court

You weren't really into these things. 

Parties, that is. Neighborly ones. Where the whole street would get together and cook out, pretending they hadn't been shoving their noses in each other's business all year long. But it was supposed to be cheerful, joyous. It was Christmas in Texas, after all. 

Everyone who had been home for the holidays were there. Most of the kids had off from school and those who had jobs that paid them to spend time off loitered and ate and laughed together. It all felt so… merry. Maybe it was just because you still felt so new that it felt otherworldly. You'd only moved to Austin two years ago when your mother decided LA was no longer 'artistically aligned' with her anymore, and that she swore her music career would really take off here instead. So, you'd picked up and moved with her. You felt some sort of…parentified responsibility over her. She was such a free spirit that often she needed reminding of things: appointments, bills, to eat whole meals and drink water. She was off chatting to a handsome man who was one hundred percent not her age, but old enough to know better. He had a cocky smile, freckles over his nose. You recognized him, though he didn't live in the neighborhood. A family member of one of them, you expected. 

The backyard you inhabited was full of woodsmoke in the late afternoon, a hum of chattering gossipers filling your ears like bees. One of the girls, Sarah, who was younger than you, was over by her dad, talking animatedly. You thought maybe she was asking him something. For his car keys or some other. She was younger than you, but you knew she was a sweet kid. You almost wished there were more people your age, but you didn't mind today, not when you were so focused on the one person you'd come to see. Most of the people here all belonged to one another; their lives braided together through the years. You'd never been able to find your place, always on the outskirts or an afterthought. Other than your mother, but she wasn't around much, so you weren't sure that counted. 

But there was one person who you'd always kept your eye on. You could say it was the one good thing about still living with your mother. Because outside your bedroom window, sometimes when you were crossing your yard to get to your car, you'd see him. If you peeked out in the morning and saw him drinking his coffee on his porch, you'd make sure to wear your tiniest shorts, your lowest top, anything to get him to look at you. Sometimes he'd shake his head at you, a gruff disappointed look. It only made you want him worse.

Joel Miller. 

Today was no different, though you wore a flowing sundress instead of your usual daisy dukes. He was hosting, so you made sure to pull out your best cards. Even if it was winter in Texas, the South allowed for things like this—skimpy things—even if you'd been chilled ever since stepping outside. You could feel your nipples pebbled against the thin cotton of your bustier. You didn't care. You actually hoped he'd notice. 

You pulled out your phone and scrolled through your socials, looking at them the way he might if he ever went snooping. You thought you came off sweet, approachable, all those old photos with your friends and the dogs and cats you pet-sat filling your feed, softening the ones of you partying back home in LA. Your Tinder was set all the way up to men in their sixties, though you had never seen him there. You ignored all of the other men, so many left swipes you'd developed a trigger finger. Still, just in case, you made sure a bikini photo sat right at the front, bright and impossible to miss. Just in case.

He was across the yard, beer nearly finished, Sarah having run off, and he was listening to that old cranky asshole who always yelled about dog shit in his yard. You watched as Joel nodded along politely, saying little, his hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

God, those hands. Thick and broad and cracked from the sunlight, you could admit you'd thought of them many times. How they'd feel running up your body or holding you down as he fucked you into the mattress or maybe how they'd feel between your legs instead of your vibrator. You would let him do it—grope you, touch you however he wanted. You might even beg him to. You wanted to feel them wrap around your thighs or push up your dress right here to get a look at you. And his arms. Banded with bulging veins, sun toughened and tanned, clearly used for work that wasn't made from inhabiting the gym. A man, through and through, tall and thick and bearded and…

You stood from your lone chair by the corner of the yard and made your way over to the cooler. Your bare feet marched along the concrete, and then into wet grass, fishing for a specific brand before walking right up beside him. 

Your chest brushed the corner of his elbow.

"Mr. Miller," you purred, offering the cold unopened bottle. 

He turned to look at you, suddenly surprised at your arrival. His eyes scaled down your form, taking in your little dress, your goosebumped skin, and you could've sworn they landed on your breasts for a second too long. You had to bite down a smile. Did he feel guilty for it? Or was his head filling with the same filthy thoughts you shared?

"Howdy," he said, clearing his throat, "how are ya?"

"I'm good," you smiled sweetly, exhaling. "I wanted to thank you for having us, Mr. Miller. I noticed you were out of your drink and…I thought you might want another?"

"Oh," he replied, looking down at his own empty bottle like he'd forgotten about it, "uh, thanks, darlin', that's mighty kind of you."

You handed it to him, and when your fingers brushed, it felt like swallowing the sun. His calluses passed over your soft knuckles, and they were just as rough as you'd imagined. You wished he'd put them all over you here and now. That maybe he'd pull the top of your dress down for everyone to see you weren't wearing a bra, palming at them in front of the entire neighborhood. You might beg him to do that too.

"You're welcome, Mr. Miller," you said with a brighter smile, "is there anything else you need?"

You couldn't help yourself as you looked up at him, doe eyed and innocent—hopeful, even. 

He huffed a quiet laugh, looking at you a little longer, "No, no," his eyes dropped again, "I'm all good here, you ain't cold?"

You could've sworn his cheeks went a little pink. Wishful thinking. 

