DomesticGoddess22

The knock at the door was sharp, firm, the kind that made your stomach drop because it wasn’t the easy knock of a friend. You fumbled to lower the music before opening the door to see Joel Miller. He stood before you with his hands on his waist looking a bit uneasy. His eyes quickly swept you up and down as you greeted him.

“Hey—”

“Your daddy home?”

You shook your head, too slow to hide the flush in your cheeks. He caught it instantly. His gaze narrowed, nose twitching as the smell hit him.

“Christ,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “You been drinkin’?”

You swallowed, clutching the half-empty bottle at your side. “It’s just wine. No big deal, I’m not drunk.”

Joel’s frown deepened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “No big deal? Your old man told me if I ever caught you with this kinda thing…” His voice trailed, heavy with responsibility he hadn’t asked for. His hand grabbing the bottle in your hand, he read the label and raised his brows.

“He acts like I’m 15, I’m 22” you sighed.

“Yeah but you know how he feels about alcohol in the house” he looked behind you, you could see the curiosity in his eyes.

“No- no one else is here. It’s just me” you opened the door wider so he could see.

When he stepped forward, boots thudding against the hardwood, you instinctively moved back, the air between you thickening. His eyes swept over your outfit — the way your shirt slipped off your shoulder, the bare skin that had no business catching his attention-

“Can I have my bottle back?” You raised a brow. He looked down at it and pressed his lips together before handing it back to you.

“Don’t let your daddy find out” you happily took it back before walking back to the radio and turning the volume back up.

You tipped the wine bottle toward him with a crooked grin. “You could have a drink with me. No one would know.”

Joel’s eyes lingered on the bottle, then on you, and he shook his head fast. “No. Not a good idea.” His voice was low, rough, almost strangled.

You raised your brows, intrigued by the way he said it. “Then just stay. You don’t gotta drink.”

His shoulders stiffened, confusion flickering across his face. “Stay?”

“Yeah.” You hugged the bottle to your chest, feigning casual, but your voice softened. “It’s late. And I thought I heard something by the back door earlier.”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “You’re askin’ me to what? Play guard dog?”

“Something like that,” you teased, and for a moment, he looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or bolt.

He rubbed a hand over his beard, muttering something under his breath. Finally, he sighed, surrendering. “Fine. But just for a little bit.” He closed the door behind him.

His eyes darted around, restless, unsettled. “Where’s your dad, anyhow?”

“Work trip. Won’t be back till morning.”

Joel cursed low and sharp, turning away like the admission had cut the last rope of his self-control.

The music caught your attention, and you let yourself sway, hips rolling lazily with the beat. His gaze followed, heavy and unwilling, his breathing growing rougher the longer you moved. His body was taut, as if every muscle in him wanted to get up and walk out. He realized he had just walked himself into a trap and he needed to leave.

Finally, he rasped, “I gotta go.”

You spun, blinking at him. “What? Why? I thought you said you stay a bit” You lowered the music just enough to hear yourself.

“’Cause I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head hard.

You crossed the space before he could escape. “Did I do something?”

“Hell no, you—” He stopped, too late, because your foot caught on the rug. A startled gasp left you as you stumbled forward—straight into him.

Your palms pressed against his chest, solid and warm. He caught you by your arms, his eyes locked on yours for a moment and that’s when you felt it, the hard evidence of what he’d been fighting this whole time pressing against your hip.

The room went silent except for the soft playing music and the ragged sound of his breath.

Joel’s hands let’s go, hovering near your arms, not quite touching, every muscle in him trembling with restraint. His eyes shut tight like if he didn’t look at you, he could will himself out of this mess.

“That’s why you wanna leave?” You asked softly, he could see the excitement grow in your eyes. Your body still pressed against him, he couldn’t find it in him to pull away. You squinted your eyes playfully.

“That’s why you’re always so grumpy when you come around me?” His brows furrowed, you suddenly began to slowly slide down his chest falling to your knees.

“What are you doin…” he whispered, voice cracking with equal parts frustration and need.

“Maybe, I can fix that” your hands slowing moved up his thighs.

“Darlin’…” His voice cracked on the word, strained and helpless. “You don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

“I think I do” your hands began to unbuckle his belt, he couldn’t stop you. Every sense of self control leaving his body the more you touched him. You bit the corner of your lip as you pulled his jeans down, the evidence of his arousal much more obvious through his navy blue boxers. You gasped softly, your fingers now slowly slipping behind the waistband, feeling the warmth of his skin. You could hear the shift in his breathing, deeper now almost trembling till you pulled his underwear over his arousal. His cock springing back up close enough where he could feel your breath on him.

“Honey..” he almost looked as if he was in pain.

“Shhh” your hand took hold of his cock, he was thick, warm aching to be touched. His chest rose faster until he felt your lips gently kiss the tip. Your tongue swirled under his shaft then around the head, a low whimper escaped his lips until you completely took him in your mouth.

