him. 

how could you ever be worthy of him? you’re not even a supe, why the hell would he deign to even look at you? 

you don’t even manage to get a word in as you watch him reach for the bedside drawer, every cell in your body too focused on the feeling of where his hand makes contact with your flesh repeatedly, the sting keeping you on edge. 

he adjusts his positioning behind you, his knees bracketing yours and pressing your thighs together as you hear the sound of him unbuckling his belt. 

“come on, admit it, sweetheart,” he goads, gently caressing your skin to ease the sting from his previous treatment. “just say the words and I’ll give you what you want.” 

you wish you could give him what he wants. you wish you could unapologetically declare how he owns every part of you, how your heart and soul want nothing more than to be his. you wish you could tell him the truth and he wouldn’t mock you for it, that reality didn’t bleed into every night you spend with him. 

you can’t say anything at all. your voice will inevitably crack, or you’ll accidentally say something that’s going to cut the night short and get you thrown out of his life for good. 

“have it your way,” he murmurs, and then you feel the warmth of his fingers spreading warm liquid over the backs of your thighs. 

and that’s when it clicks in your head. 

“you’re not serious,” you protest, moving to press your weight onto your hands to push yourself away from the bed. he’s not having any of it, immediately forcing you back down into position. 

“you say the words and I’ll fuck you proper,” he iterates. once again, you don’t respond, and he leans in, his nose brushing against your ear from behind. “alright. have it your way.”

and then you feel it, the sensation of him pressing himself in between your slicked-up thighs. 

you can’t help but let out a small whine of complaint as he ruts his hips against you, shoving deeper into the space between your legs. the sounds of his groans in your ear fill your head and overwhelm any rational thought other than, 

“Ben, I swear to god, just fuck me,” you whine stupidly, so desperately as you try to grind down against him, try to shift and find the right angle to rub his dick right where you need it, higher, closer–

you’re no match for his strength, pinning you to the bed and forcing you to lay there and take it.

“I am fucking you,” he retorts with another movement, yet another grunt passing his lips and making your cunt clench again, still feeling so fucking empty. “you know how to get what you want.”

you hate him. you really, truly do, and you should tell him to get the fuck off of you so you can get up and walk out right now. you came here to get fucked, not to get tormented relentlessly. 

except you know that those two things are a package deal with him. you knew what you were getting yourself into. 

you love it. you love him. 

even as you keep your mouth shut, refusing to give in to what he’s asking, you continue to try and squirm underneath him as though it’ll do you any favors. except he has far more patience and self-restraint in bed than in any other aspect of his life. 

“stop fuckin’ moving and suck it up,” he orders, and once again, his rough tone does nothing but worsen the desperation and pure horniness you feel right now. the noises you make in response are downright disgusting, pathetic whimpers you have no control over.

“Ben, please?” you whisper after a few moments of his horrendously cruel treatment. you hate being forced to beg him for anything, your desperation and pleas only serving to inflate his ego even further with the acknowledgement that you need something only he can give you. 

but it might just work in this case.

“no. we’re not doing that. you want me to split you open? you gotta say the words, darlin’,” he says, all while forcing one of his hands between where your abdomen rests on the sheets, snaking further and further down. “maybe I can help convince you, huh?” 

his hand finally forces its way down to find the lace resting against your cunt, the fabric surely more than soaked by now. his fingers barely graze you and you’re already choking up, trying to jut your hips up against his hand to find more friction, to get him to actually touch you. 

except his other hand holds you still so you can only accept whatever minute, sparse touches he chooses to give you. 

“I hate you,” you whisper, your mind clouding over once more as the need for him consumes you. 

“aww, I bet you do,” he taunts back, his breathing growing heavier and his movements quicker and more sporadic. “come on, sweetheart.”

you’re devolving into a mess underneath him as the torment makes you grow dizzy. you don’t want to give in, you can’t admit the truth, you…

his voice is far too soft as he tells you, “just tell me that you’re mine and I’ll give you the world.”

you let out a loud, emotional cry at the sound of that, of the thought of him actually caring sending you into a spiral. in the same moment, you feel his hips force themselves between the flesh of your thighs once more before letting go, the warmth of his release coating your soft skin. 

you will yourself to calm down as he quits touching you entirely, his breathing slowing down in your ear as he comes back to himself after his release. he keeps his hold around you tight as he rolls onto his side on the bed, taking you with him and not letting you stray away. 

his hand on your lower abdomen dips further down, finding the mess he’s left on your skin and scooping up some of his release before forcing his fingers between your lips. you don’t even think about it before you begin sucking them clean, doing whatever he wants, always. 

his other arm around you pulls you in closer as he mutters, “you’re real fuckin’ stubborn.”

you know what you’re doing. you know that you’re an idiot for always ending up back in his bed, for always trying to catch his attention in some new way, like the flashy set you’re wearing that you bought with him in mind. 

of course you’re his. 

but he’s not yours. 

“thought I’d get you to break,” he continues, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth and drawing them back down to your legs, dipping his fingers into the mess of his release once more before fucking it into your weeping hole without warning. “guess I’ll just have to force it out of you.”

as your eyes shut once more, his mouth finds your neck, the feeling of his arms encompassing your figure comforting you. his warmth seeping into your skin seemingly breaks down the emotional walls in your head once and for all as the sudden closeness blindsides you. 

“you win,” you whisper into the air in front of you, your hands gripping tightly onto his forearm where it rests against your abdomen as you struggle to form any coherent words while he touches you. “I’m yours.” 

you expect him to laugh, to taunt you and say something that will make you regret ever speaking up and giving into what he wanted. 

he doesn’t. 