"I'm fine," you lied, "maybe I'll step inside for a minute, use the restroom."

Turning around and heading for the house, you let your hips swish a little extra, hoping—praying—he was watching.

Inside the sliding glass door, the hush of the house made your ears buzz, overwhelming and warm against your flesh where his eyes had burned it. It was dimly lit, other than the light of the kitchen where the food sat half-eaten and the Christmas tree cast colorful rays along the walls as the sun began to sink outside. The party continued on without you, laughter and music muffled against the threshold of a closed door. 

Ahead, the bathroom door was ajar, but your gaze didn't stay there very long. Instead, it landed on the staircase. 

You glanced around one more time, ensuring your solitude. You were alone. 

In his house. 

You took your chance. 

Bare feet padding silently, you were clutching the banister in seconds. Your fingers tightened hard enough to blanch your knuckles, using it to haul yourself up the stairs two at a time, heart hammering like it knew what you were about to do, screaming don't, don't don't!

The landing was quieter once you made it all the way up. It creaked underfoot as the last rays of sun lightened your path ahead. You'd imagined all of this so many times, when you'd see the faint glow of the hall light on in the night, staring across the street as if he'd maybe pass by if you willed it. He had, one time, shirtless, to your mouthwatering joy, though he'd barely been more than a silhouette, closing the blinds, allowing your eyes to soak in as much as you could before they fell and the light went off.

You swore you could smell him now, following the scent of his aftershave, something with cedar and tobacco, the smell of sun on leather as you stayed to it like a hound on a hunt into the largest bedroom on the left. 

You didn't dare turn on the light. There was an intimacy of the darkening day, a secret, desecration kept quiet. 

The bedroom smelled like him even more, a freshness of laundry and the musk of a man. You wanted, so badly, to roll around in his bed, made so neatly but so plainly. Like any other man, dark blue comforter and gray sheets. A dusty elliptical stood by the window, looking like it was used more as a drying rack than anything for exercise. He didn't need it, you thought. He was built by labor, body hewn from his job, lugging and hauling and building. Man man man.

You breathed in deeply, trying to log everything to memory in the shadow of the sunset that lit the room as you padded around. You smiled when you saw a pair of reading glasses sitting atop the magazine titled: Everything You Need to Know About Creating a Startup. And then, gaze landing on the flannel shirt that laid on a wooden chest, you walked over to the end of the bed, bringing it to your nose without a second thought, inhaling his scent. Musky, sweaty, warm with a faint trace of cologne. You tried to place it, something woodsy and pine with bergamot. You wondered what the brand was, already half-imagining finding it somewhere and buying it for yourself, just so you could sit in your room on lonely nights and spray your pillow like he was there with you. Good God, you really needed to stop this before it—

And as you exhaled, opening your eyes , your gaze landed on something else. 

Oh, but there really was no outrunning it, was there? This, yourself, this bottomless ache you’d built a body around. It felt as if lived in you like a second spine, needy and animal, mouthwatering in its persistence as you stared at the half full laundry basket. You shouldn't…But... There was no scrubbing the thought from your tongue, no rinsing it from the back of your teeth or pretending it wasn't what you came for. What you wanted. 

Your breath came short, your heartbeat rocketing against your ribs as you dropped the flannel haphazardly, drawn like moth to flame. 

You began to sift through the plastic bin, already knowing your treasure lied within. Your stomach bubbled, excitement trickling between your legs so that you were pushing your knees together. Your hand reached in, grabbing onto one piece at a time, bringing them to your nose. There was a white t shirt that smelled like days old sweat, marked where his body had lived in it, the soft cotton holding a ghost of warmth. You breathed into the place his shoulder met his chest, where his skin might've pressed to it, and your throat ached.

And then, fishing in again, your fingers gripped something lighter. You drew out a pair of briefs from the heap, navy or black, you couldn't really tell by the orange light that caught the room as if it was on fire. As if it was alarming the world as to where you were, caught red handed with your finest prize.

You brought the fabric to your nose.

The scent hit you and your thighs pressed harder together, a noise escaping that you only just had realized was your own. A sort of moaning as you inhaled the musk of the fabric, open mouthed. The briefs were definitely worn, not entirely unclean, but perhaps discarded after a long day of work. He smelled like sun and earth after a heavy rain, like the hollow of a throat. 

You weren't sure if you were thinking clearly anymore, something like reason in the back of your mind telling you that you were taking much too long, but you couldn't help it. You dipped your tongue out to taste the sweat there, salty, dry. It was as if you'd been starved of this all the time you'd spent watching him over two years, seven hundred days goading him and finally finding your treasure. You sucked in another deep breath again, longer this time, filling your lungs. 

A noise downstairs alarmed you suddenly, making your spine nearly jump from your skin, the backdoor opening and closing. You hesitated…you could just…but no, you really shouldn't… You licked your lips, quickly glancing between the door of the bedroom and the garment in your hands, and made your decision. 

Eventually you did make it to the bathroom, but you chose to stay to the one upstairs, unable to force yourself to walk down the stairs just yet. It felt a little indulgent, stepping inside just to see more of his world. You saw his tooth brush and a razor, next to the things that were reminiscent of a teenage daughter: mascara, a glittery eyeshadow pot, a friendship beaded bracelet. They barely grazed your awareness as you at on the edge of the counter. Adrenaline was still streaming into your blood, a throb of need between your thighs that hadn't settled since you walked into his room. 