“Shit-“ he breathed watching your mouth cover him fully. For just a second he looked up, his eyes sweeping the room as if he needed to make sure it was just you and him. Your lips glided easily along his shaft, the vibration of your moan making the sensation more intense. He looked back down, the sound of your lips smacking and popping on him only aroused him more.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that” he focused on you before you felt his hand reach for the back of your head.

“Your lips are so good to me, baby” He moaned, his eyes squeezed shut as he felt your lips reach his ballsack, he held you in place till tears fell from your eyes then pulled you back by your hair while you gasped for air.

“Come here” his hand still holding onto a chunk of your hair, he pulled you up in front of him, pushing you forward against the counter.

“This what you wanted me to do?” He whispered. He roughly pulled your shorts down and soon you felt his tip against you. He slid in easily, instantly finding a rhythm. You were ready for him, he could feel it. You moaned as he tugged at your hair gently at first, his other hand squeezing your waist. Your hands gripped onto the counter as he thrusted harder into you, you moaned loudly. Looking up across the room you could see his reflection in the mirror on the wall. The way he focused on the way your ass bounced with each thrust, he looked mesmerized with his view.

“Oh, harder Joel” the sound of your voice moaning his name making him tug at your hair harder.

“Say my name again-“ he demanded out of breath. You did as he asked, feeling his grip on your waist tighten. You could hear him panting roughly, the sound of his skin smacking against yours until you cried out feeling the pleasure run through you.

“Mm you feel so damn good, baby” you could hear the desperation in his voice, his attempt to keep himself together but he couldn’t. He wasn’t expecting his body to lose control the way it did and before he knew it, it was too late. Joel cursed at himself as he came fully into you.

“Joel-“ you gasped, he held himself in you, eyes closed. His grip on your hair loosened as he let go, both hands on your hips now. He thrusted once more with a deep moan before slowly slipping out of you.

“Joel..-“ you slowly stood up turning to him just as the phone rang. At a loss for words you pressed your lips together, he didn’t look at you, he couldn’t, knowing damn well what he’d just done. The phone continued to ring before you finally answered.

“Hello?” You cleared your throat realizing how out of breath you sounded.

“Hey dad-“ Joel looked up at you, still panting.

“Um-yeah, I’m fine. Everything’s fine” you grabbed your shorts from the floor and rushed off to the bathroom. Joel could hear you still talking on the phone, guilt in the pit of his stomach building up. He’d been good friends with your dad for a few years, he even vouched he would look out for you.

“Yes dad, I’m cooking myself dinner. I usually do the cooking anyways” You laughed when the sound of the front door slamming reached you. Rushing out of the bathroom, you caught sight of Joel through the window, already making his way back to his house. So focused on watching him leave, you didn’t notice your father speaking to you. He had already called your name twice before you finally blinked and snapped back to the moment.

“I’ll be back a bit earlier, I gotta call Joel and let him know I found what he was looking for in hardware store around here. Who would’ve thought-“ all you heard was Joel’s name. You didn’t say much after that, the wine still making you feel a buzz.

“Alright dad, I’m gonna eat. Call you later” he said his goodbyes and you sat on the couch in silence thinking about what just happened.

~~

The next morning you came out of the shower getting ready for work. Touched up a hint of gloss on your lips and just as you walked out your bedroom you heard Joel’s voice downstairs. You stopped right before the banister, your father having a good laugh before you shook it off, took a deep breath and made your way down.

“Morning, sweetie” your father greeted you making coffee while Joel stood against the kitchen doorway. In the middle of a laugh his expression changed at the sight of you.

“Morning dad-“ you turned to Joel. “Morning” he gave you a nod, you quickly looked away. Joel took a sip of his coffee watching as you walked towards the fridge, your back to him when your father’s voice caught you both off guard.

““Goddammit!” your father shouted, peering out the window.

“Wait a second!”

You turned just in time to see a tow truck hooking up his car. He bolted outside, swearing under his breath. Joel only shook his head.

“Been tellin’ your dad about those damn tickets,” he muttered, still not looking your way.

You stayed quiet. The silence stretched until he finally glanced at you.

“I’m sorry… about how I left yesterday.”

His words drew your eyes up to him, though you didn’t answer. He shifted awkwardly before stepping closer, pulling a crumpled brown paper bag from his pocket and holding it out.

“What’s this?” you asked.

“Just… take it,” he said, voice awkward, like he already regretted handing it over.

You opened the bag and nearly laughed. The morning-after pill.

“Oh. Convenient,” you said with biting sarcasm.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen—it just… I just—” His words stumbled and died under your gaze.

“It’s fine. Very gentlemanly of you,” you teased, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. You caught the flicker of a smile on his lips, the tiny quiver he tried to fight back.

“Look,-“ you began, “I know yesterday that shouldn’t have happened and I came on to you-“ Joel shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat looking down at his coffee.

“I let you” he cut you off.