“no one else gets to touch what’s mine, you hear me?” he hisses in your ear, his hand between your legs working quicker against you. the response shocks you, regardless of the fact that his possessive streak is a mile wide, because he doesn’t do this. he doesn’t speak with such intention, or speak in a way that might even imply commitment. 

“Ben–”

“would you just listen to me, for once?” he grits, his free hand making its way to your face, grabbing you by the jaw and turning your head to the side to face him. “you’re fucking mine.” 

oh. 

oh.

you begin to stutter, Ben never relenting on his movements between your legs, continuing to drive you closer and closer to the edge far too quickly. “you… you mean–”

“you’re real fuckin’ dense, darlin’,” he continues. “now promise me that you’re never letting anyone else fuck this pretty pussy ever again, hmm?”

the words can't be real. you wish they were, you want them to be…

for some reason, you believe him.

“Ben, I’m gonna come,” you whine, his words driving you higher and higher. 

“not until you do as I say, you’re not,” he threatens. your grip on his arm tightens and your nails surely dig deeper into his skin as you do, every hesitation and preconceived notion about the state of your relationship with him beginning to crumble. 

you know him. he loves to taunt and torment, but this? 

he wouldn’t joke about this. 

“I promise, Ben. never again, fuck, I promise,” you whimper, barely able to get the words out. your whole body is shaking, every inch of you on edge as you await the drop of your impending release. 

“that’s right, sweetheart. go on. let go f’me.” 

as you finally let go, with him wrapped around you and holding you closer than you think you’ve ever been, you know for fact that this is the best orgasm he’s ever given you. you don’t hold back as you cry out into the room as it wracks through you, the sound of him talking you through it going in one ear and out the other, but nevertheless registering in your head that he’s there.

that he cares.

and as your breathing heaves and the blood rushing in your ears finally calms itself, you hear his next words loud and clear. 

“guess your hooker days are over now, huh?” 

and fuck, you can’t stop yourself from bursting out giggling. 

he’s a fucking menace. 

but god, you love him. 

✦ masterlist ✦

And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces. 

So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day. 

And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”

His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.

It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.

Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.

So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.

He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it. 

The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.

Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.

And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good. 

But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.

Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.

The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.

Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like. 

He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.

But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips. 

You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack. 

Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark. 

“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”

He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.

It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”

You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock. 

Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.

You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back. 

He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”

When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you. 

His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one. 

In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.

Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do. 

Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.

When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with. 

Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.

He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche. 

Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that. 

But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.

He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.

When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response. 

Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”

He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve. 

But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.

He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity. 

Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.

He slides in real easy.

You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.

It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home. 

Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace. 

There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it? 

He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.

He wants to savor the way you love him. 

“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.

You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.

It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation. 

The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much. 

Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves. 

Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.

He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.

“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”

He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble. 

Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.

He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.

You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.

Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest. 

When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.

“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."

he thinks your so cute - the cutest, like a little fuckin' animal. he sneaks up on you around the apartment, just to hear the little squeaks and squeals you make when you get startled. he craves to hear the same noises in bed, when he’s fucking into you from behind, or when your on top, or when he’s on top, it doesn't matter. he’ll get so lost in those breathy little pants, the whimpers, almost like you’re crying. he’ll grab your face in his massive hand, snarling you're so cute, you're so fucking cute, i cant fucking take it you- you tight little thing as he pinches your face between his fingers and sloppily makes out with you while he cums deep in your pussy, making a mess of you both before going again until you can't take it, until you sob for him to stop. it's all warm showers and cuddling afterwards, the soothing lull of his chest pressed tight on your back until you both pass out.

“You want this cherry flavor all over your cock?” you tease, twirling the candy and smacking your reddened lips. Holding your gaze Adam unzips his jeans and pulls out his hardened member and gesturing as though offering it to you.

“Please, for the love of all that is holy, make this dick fucking cherry flavor.”

~*~

Sometimes you interrupt him when he’s learning lines, hunched over a script at the kitchen table. You shock him by crawling under the table and wrenching his legs open, palming at his crotch.

“Arghhh - kid, what the fuck?”

“Don’t mind me,” you say with a smile, rubbing his cock through his jeans.

“I’ve got to finish - fuck! I have to get these lines memorized before rehearsal…oh god.”

You’re reaching into his unzipped fly before he can finish his argument, pulling his already hard cock out.

“Mmm somebody is already hard,” you cluck your tongue in mock disapproval. “Is the horny boy memorizing lines or fantasizing about getting lucky.”

“There’s a sex scene in this show and you know that. I can’t read about people fucking without getting a half chub.”

“Oh the horny boy is also a naughty boy.” You grip his dick and press his tip against your wetted lips, causing him to hiss.

“As if you’re not dripping wet after three pages of those porn books you read,” he challenges you.

“Romance novels,” you correct him, licking a fat stripe up the base of his cock.

“Pretty sure it’s just porn for little whores like you who think it’s classier - fuck!” He interrupts himself when you take him into your mouth and hollow your cheeks. You move up and down on him, letting your mouth fill with saliva and add to the lubrication, making lewd wet sounds with each suck.

“Little whores like me learn things like this from those ‘porn books’ - you really want to keep shitting on them?” You ask, fisting his cock to continue the pressure while you pull back to speak.

“Fuckfuckfuck no. Not shitting on anything. Please keep going - please!”

You always find a way to make him beg. Even between his legs, you hold the power.

~*~