Facing away from the mirror, you leaned your head back against the glass, and opened your legs. 

You only had a few minutes, and you shouldn't be up here. 

But regardless, you lifted your dress, the skirt bunching around your waist, and pressed your feet into the cold porcelain. Finally, your hand descended to your core, already wet and needy.

Fuck, you whispered, pressing a finger over the fabric of his briefs. 

Because, yes, you'd put them on. 

Just over your thong, letting them press into your core where his balls might've been, where his dick was held snug in the fabric all day. Sure, they were a little big on you, the waistband rolled over twice, but you didn't care. Your dress covered enough, being flowy around the skirt and tight on top, no one would be able to tell. 

You pressed your fingers to your covered center again, gently making circles around the valley where your bundle of nerves was, swollen and wanting. Your mouth fell open, jaw unhinging as you let out a quiet whimper. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, two fingers now swiping back and forth over your covered yet sensitive core. Your thighs twitched, heels dangling off the counter’s edge as you started to rub harder right through the briefs, imagining the weight of him grinding into where your hand was, thinking of the rough callouses of his palm on your throat. The bristle of his beard against your jaw as he calls you a bad girl, asking what kind of pervert steals a man’s underwear, what kind of little minx touches herself in his bathroom?

The sensation built until you were being yanked over the edge of your orgasm, silently clenching your teeth around the knuckles of your opposite hand, body seizing through your climax. 

Heaving in heavy breaths, your chest rose and fell, your breasts still piqued from the amount of dopamine coursing through your body as you come down from your high. 

A little embarrassed, you washed up quickly, and headed downstairs. 

Of course, in the kitchen, was Joel. 

You were a little surprised to see him alone, and you glanced out the sliding door to see just your mom and the man from before, giggling around a small fire pit in the yard. How long had you been gone? 

"Hey!" you said a little too breathy, gleeful almost, hooking your thumb over your shoulder, "Sorry, the downstairs bathroom was taken when I came in, so I hope it's okay—"

Joel shrugged. “Yeah, s'no problem.” Then his eyes settled on you again, longer this time. “You okay?”

“What?” you laughed, stepping toward the food, trying to stay easy and pleasant. “Totally. Party’s great. Honestly, ten outta ten.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I dunno. Sarah just left for the movies, everyone’s kinda trickled out now. Feels like the tail end.” He nudged the rack of meats, only a few left over. “But those ribs Frank brought over—”

“Insane,” you agreed, nodding, and plucked a strawberry from another tray. “But really— you’ve done a great job, Mr. Miller. Especially for your first year hosting.”

He paused with the beer halfway to his mouth, leaning back against the counter and his brows lifted in surprise. “That obvious it's my first?”

You grinned around the strawberry, lips pursed as you bite off the end, the slightly sour juice blooming over your tongue. You couldn't help but drink him in, oxytocin still flowing in your bloodstream from your secret escape to his upstairs, a sort of high for wearing his briefs in his kitchen, unbeknownst to anyone but you. He looked so good in that flannel, the way it was pushed to his elbows to show you his forearms. God, what you wouldn't do to have him bend you over the counter right then and there, to see your crimes, to rip off of the evidence of what you'd done and—

"What?" he said, a chuffing sort of breath escaping him. 

“You bought enough food to feed a town." you said, shrugging, though you were smirking as you went on: "That’s rookie behavior, Mr. Miller.”

“Fuck you,” he said, so quiet you nearly missed it, blasphemy on his tongue. He raised his beer to his lips as if to hide the smile pulling across his face. “Callin’ me Mr. Miller like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”

Your mouth fell open, the strawberry forgotten between your fingers, waiting on your tongue to be swallowed.

Your brain was a scramble, trying to make sense of the words, if you'd even heard him right. You felt it lagging behind your body, which was already reacting: throat tight, pulse surging, blood scorching up your neck. Could he see you? Could he see what you really were? An obsessive, perverted little thing that was so full of hunger and ripened want, still wet from what you'd done upstairs, wearing the proof of it beneath your sundress. Maybe he could read your mind. The thought was horrific as it passed through you. But then, if he could, he would've run for the hills by now, scared of you. The feelings you had scared you, too. 

Joel tipped his head back, lips catching the opening of his beer bottle, and you watched him watching you, his throat flexing around another swallow of liquid. You could've sworn there was a certain glint in his eyes as he stared back. It made your stomach fumble and twist, the berry in your hand suddenly stupid and heavy.

You closed your mouth, then opened it again, dry as anything, unable to form words, when a disturbance rented the room. Turning toward it too quickly, you were grateful for the noise, for anything that could offer an exit from whatever trap you'd gotten caught in. 

"Honey! There you are. I think I'm gonna—well, we—" your mother was smiling brightly at the man beside her, "Tommy here said he wanted to show me this great place downtown," she said, her red painted fingernails gripping the man's bicep beneath his Henley, "Apparently it has a great open mic night tonight." 

"Okay," you said, clearing your throat, unable to look at anyone now, embarrassed, humiliated in your want, as if everyone could see it. 