“Yes but-“

“It shouldn’t have happened but it did and we’ll just leave it at that. It can’t happen again” his eyes met yours as you pressed your lips together.

“So you’re still gonna come around right?” You asked awkwardly.

“I’m here now ain’t I?”

“Yeah but you know what I mean, I don’t want my dad suspecting anything weird with you. He’s used to having you over a lot and-“

“Nothings changin’, I promise” he assured you. You breathed in relief with a smile as you walked up to him.

“Thanks, Joel” you unexpectedly tip toed and planted a quick peck by his chin, his facial hair brushing against your lips.

Joel froze.

You hadn’t noticed as you walked away nonchalant but his body reacted before his mind could. He didn’t say a word adjusting his pants near his crotch area he turned his back in the direction you walked out of and took a deep breath.

“Jesus Christ” he mumbled to himself just as your father walked back in.

“You believe that, a couple of unpaid tickets and boom” Your dad waved his arms around pissed off, he didn’t once stop to look at Joel who stood by the counter, still attempting to hide his hard on. He chugged the rest of his coffee and set the cup down.

“Better get goin’, long day today” Joel turned towards the door.

“Alright, don’t forget our poker game this weekend. I learned a new trick” he laughed. Joel gave him a nod before walking out the kitchen, just as he did he ran into you in the hallway.

“Sorry”

“Thought you left”

“I’m about to” his eyes swept over you, his jaw tensed-

“Oh good you’re still here” your dad’s voice made Joel look away.

“Hey, Joel, mind giving her a ride to work?”

“No dad, it’s fine-“

“Oh please, you’re on his route. I’m sure he won’t mind” Joel’s eyes were on the ground, desperately fighting himself.

“Dad-“

“It’s fine, I don’t mind” you looked back at Joel who swallowed hard as he looked up at you. You could read the discomfort in his face but didn’t say a word.

The car ride was just as awkward as you thought it would be. It was silent, tense and you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Nothings changed huh?” You finally blurt out making him look slightly confused. He didn’t take his eyes off the road but he knew exactly what you meant. He slowly pulled up in front of your job.

“Nothing has changed” he responded staring straight.

“So why can’t you look at me?”

He took a deep breath knowing how hard it was for him to do so while restraining himself.

Then he turned to you. His dark eyes piercing you intensely, you didn’t say a word.

“There. You wanted me to look at you, right? I’m lookin’.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of the car without a word. Joel’s shoulders loosened the second you were gone, but his gaze stayed locked on you. The sway of your hips as you walked away annoyed, dismissive-should’ve pissed him off. Instead, it lit a fire in him he couldn’t shake.

“Whatcha doing?”

Joel tilts his chin up, a deep set of hazel eyes meeting yours. He flicks his wrist, showing you the notebook in a casual shrug. “Workin’ on some ideas for the shed.”

Your ears perk up in interest, and a familiar warmth fills your chest. “The shed?”

“Mhm,” he hums, like the revelation isn’t surprising. 

It is, actually. 

You had almost forgotten about the comment you had made over dinner one time, of wanting more space to store your books and childhood memorabilia, but Joel remembered. And not only did he remember, he proved to have done something about it right away. Joel wasn’t the type to listen to you complain about things that bothered you, he fixed them. 

He spreads his legs and pats the broadness of his thigh in invitation. In an instant, you have climbed onto his lap, leaning against the strong arm he’s caged around your shoulder despite the heat, as you throw your legs over his. 

“There ya go,” Joel lets out in a small groan, sounding simultaneous with your happy hum of comfort. 

The movement pulls the lacy hemline of your dress up your thighs, the sliver of skin catching a faint, golden glow of light that seeps through the wooden pillars of the patio — and disappears again when Joel covers your leg with the warm palm of his hand. 

You rest your head against his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the sketch. “Can I see?”

“‘S not finished yet.” 

The corners of your lips lift. There is something so precious about Joel’s bashfulness when it comes to sharing things he’s created. Whether it’s a new picking pattern on the guitar, a constructional design he’s made with Tommy, or even when he follows a recipe of yours for dinner. But eventually, he’ll show it to you. Still craving the confirmation (especially yours) of having done a good job. He tilts the notebook to you, eyes nervously flicking over your frame and halting at your face in inspection of your reaction. 

You let your fingers slide over the pencil strokes, careful to not smudge the lines. 

He places his hand on top of yours, gently guiding your finger across the page. “That’s gonna be a bookcase,” he points. “The top part’s shelves, I’ll leave the bottom open for your boxes.”

The smile on your face blooms larger in adoration, and you press the tilted corners of your lips against his scruffed cheeks. “It’s perfect.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him. “I haven’t even gotten around to building it.”

“Well, I love it already.”

You place your hand on his chest, knotting the light fabric of clothes in your fist as you lean in to give him another peck, this time on the lips. “You’re so sweet to me.”

“Well, I am the romantic type,” he teases playfully and connects his lips to yours. 