"Great hang, brother," Tommy called over his shoulder as the two of them walked through the room and out the front door. 

"I'll be home late, hon!" your mother added as it closed behind them. 

A hush fell over the house again. 

Joel was not looking at you now, his gaze dropped, lashes dark against his cheekbones. Outside, the last of the daylight had bled away, leaving only the Christmas lights to paint the room in soft, uneven color, reds and golds slipping over his face and hands. The low underlights that drenched the counters in amber came on, igniting the intimate quiet. It wasn't until you'd heard the engine of the truck outside roar to life and drive away that either of you spoke.

“Can I get you a drink?” Joel asked at last.

You nodded.

“Don’t move.”

You didn’t. You weren't sure you could, your body feeling like it was caught in a bear trap, unwilling to move or else risk a hurt you couldn't repair.

He turned toward the counter, the clink of glass loud in the quiet as he reached up over the fridge for a bottle, poured a few fingers of whiskey into two liquor tumblers. When he held one out to you, you found yourself stepping forward anyway, your body moving before your mind caught up.

Something felt off, and you weren't sure if it was wrong, but like…change. Things were different. You tried to remember a time you felt like this, suddenly small and nervous in front of him. It was so easy to pretend like all your flirting was just fun, just a game you played. To not think of him as a player in it, only something you were trying to attain, the prize you'd win in the end if you were lucky. But seeing him like this, so close, so himself, it felt.... It felt like standing on the edge of something deep and loud and crashing, knowing you could step back, knowing you could fall in, and that neither option felt as simple as before. Turning your back was no longer an option you wanted, the escape you always planned when it became real. And now…alone…in his house. You felt a bit naughty about it all. 

It felt like that thing—Schrödinger’s cat— the terrible not knowing of it all. When had you been so obvious? Had you been all along? Didn't you want to be? You wondered whether something was waiting on the other side of this moment at all, or whether it would stay suspended like this forever, neither alive nor dead until someone dared to peer inside.

"I'm…" you swallowed dryly, "I'm sorry, If I…"

He lifted his glass towards you, "To peace," 

You lifted your glass instinctively, your tongue suddenly parched, aching for the golden liquid within. Aching to know. You had to see, you had to know.

"And those who get in the way of it." he finished.

You took the smallest sip, only enough to coat your tongue. And you realized you were shaking.

This was a threshold, you realized. The thing before something. How thresholds change, the more you get accustomed to things. Maybe that's what you had been doing, being accustomed to him never giving in, never saying anything, so you pushed and pushed him. Wearing less and less, even as temperatures dropped in this southern town. This was the threshold of it all. 

"Tell me something." you whispered. 

Hm? he murmured, a brow raising, his pretty hazel eyes soaked in the amber lighting as they looked at you. 

"Anything." you said, even quieter. You would not admit to anything until he said so. You only wanted…if he wanted. And you wanted so, so badly.

He drew in a breath that sounded like it hurt. “If I did what I wanted to do,” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t… my whole life would be fucked—”

You held onto your drink with two hands, fingers clammy against the glass.

“—My daughter is the one thing that matters to me.”

“I understand,” you said softly.

“No,” he replied, almost sharp, but then he softened, gentler, like he was trying not to scare you. “I don’t think you do.”

You watched him. Every small movement felt enormous as he set his glass down, the sound of it touching the counter too loud. His hands spread behind him, hanging onto the edge as if looking over a cliff, his eyes on the floor below. Jump, you thought, jump in with me. 

“If you and I… we can’t,” he said, exhaling, his head shaking. “This can’t be anythin'. You understand me? You need to stop.”

“We’re not anything, Mr. Miller,” you said, too quickly, trying to keep your voice steady.

“But fuck me, I want—"

He didn’t finish his sentence, letting out another sore breath.

Your heart felt traitorous in your chest, wishing death upon you, to take this moment from you. It stopped, skipping over beats, your head going dizzy as he confessed his sins. 

“I want…I’m tired of pretendin' that—that I don’t notice you. That I don’t think about how your ass looks when you walk across the yard in those stupid little shorts, or the way you look at me like you’re waitin' for somethin'. I know I shouldn't…but god damn, you… you make' it hard to be a good man. And if I give into you, I'll never be able to stop.”

You set down your glass.

“Tell me what to do,” you whispered, because you were empty without it, because you needed him to fill the space with something that would let you breathe again.

He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut for a second before he shook his head again. “I—” He swallowed, lifting his drink and holding it against his chest like a shield, stepping away from the edge of that cliff, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please."

A long moment stretched between you, the two of you just staring. He was so pretty. His hair had grown out this year, thick and dark, threaded through with gray, streaked with winter and age, and you found yourself wondering how it would feel under your hands. His beard was thicker now too, rougher, fuller.

You hadn't noticed how long you'd been standing there, frozen in time, that paradox of waiting, not knowing. Dead or alive. Nothing or everything. It felt alive now. You felt alive, more seen than you ever had in all the seven hundred days you had lived here, seven hundred days of watching your neighbor, wanting him, imagining slipping into his world on the nights his daughter was away.

"Kneel."

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. "I—what?"

He only nodded, drinking the dregs of his whiskey before setting down the empty glass again.