His breath hitches as you deepen the kiss, your free hand finds its way into the short, tousled hairs at the nape of his neck, while you keep the other on his chest, relishing the way his heart speeds up under your palm when you slide your tongue over his bottom lip. 

“Honey,” Joel grumbles in warning. The timbre of his deep voice reverberates against your lips, igniting a spark low in your stomach.

“What?” you feign innocently. “It’s just a kiss.”

“Sure thing,” he sarcastically mutters. “‘S never just a kiss with you.”

The assumption might be true, but it doesn’t stop him from accepting the offer of your tongue when you smoothly slide it against his. He clamps his hand around your thigh — anchoring himself from the sudden need that’s overcoming him. He massages the soft flesh by dragging slow, deep circles with his thumb. 

The action pulls you in deeper, feeling lightheaded by the possessiveness in his touch. Joel angles his head to take control over the kiss, greedily taking advantage of the small gasp you let out to devour you deeper. His hot tongue messily traces every crevice of your mouth until all your thoughts blur into a dizzying static. 

His hand inches away from your thigh, and Joel has the audacity to shush you when you let out a  small, needy whine. “Don’t sulk,” he hushes against your jaw, and you can’t even be mad, because he drags his lips further down to the sensitive spot in your neck, sucking a mark into the skin. 

“Now there ya go…” he teases as he licks a stripe over the art he’s created. He shamelessly inhales your scent, not minding the light layer of salt from your sweat, completely focused on the sweet smell of your perfume mingled with the remnants of his spit.  

You’re too distracted to notice the move of his hand until it’s there. Three of his thick fingers are roughly pressed against the damp material between your legs. 

“Shit!” You gasp, hips jerking back as he cups your cunt without warning, grinding the heel of his palm right where you’re throbbing. 

“Jesus, baby…” he growls against the shell of your ear. “Pussy’s all warmed up for me already.”

Joel’s mouth wraps around your earlobe, his beard scraping against you as he suckles. His hand slides higher, over your panties and brushing against the softness of your lower stomach, as he pushes your dress up until the fabric is bunched around your hips — out of the way. 

You fist your fingers tighter in his shirt, clutching onto him in preparation for falling apart. The fabric pools, and your knuckles brush against the coarse hair peeking above his collar. Joel continues the motions of his hand, dragging his fingers over your swollen, covered folds in agonizing slowness, until the friction has you squirming in his lap. Instead of relieving you from the uncomfortable, damp fabric, he slides his hand up your panties and curves two of his fingers in the waistband and tugs. 

“Joel!”

He’s unfazed by your sharp yelp and the arching of your back. He just leans back to watch you with a smug smirk plastered on his lips. “Oh, did that sting, honey?”

His heavy, half-closed eyes take you in in fascination, glimmering in a newfound spark as he watches the aftereffects of his actions: your nose still scrunched and your mouth still parted as it's deciding whether to let out a whimper or moan.

Joel tips his head, lips pouting as he asks the next question. “Want me to make her feel better?” 

Your body answers for you. A soft moan escapes your throat, and you press your thighs closed around his wrist. “Please.”

“That’s what I thought,” he hums back in quiet satisfaction.

The hand hidden behind your waistband dips lower, this time yanking the thin fabric aside, exposing you to the air. Sunlight spills onto your cunt, and Joel feels like he’s in fucking Heaven when your pussy reflects your glimmering wetness. His thick fingers slip between your folds, collecting the slick that was awaiting him. 

“Christ,” he mutters, calloused fingers rubbing up and down your heat. A guttural groan vibrates through his chest as the tips of those fingers enter your needy hole without any resistance. “Look at her swallowing me, baby. Didn’t have to do a damn thing. Bet my cock would slide right in.” 

The thought alone makes your walls clench, needing his cock (or at least more of his fingers) inside of you. You bury your face into his neck, the previously fine skin now damp with heat and need. “Joel…” you whine. “Need more.” 

“I know baby, I got it.” The words are tender as he presses a kiss to your temple. So is his touch, as he gently pushes two of his digits into you. 

You’re whimpering before he has even moved, grinding your hips and slicking his knuckles with your wetness as it drips out of you. “Look at you,” he rasps thickly. “Rubbin’ yourself all over me. Such a good girl, reckon you don’t even need my help.”

“I do! I do!” You quickly speak in a hitched breath. God, you needed him. You were just too impatient, couldn’t help yourself from moving when his long fingers were nearly reaching that sweet spot inside of you. 

“Atta girl, just stay where you are,” he soothes and scissors his fingers around your heat. “Let me stretch you out.”

A slight burn follows. No matter how many times you take Joel’s fingers, it always takes a while to get used to him. The bite simmers to a pleasant warmth when he curls them, brushing your g-spot and knocking a sob out of you.

“Right there,” you gasp in a moan, fingers digging into his arm. 

“I know. That’s the spot, huh?” He double-checks his hypothesis by flicking his wrist, hitting the spongy part repeatedly. 

Your thighs quake, confirming his beliefs. He hums, fastening the motions of his hand. “Feels good, doesn't it? Doing so good for me, honey.” 

Every drag of his fingers made you clench your stomach, sharp sparks of electricity shooting through your body and making you shake. Your clit stood peaked, and so did your nipples through your sundress — every sensitive part of your body was on high alert, begging for more.

Like his senses were sharpened too, Joel reached out the arm that was wrapped around your back and slithered it into your dress. In an instant, he had his thumb and pointer finger pinched around your nipple, twisting the hard peak around.

“Fuckkk,” you stammer, biting your bottom lip to stop you from crying out.

Joel groaned at the slutty, whiny mess of a woman he had in his arms. “There’s my sweet girl. We’re gettin' there, ain’t we?”

Your hips shoot up, nails digging harder into his covered bicep. “Oh,” you shakily breathe out. “Yes… yes, I’m getting there.”

The rhythmic push and pull of his fingers fills the air with wet and obscene sounds, combined with the creaking and squeaking of the rocking chair you were sitting on.

Arousal hits you like a fever when you remember that he built that chair. Joel's big arms and calloused hands had chopped the dark wood and had carved all of those pieces so intricately so that the chair would rock perfectly. And now, those same arms and hands were touching you, just as rough and delicately.

“You want to come for me, honey?”

You nod your head up and down in embarrassing swiftness.

“Got my hands full of ya… Why don’t you help me out a bit and rub that pretty little clit for me?”

Your hand trembles as it moves down your stomach. It’s now for the first time that you’re paying full attention to Joel touching you. Seeing his big fingers slipping in and out of you and the physical effect it has on your body as you watch your goosebump covered thighs shake and clench.

The sight was too arousing to not touch yourself, so you obeyed. Your finger finds your clit, all slick and puffy underneath your fingertip. So sensitive that you hiss when you rub the bud.

“God damn, baby. Can’t stop lookin’ at you.” Joel groans as he thrusts his fingers into you at a faster speed, igniting every nerve in your body to life.

The circles you were drawing on your clit were sloppy, careful, because one more push against it would rip your orgasm through you. And you wanted to give Joel the honors.

“Kiss me.” You murmur, the last words you spoke before singing a melody of moans and cries as your orgasm washes over you. Joel kept his lips pressed roughly against yours, swallowing all of your sounds as you came down around his fingers. You couldn’t stop rubbing your clit now, using the flat tip of your finger as you desperately tried to prolong your pleasure.

Your body stuttered and pulsed, not in any control of it anymore, fully letting yourself go in Joel’s arms. He holds you tightly, keeping you up on his lap. Slowly, he removes his fingers, and the same goes for his lips as he moves his head back. He took you in, all tear-struck, trembling, and out of breath.

“It’s okay, honey. You did good.” He reminds you as he now takes your own hand away from your cunt, grabbing you by your waist as he hoists you up onto his lap.

“Don’t want it to be over yet,” you pout at him.

A deep chuckle leaves him. Then he thrusts his hips into yours, knocking a moan out of you as you feel the thick bulge of his cock pressing against his jeans.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

When you arrived to the summer house, all you expected was the same four people to be sat waiting for you, but as you walked inside you got that instant hit of cedar and wood scented aftershave– at first you thought your nose was playing tricks on you, that’s until you step outside, and sat in the garden of the summer house, your families’ summer house– was none other than Joel Miller. Your heart instantly dropped, your dad never mentioned this, he never told you that Joel would be here– but then again, why would he? He doesn’t know about you and Joel, the late-night calls and weekends spent lying in, he didn’t even know you knew him outside of their friendship.

It'd already been a week since you’d gotten to the summer house, still the same as you remembered, the same bright white exterior– now adorned with accents of sage green shutters and front door, your mother had insisted they both needed a new coat of paint a year ago and your father, of course, had happily obliged.

Though, he did probably have about five neat whiskeys in his system as he smiled over at her and said, “of course honey, anythin’ you want”. She knew him too well– it still had that same smell when you first walked in, like fresh sea air and coconut scented candles- your mother also had a knack for raiding every Bath and Body Works of all coconut scented candles they had.

For the most part it had been okay, a few hiccups the first night between your father and two brothers, James and Ben– they were always arguing about something, but your dad tried to reel it in for once, ‘for Joels sake’, he kept saying. You couldn’t believe that, for once, he was being the level-headed one, thank. god. for Joel– in more ways than one, you suppose. With you and Joel, you’d not even tried to sneak around, it was too risky– with everyone under the same roof, one wrong move and all hell breaks loose.