You moved toward the center of the kitchen and stopped in front of him. The shadows cut him into contrast, gold along his skin, thick beard dark against it, his eyes unreadable as they swallowed the dark room. You were so close you could smell the whiskey, the musk of him, that cologne he wore.

You knelt before him, as if in prayer at your altar.

Joel sighed above you, a long, held breath, like his lungs were finally giving over every last bit of air they had been hoarding. You felt a little silly, a little wicked. A girl come to confess her sins to God. That she had been perverse, tainted with the sin of want, of lust, of need and desire.

His hand, oh god, his hand, it reached out, touching you, only barely. Thick, rough fingertips ghosting along the side of your face, the highest point of your cheekbone, you didn't dare close your eyes, even when he traced along your brow and down the bridge of your nose. His thumb pressed ever so slightly against the bow of your lips, brushing, testing, then opening them only to let your lip bounce back. 

And then he was leaning over, two hands on you then, cupping your face, fingers at the nape of your neck, cradling your skull in his two, big, steady hands. Just as rough as you pictured. He so much bigger than you, dwarfing you, it was overwhelming. And he was leaning forward, oh fuck, he was—he was—

He stepped off the cliff and fell into the crashing water below. 

You felt his mustache tickling your nose before his lips pressed against yours, and you couldn't help how you'd frozen in place, eyes widening, inhaling him again, so close. You wanted to taste him, to know if his mouth carried the whiskey you could smell on his breath, if his lips held it too, that forbidden sweetness of Eve’s apple, dangerous and delicious.

He pulled away after only a brushing of his lips on yours. 

"Kiss me back," he murmured, brows pulled together. 

"Tell me it's not just this one time," you whispered, "promise me." 

You weren't sure where the words were coming from, hell, this is all you'd wanted for so long, why were you attaching strings? All you'd ever wanted was to crawl to him, give to him, let him have, for him to take you and use your body to his own depraved needs. But now…now… you didn't know if you could go on, knowing this might be the only time. 

His eyes were watching you, the eyes of god, one you'd prayed to for seven hundred days. They flicked between yours, trying to read you. 

“I don’t think I can stay away from you anymore,” he said quietly, and you felt the breath of every word against your face. His hand tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear while the other still cupped your cheek.

"Then don't," you said, and this time, you leaned in, catching his mouth on yours, suckling gently on his upper lip, the prickling of his beard scratching where your skin brushed his. Yes, you could taste the whiskey now, the sweet warm flesh of his mouth, You let your hands explore, reaching up, threading your fingers into his hair, and he let out a broken groan. His hands gripped your face harder, though he was really so gentle. You tugged at the length of his hair, long enough now to tickle the back of his neck, and he answered with the same urgency, fingers sliding to the nape of your own, pulling just enough to make you gasp and open to him. 

Instead of what you had been greedily hoping for, he pulled back, his mouth mirroring yours, parted and breathless, like he was stopping himself at the very last second.

He held his one hand at the back of your neck, scruffing you, as if you'd been naughty and needed to be contained. Your eyes were dizzy as you realized they'd closed in the heat of the moment, opening them to take him in. His other hand released your cheek, to grip your jaw now, opening you up more. 

"Lemme see," he murmured, "I've wanted to see, for so long—open your mouth baby," 

You did as you were bid. 

He exhaled, a growling reverberation from his chest, still leaning over you. And then, you tasted something salty and thick. He was sticking two fingers into your mouth, flat to your tongue where your muscle reacted, licking him, wanting, so badly, to close your mouth and suck on them, to show you how good you could be. But you knew better. 

"What a good girl," he praised, kneeling in front of you now, eye level, and your thighs pushed together at the sound of the words on his lips, "show me your tongue now, yeah, that's it," 

Your tongue stuck out, resting over your bottom lip, and he pressed his fingers there, just enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your eyes burn with it. Then he loosened his grip on your hair, his palm sliding up to your cheek, holding you there as his fingers continued their slow exploration.

He shifted them slightly, pressing into the softness of your cheek, feeling the warmth of your mouth around them, his other hand still bracketing your face, feeling where his fingers probed against the wet wall of your mouth. A sound slipped from him at the sensation.

This was heaven. You wondered if you'd died today, maybe the house had caught on fire or lightning had struck in a freak storm, because this couldn't be real. Maybe you were asleep, and this was all just a dream, and you'd wake up to slick between your legs again. Because Joel Miller was moaning at the feeling of his own fingers in your mouth, phallic and warm and greedy.

"Always wondered what my cock would feel like in this sweet little mouth," he said, his voice so low and breathy it nearly slipped into a growl, "but you ain't really that sweet, are ya, baby? You play at bein' a good girl, Mr. Miller this, and Mr. Miller that, all the while showing me how pretty your tits look in this dress today, scamperin' around my neighborhood wearin' nothin' for any jackass to see."

The last words were said through gritted teeth, his fingers pushing harder against the side of your mouth, and you felt the heat of shame rise to your cheeks, your eyes watering with the stretch of skin. He soothed you, pulling his fingers out, only to lick them himself before crashing back to your lips, tongues and teeth and hunger and shared sounds of ecstasy. 

His tongue, oh, his tongue. It was delicious, a thick, insistent muscle that seemed to know exactly what it wanted from you, plunging past your lips to take and take and take, like it was trying to learn the shape of your mouth by heart. He was eating at you, all heat and breath and urgency, and you could barely tell where one sensation ended and another began. Your hands kept finding him, clutching at fabric, at warmth, at something solid enough to keep you here, even as your thoughts slipped loose, floating somewhere just above the room.

"I wanna see you," you gasped as his mouth descended to your jaw, kissing and licking your fevered skin there. Your voice was thin and rushed and all breath: "Please, I wanna see everything."

"Go on then," he murmured as his hand cupped your face as he dipped your head back to open your neck, baring more to himself so he could bruise your skin with his teeth. 

You could hardly focus, eyes threatening to roll back or close, but you couldn't, you needed to see him, needed to see it all. You were trembling, fingers clumsy, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break from your ribs and pour out onto the floor. Finally, finally, you were pushing the fabric from his broad shoulders and letting it descend. 

You looked at him then, and he looked at you. And for a moment, everything was reduced to as it was: two people, a small miracle of being seen. His chest heaved in lungfuls of breath, hypnotic in the rise and fall of it. There was thick hair wirey like storm clouds across his chest. A dark line of hair trailed down his stomach, coarser, darker, disappearing where your eyes could not follow, and the sight of it made something in you ache with a sharp, humiliating want.

Your eyes flicked up again to find his. They were a little wild, a little unmoored, black pupils swallowing all that pretty color you liked, his lips kiss bitten and mustache pearled with some of your spit where you'd licked him. 

You stared at each other like that for a long, suspended second, caught in the sight of one another, before both of you broke into the same breathless, crooked smile and moved toward each other all at once.

He picked you up easily, his hands locking around the back of your thighs, letting your knees hike over his hips as he carried you up to the counter. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he groaned softly, setting you down and stood between your knees. His mouth, so soft and wet with want, found yours again, licking deep into you like he'd missed it already, suckling at your bottom lip before biting it gently and pulling back just to watch the look on your face. You realized, then, that he kept his eyes open when he kissed you too, wanting to see, wanting to watch, to memorize just like you. 

His hands reached for the straps of your dress then, tugging them down with a kind of surged urgency. His mouth followed, open and wet, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere his hands were, his mouth found next. When he finally pulled the bustier down, baring your chest to the cool air and his hot mouth, he set back just to look, to take you in. 

"Knew it," he smiled, and looked at you again, his hands wrapped around your waist so he could be close, so close. You felt so warm despite the goosebumps of arousal pebbling your skin, making your nipples tighten. 

"Knew you didn't have a damn thing on under this today," he said, voice thicker and rough, as he nuzzled the underside of your breast with his nose. You whimpered, barely able to stay upright with one hand braced behind you on the counter, the other tangled in his hair again. All you wanted to do was touch, to anchor yourself to the here and now. It made you jealous, envious suddenly. That anyone else had been here before, touching him like this, having what was rightfully yours. What you'd dreamed about for seven hundred days. 

His lips finally wrapped around your nipple, and you were unable to contain the noise that escaped your throat, a choked whimper, back archinig into him as his hands lay flat against your spine, pulling you in closer. You were completely wrapped around one another, bodies mirrors of one another, yours bowed to him like an offering as he took and took.

He kissed and moaned and licked into the valley of your breasts, then up again, gently suckling and then not so gentle as he bit down, making you gasp. Your body bent to an entirely new angle, hips rolling against the cool porcelain beneath. 

And then, you felt his hands leave your spine and push up your dress, and you remembered.

"Wait!" you gasped, pushing his chest back. 

He paused, eyes widening, chest red and heaving still. His hands stayed on you as he looked up at you. 

"I wanna—let me—please—" you were scrambling now, looking pitifully half dressed as you slid from the counter, closer now, looking up at him, and turning the both of you as your hands laid gently on his bare arms. You turned him so his back was to the counter again, and slid down to your knees once again. 

"Oh, baby, you don't gotta—" he said, voice hoarse as honey on grit, but your hands were already unbuckling his belt. 

"It's all I've ever wanted," you said, kissing the denim of his fly before unzipping it. 

Your eyes found his, and he looked wrecked. Like he was holding himself together by sheer will. There was a line between his brows, a frown on his face. 

Oh, fuck, you heard him whisper when you finally pulled his cock free. No briefs. 

"You're just like me, Mr. Miller," you smiled up at him as your hand wrapped around his length. Your fingers couldn't even touch. 

He didn't laugh or smile, his hands were blanched as he gripped the counter beside him. 

“What, Mr. Miller,” you said sweetly, slowly stroking him, the velvet soft skin of the head, the thickly veined shaft, it was absolutely dreamy in your hand, “are you nervous?”

He shook his head, letting out his long breath as your mouth closed around the head of his cock, "Not nervous, baby, just…don't know—fuck, yeah, little more tongue, angel—not sure if I'm gonna last too long with you like this."

His head tipped back as you took him deeper, your lips stretched wide, his size overwhelming. You couldn’t even graze the thick hair at the base, but you fisted the rest of him with your hand where your mouth couldn’t reach, starting to work him in rhythm.