It's not that you both were embarrassed, the opposite actually, it was just better this way– he’s your dad’s best friend, it’s not exactly the easiest situation to bring up at dinner, or at anytime for that matter. The age-gap didn’t necessarily help the situation either, it wasn’t illegal by any means, you’d met him for the first time when you were 24, he was 39– so it was legal, but people in Texas are judgemental, and your family were the church type; meaning they wouldn’t take kindly to you shacking up with a guy 14 years older than you, never-mind the thought of the community outcry.

Then– to make matters even worse your dad had invited over the neighbour and his son, Dave and Ryan– the last few nights for dinner, they’d bought the house beside yours here in San Antonio, 17 years ago; a year after your family had bought theirs. Your dad and Dave became instant friends and your brothers and you became friendly with Ryan over the years- your brothers more than you. Your dad and Dave had always joked about setting you and Ryan up; but you’d played it off as some dumb thing they did to embarrass you both as teens– that was until this year, you’d found out they went through a bit of financial trouble a few years back and could no longer fully afford the house, so they rented it for those summers they were gone, but now they were back. You hadn’t seen him in so long, you wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t handsome, he was, but Ryan had always been kind of a dick, even to your brothers who he called his friends– he was just one of those guys, too confident and self-assured that it naturally manifested into cockiness, that then manifested into full on dick-ish.

After the first dinner on the Wednesday night, Ryan had been over every day, for your brothers you assumed– but then you saw his eyes veer to you from across the garden, or when you’d lounge on the chairs beside the pool, even when you’d walked past him a few times and he’d just randomly strike up conversation with that stupid, smug grin he’d plaster on his face to seem appealing- the only thing it did for you was the sudden urge you’d get to smack it off him.

The first night you thought you were in the clear, it was nearing the end of the dinner and nothing had been said thus-far that was until, your dumb dad had brought up the jokes him and Dave used to make when you were younger– about how you used to ‘get pretty for Ryan’ all those years ago– pfft, as if! You were just fifteen and self-conscious. Ryan had laughed at the remarks, you smiled awkwardly and sipped your drink but your eyes subtly veered to Joel and you seen the falter in his smile. In that moment, part of you felt horrible– but a deep, twisted part of you revelled in the fact he looked pissed at that, the thought of him being jealous over dumb remarks from ten years ago made your thighs clench together under the table.

After that night Joel had made a point to show off, you could tell, he started making a point of walking past you in his swimming trunks, swimming in the pool when you were lay basking in the sun on a lounger, even in the morning he’d walk downstairs in his sweatpants and no t-shirt just so you’d do a double take– and you had to say it worked incredibly well, you could barely peel your eyes away half the time, you were always focused on some part of his body when he was around.

His legs were nice, strong, sun-kissed like the rest of him, they looked especially beautiful when he’d get out of the pool– each step he took his calf muscles flexed, glistening as the sun hit off the water balling off of them. His arms, my. god. his arms… they’d send even the most holy of church women to silence if they got one glance of those thick, honey-toned biceps– his forearms weren’t much better, sometimes if he flexed the right way this–one–vein would pop out with practised ease, it trailed from the crease of his elbow and somehow, wrapped sinfully over his arm till it hits his hand, and you don’t even want to get started on his hands. He was just a complete sight for sore eyes, he was built just right, broad and heady, the gruffness he carries in tone almost melts into his demeanour making him even more want-able– that was the only way you could describe him, not easily attainable, but want-able.

He'd also been getting more involved in the stupid activities your brothers, Ryan and your dad had been doing for years– the type of activities you’d only see frat guys participate in at parties to show off to girls- even though it usually did the complete opposite; things like beer pong, shot-gunning beers and for some strange reason, they had added running… to the mix this year? When you’d seen Joel stroll down into the empty kitchen on Friday in a pair of what could only be described as glorified underwear, black with a thin white strip down the side, they were running shorts but just slightly too tight for him. You snorted into your coffee and he turned his head to look at you, stood over the sink filling a water bottle as he tilted his head in confusion– you set your coffee cup on the table in-front of you and your laptop, turned on your seat to face him; your legs crossed under you, still in your shorts and baggy t-shirt from the night before.

“What are you wearing Joel?” You looked him up and down again, smiling in an almost disbelieving way as you tilted your head to match his. “Are those my brothers running shorts?”

When he nodded you laughed softly, turning back on the seat properly so you could grab your coffee, head turning back to him once more as shake it in a tutting manner, taking another sip of your coffee– it wasn’t that they looked bad, they didn’t, they looked amazing on him– you were just amused that Joel Miller was actively choosing to go on a run on a Friday morning at 7:12am.

Then, he walked over to the table and sat beside you, you looked over to him again– trying to make it as un-ogling as possible, but when you seen him sitting so leisurely beside you, you couldn’t help but smile softly, your elbow set on the table as you rested your chin on your hand- still gazing at him as you mutter something softly. Something just for him, even though the kitchens empty.

“You look handsome…” That’s all you say, but it’s enough for him to turn his head and smile at you, it was more of a grin, a real and almost boyish grin– then Ryan walked in, immediately the intimate mood broke, and you went back to your coffee and laptop in-front of you.