“Watch me, Mr. Miller,” you whispered when you pulled back, slick on your lips as you used both hands now, your mouth suckling just on the tip. His eyes found you, and there it was: he was going insane now, that unglued look, the desperation, the disbelief. Just like you’d imagined it. You, on your knees, ruining him for anyone else.

"You make me so wet, Mr. Miller." you said, emobolded by it all now. 

"Joel—" he choked, "please, it's—oh fuckkk,"

"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to do this, Joel," you said, flattening your tongue to the underside of his cock, licking up to give yourself more slick to slide against with your hands. He tasted like a man, musk and sweat and irish spring. You'd swallow poison if it tasted like him. 

Confidence bloomed fully now with him in your grip. 

"Today, outside, watching you, all I wanted was to blow you there in front of everyone," you purred, lips wrapping around the head of his cock again, letting your teeth graze him before releasing with a wet pop, your hands still working, fondling his balls a little, "I would've let you take off my dress and fuck me in front of everyone, show them who I belong to, make me scream your name so they'd—"

His fist snapped into your hair, wrenching your head back before your mouth could find him again.

“Yeah?” he growled, and then he was lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing, turning you sharply and bending you over the counter. “Wanted me to fuck you in front of your own family, that it? My little free-use slut so needy she couldn’t wait, huh? That why you had your legs spread while you sat in your chair every time I looked over? That why you were pushing your tits into me while I was talkin’ to fuckin’ Jerry?”

You could barely breath, let alone think as the air felt pushed out of you. 

“Yes,” you managed, voice small, dizzy, but your hands were shaking now. The heat of nervousness again, your eyes wet and wide.

And as his thick hands groped your hips, making you whimper, he pushed your dress over your hips—

—and paused. 

Everything was suddenly very still. You couldn't look, couldn't force yourself to take in the way his brain must have been cataloging your underthings. Those briefs. What a reckless, humiliating thing to do. To wear them, to steal them. To slide them over your thong like a secret. Your thoughts were collapsing into themselves now, a black void where language failed, and you felt stripped bare in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

This, again, was a threshold. Where the story splits. Every fantasy you'd had about him, every private, humiliating thing you'd done in his name, all of it suddenly feeling like it was standing here between the two of you. 

You felt his hands move to the folded over waistband, inspecting the fabric. 

"Whose are these?" he finally asked, quiet. He wasn't angry, you could tell. Maybe a little incredulous, a little…but no, you didn't know for sure. 

You dropped your head between your arms, forehead resting against your fists braced on the counter, as if you could disappear into the laminate. Your face burned. Your chest ached with the force of your heartbeat, slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. You couldn't answer.

He leaned over you, his hand going to your face. It was gentle, almost reverent as it slid across your jaw, to take your cheek in his palm. But once he had a hold of your face, his grip tightened as he forced you to look at him over your shoulder. He was so close you could see every line of age, his body so warm as it bent over you, itchy where the hair on his chest pushed into your back.

"Are these mine?" he said, his gaze landing on your lips when he asked.

He squeezed your cheeks, forcing your mouth into a pucker, and he jostled you a bit, making you gasp, your knees buckling. 

"Tell me." he growled, "was this what you were doin' upstairs today, you little freak?"

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. You couldn't tell if he was disgusted or fascinated or something worse, something that made your stomach twist with a kind of awful hope.

“Tell me,” he snarled again, closer now, his mouth nearly brushing yours, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth were bared, voice stripped of patience, demanding your answer.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears welling there, and he reached down to kiss the corner of your eye where the salty drop began to fall. His lips caught it, before kissing your puckered mouth too. 

"Ain't gonna be mad," he whispered right there, against your ear, soothing reassurance. He ground himself behind you, and your eyes flew open at how hard he still was. You cursed yourself, if only you hadn't put the briefs on you'd be able to feel him, really feel him, skin to skin, just as you wanted. 

"Yes," you choked out, "Yes, I'm sorr—"

But he was kissing you again, relaxing his grip on your face, letting his tongue find yours again, and you kissed him back desperately, furiously, wanting to taste and know. 

"Fuck," he whispered between breaths, kissing you more and more, harder and harder, tongues and teeth and a need you'd never felt before from anyone, "you're a sick little thing, twisted in the head, ain't ya?"

"Yes," you said again, prayer, chant, a hymn, "for you, only for you, please, I'm sorry,"

You were pushing back into him, moaning as you felt his cock jump against your dampened core. 

“You’re drenched,” he said. His hand came down to cup you through the fabric, thumb dragging upward along your slit. The friction made you whine. “Did you—?”

"Touched myself in them, earlier, before—I couldn't help myself. You make me insane, Joel," you said kissing against his mouth, slopping and insatiable. Your fingers tangled up to his hair to drag him closer, as if he was the confessional, and you were telling him everything your depraved mind needed to get out before you could be whole again, "and—and blowing you, fuck, just kissing you—it just made me want you worse, makes me so wet to think about you, just fucking thinking about you—"

"Christ, woman," he said, shaking his head, palming your center, making you moan until he was too ravenous, wrenching them down your legs, your thong following, only to your thighs, to gain him access. He was groping you so hard, your hips, the flesh of your ass, "if you'd just—if I'd known, I would've—Jesus,"

"Tell me," you said against his gasping lips, your open mouth inhaling every breath he exhaled, and he inhaled yours as his cock notched against your entrance. It slid easily through your folds, the wet schlick of it making him moan as he lightly kissed your open mouth again.

His forehead pressed against yours as he pushed in, and your eyes began to roll back. 

“Look at me,” he growled, forehead pressed to yours. “Look at me. Jesus—this what I was missin’? This wet little pussy, fuckin’ soaked for me?” he exhaled, grinding his forehead against you as you kept your hand fisted tighter in his hair as he stretched you open. You moaned again as he pushed in another inch. 

You tried, tried so hard to keep your eyes open. Joel, you moaned, already full and trembling.

"If I'd have known you were upstairs touchin' yourself," he chuckled, a kind of manic, breathless smile on his face, "I would've followed you upstairs, made you do it in front of me," he kissed you on the lips before adjusting his stance, changing his angle so he could begin thrusting in and out, making you cry out. Your hand fell from his hair to cling to the corner of the counter, keeping yourself upright. 

“If I’d caught you takin' my clothes,” he went on, “I’d have bent you over and spanked your little thief ass red.”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Yes, please—”

His thrusts picked up into a hard, ruthless pace. Each one pushed you into the counter’s edge, bruises blooming beneath his fingers where he held you too tightly. But you wanted it, wanted the ache, wanted the shape of him imprinted into your skin.

“Little thief,” he spat. “Touchin’ things that don’t belong to you. Rubbin’ this messy little cunt to the thought of me, weren’t you?”

“I'm sorry!” you shrieked, voice shattering as he fucked you harder, the sound of it echoing loud and obscene through the kitchen.

“Only bad girls steal their daddy’s things,” he rasped, voice thick with lust.

You turned your head, wide eyed and lips parted.

"Oh," he purred, "yeah, that's right, all you needed was a daddy to show you what's right and wrong huh?" 

Your chin quivered, a sob crawling up your throat. His body folded over yours tighter, his chest to your back, mouth hot at your ear.

“I know,” he said, thrusting deep and slow. “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll teach you how to be my good girl. Oh—right there, huh? She loves that. Look at me, fuck, yeah, she loves that.”

You nodded your head, but your breath felt frantic, your heart climbing up your throat. The breath of him against you, his closeness, it was overwhelming, everything you wanted. Your legs began to shake, your stomach tumbling towards that cliff edge, it would be too quick, too soon, you didn't want it without him. 

"Joel—" you cried out as he kept up his unrelenting thrusts.

“Yeah, baby?” he panted.

“Wanna come with you. Please. Please, Joel—”

“Oh, but you were bad today,” he breathed. “Came without my permission. What makes you think you get to come again, huh?”

"I didn't knowwww," you mewled, squeezing your eyes shut. Your stomach was tightening, hips sezing up. 

“Okay,” he soothed, voice gentle again, kissing the side of your neck. “Okay, baby. You wanna come on daddy’s cock now, huh? Go on. Let go. Daddy’s right here.”

“Inside,” you begged. “Please, I’m—I'm on—I have an IUD—I just wanna feel you, wanna feel it leaking out of—"

“Shut up, shutupshutup” he hissed, squeezing his eyes closed. “Don’t say shit like that.”

"Pleaseeee," you moaned as his cock began to swell and twitch inside of you. 

But his body was giving in. His forehead slammed into your shoulder, his hand coming up over your mouth as your walls clenched tight around him. You were too far gone to care if he was trying to silence you or just survive the sound of your moaning.

"God, you're—you're squeezin' my cock like a god damn vice. Best pussy I've ever had, baby, so good, you're such a good girl, takin' it so good, okay, alright—fuck I'm gonna—"

You shoved back into him just as your orgasm hit. Your vision sparked, your knees gave out, and you screamed into his palm. It tore through you, sharp and staggering, a sob caught in your throat.

Joel's groans drowned out the sound of your cries as he pushed into you one last time, his entire body seizing, hands gripping your flesh until you thought he might rip you in half. His mouth stayed unhinged against your neck, panting hot breath, cursing and praising filthy nothings in your ear. 

He stayed inside of you for a long moment, chest slick with sweat against your back. His hand fell from your mouth to wrap around you as he held you tight against him. You felt every rise and fall of his chest, your breath keeping in time with his, breathing in together, breathing out together. The air was thick and quiet with heat and salt and the musk of him and sex clinging to your skin like smoke after a fire. Neither of you moved. 

Inhale.

Exhale.

"Where have you been? All this time." he sighed, pushing his forehead against the crest of your shoulder.

Your throat tightened, eyes falling shut as you smiled—remembering how many afternoons you'd watched him from your window, how often you'd worn your prettiest thong on the off chance a random Tuesday might be the day he gave in. Just in case he decided after doing yard work, or after waving politely across the street. Just in case.

You turned your face, the coarse damp strands of his hair ticklish against your lips.

"I've been here, all along," you whispered, kissing his hairline, "waiting for you."

His eyes found yours, sweat glinting at his brow, the lines of age carved deeper as he lifted his gaze. Hazel again—warm in the amber light, searching and soft. He pressed his mouth to yours like promise, holding it there, inhaling, like finally reaching the shoreline after jumping from the cliff before saying:

“Sorry it took me so long, sweetheart."