Sunday afternoon, 12:46pm. It’d been a quiet morning, it had rained today, and it wasn’t letting up, you and your family were supposed to go shopping today but you decide to pass– thank god you had, otherwise you’d be stuck in that awful rain, you’d changed from your usual shorts and baggy t-shirt to a sweater and sweatpants. For some odd reason– you decided to make cookies, so you had been downstairs all morning, at some point you forgot the whole house was empty except for you and Joel– he hadn’t came down all morning and once you’d made the cookies and cleaned up you finally realised he was here, weird, but you just set the drying towel down and made your way to the stairs.

You made it up the stairs and walked down the obnoxiously long hallway, until you made it to his room, you went to knock the door but it was already slightly ajar– you saw him through the crack, face down on the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, you slowly made your way inside and shut the door softly- when you shut the door you’d seen him tense, you locked it quietly, just in-case, speaking up gently.

“Just me…” You spoke under your breath, making your way over as you plopped yourself down beside him on the bed, his head was turned away from you as he lay on his stomach- you smiled to yourself, then you noticed his hand on his back and your brows furrowed slightly, his voice jolts you out of your thinking as he speaks up- tone just as southern and gruff, but there was always a hint of softness when you were alone.

“Went on a run this mornin’ with Ryan, think I–” He tried to roll over, but– to no avail he just lets out a slight groan and gives up before he continues again. “–pulled somethin’ in my back… hurts like hell.”

You press your lips together in an attempt to hold back a laugh, but a small snicker leaves them and you can practically feel his annoyance permeating through the room in that moment, you move to rest your hand over his on his back. “Joel… why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve gotten you something.” Your tone sounds like a mix of defeated and pleading.

He was always so stubborn about things, one of those guys that would never ask for help, probably didn’t believe he needed it in the first place– but you have a feeling there’s more to it, you just think it would’ve been smart to ask the only actual doctor in the house for a little help. You looked back to him again before you leant down and kissed the back of his head gently, overtop those salt and pepper curls that adorned down the nape of his neck– his hair was another thing you very much appreciated, he had let it grow out a little one time and you had complimented it– after that he always got it cut in that exact way.

“You do realise my dad didn’t pay $200,000 in med school tuition for four years, for me to walk out with no medical degree?” You hear a gruff, short laugh leave his lips and you smile to yourself.

“Well, doc. I ain’t gonna bother you with my pathetic back, just an age thing, pulled something– nothing worth wastin’ your time.” He says it so finally, as if there’s no room for the fact that he could have hurt himself.

“Or–maybe–it’s the fact that you’re running 5 more miles than you ever have before, every single day, for no reason?” If he knows anything about you it’s that you don’t take finality, so of course you challenge in your matter-of-fact way.

He just stays quiet, no reply, no arguing, no pushing back, just silence– tells you all you need to know, you gently rest your free hand on the mattress and keep your other rested on the side of his lower back, you rest all your weight on the arm that’s connected to the hand on the mattress. Gently, you lean over him, till you get to an angle where your heads now in-front of his, so he’s looking at your face rather than the dull cloud grey of the wall in-front of him. When you see his brow all set, the way it would when he’s annoyed but doesn’t really understand why, you smile softly- he looks at you and you can see his brow soften.

“Hi…” You confide, almost like it’s a secret only worthy of his ears.

He smiles at you, you can tell he’s softened now, the furrow of his brow no longer there– the creases stay but that’s just from age and his constant use of his forehead when expressing how he feels without using words. “Hey…” he replied, as softly as was humanely possible for the gruff and heady Joel.

You stay leant over him as you speak again, tone gentle, less clinical– if there’s one thing you know about Joel, it’s that he doesn’t take kindly to advice being given in an authoritative tone, he doesn’t like being lectured when he’s already in a pissed-off mood. “Y’know the worse thing for a back injury is heat?”

When you’d placed your hand on his back minutes earlier, you felt his hand first which was warm–like always–until you moved your thumb slightly and there was heat radiating off his back, more than normal, that’s when you made the conclusion he’s using a heating pad. Probably asked your mom for something and that’s the first thing she handed him, what he needs is a cold compress. From how he's acting you don’t think it’s too serious, he’s probably right about pulling a muscle which suggests inflammation; the worse thing for inflammation is heat– what he also needs is some ibuprofen and rest.

“It could be serious but from the way you’re acting I’m gonna guess it’s just a pulled muscle, which means something in there is inflamed– and that heat pack is exacerbating it even more…” You gently sat back on the mattress beside him as you spoke. “Can I take a look?” You knew he would say yes, but you didn’t want to assume so you ask– just in case.

When he nods you gently lift up his black t-shirt, holding it up to his mid back as your fingers graze the soft skin over his spine, you gently lift the heat pack off– it’s a little bruised but that’s not uncommon for pulled muscles, where the bruise is placed isn’t sinister so you know he hasn’t done any irreparable damage- just overexertion. You graze your fingers over the light yellow and purple patches, dotted over that beautiful honey-toned skin– when you graze the skin, you hear him let out a soft breath, as if he was holding it in and didn’t realise until he let it out.

You slowly pull the t-shirt back down, letting it rest on the edge of the waistband of his sweatpants before you lean back over to look at him– gentle eyes on his as you smile. “Theres a little bruising but you haven’t hit the point of no return– rest and icing it should take the pain away, but the bruising will go away with time…” You lean in closer, kissing his forehead benevolently. “no more running for a little while, but I’m gonna guess you’re not really displeased by that?”

You lean back from his forehead to look at him again and he’s smiling softly, almost sheepishly up at you– after a few seconds of silence he shakes his head. “Nah… I’m pretty okay with that.” He lets out a gruff, short laugh, then he looks back to you again– eyes gentle, beckoning. “How’d you get up here without anyone noticin’?”

You were about to reply when he decides to shift under you, with soft grunts he moves from laying on his stomach to laying on his back– now why would he ever think that was a good idea? He’s wincing slightly before he settles back, head resting into the pillows– your hands now bracketing his broad shoulders as they rest on either side of the mattress; you’re still hovered over him. Rather than being leant over his back, his chest is now grazing yours– you adjust your head and gaze so you’re looking down at him rather than being horizontal, you give him a confused smile.

“Everyone’s gone into the city for the day, won’t be home till after dinner– they made dinner reservations this morning, I said I’d make you dinner y’know?… My mom couldn’t believe I was offering to cook, played it off like I had a newfound love for the Food Network.” You laughed softly as you looked down to him, but his eyes just softened even more, and you didn’t know what else to say in that moment.

You relished in that look, those eyes of his– the fact he moved onto his sore back just so he could look up at you, with a gaze that was pathetic- in a way that made your knees weak. He looked at you like it was the first time he’d gotten a glimpse of you since he got back from war, as if, for the first time– he could just look at you, your hand moves to push back a few hairs from his forehead.

Fingers graze the shallow cracks adorning his soft temple, pushing the hair back till it hits the edge of his forehead– your eyes drift back to his, your touch tender- like if you press to hard, somehow; he’ll crack underneath you.

“I like your hair today, you look like some sorta… eighties folk rock singer.” You listen to his words as he plays with one strand between his fingers, twisting the ends between his forefinger and thumb pads gently– you hadn’t done anything different with your hair, you actually thought it looked a little messy, but you know Joel- he wouldn’t say something if he didn’t mean it.

You smile down at him, sheepishly, at his gentle way of making you feel like the most beautiful woman to grace his presence. “Didn’t do anything different, guess it’s just because I did it a few hours ago it’s a little less pristine?”

“Looks pretty pristine to me…” He sounds so sure of himself, like he’s already convinced you your hair looks nice. “–looks effortless or whatever, ain’t that your whole thing? The effortless look?”

You raise a brow before you push his chest gently, feigning offence with a smile on your face. “Is that your idea of a compliment? And no, well–I dunno–shouldn’t I be asking you that? If you think I look effortless?” You question softly.

He shrugs before he reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers graze your cheekbone tenderly as he continues to look up at you with a warm smile. “Effortless is a compliment in my books, means you don’t have to try– got that natural thing goin’ for you… lotta people would kill for that.”

Yet again, your brain melts, into some sort of soft, gooey mess, all because of his words and touch– to him its seems like the easiest thing but hearing him talk about you like that makes you feel all but completely broken open, in a good way- the best way. You, once again, smiled down at him in an endeared way. “Yeah?…” You pleaded in an affirming voice.

His calloused palm cups your cheek, caressing it as he keeps his eyes on you, soft crows feet forming on either side of them as he smiled– his eyes were always on yours. “You sound shocked by that? You don’t think you got natural beauty?”

If anyone else had said it, it probably would’ve been an insult– some sort of mockery on your ‘lack of self-preservation’ when it came to looks, since a lot of the time you were so busy with work at the hospital (and the hours were killer in the Emergency Medicine field), your self-care was always on the back burner. Was that healthy? No. At the same time– you knew what you signed up for when you chose to specialise in EM, so you got used to the oddly timed sleeping schedule, eye bags and lack of social events.

Hearing him talk about you like that made all of that disappear, you were no longer worried about your non-pristine hair or that your eye-bags were particularly greyer today. None of that mattered when Joel was beneath you, caressing your face with his calloused hands, looking up at you like you’d just saved his metaphorical cat from a tree; with pure and real admiration.

He spoke up again, after your lack of response but sudden sufficiency to stare. “You’re sittin’ funny.” He looks up at you with a playful grin, you look down and you suppose you were sitting funny– your knees were under you, but resting on the mattress beside him as you hovered your chest over his, hands bracketing his shoulders on the bed. You were only sat like that since he was on his stomach before he decided to roll over, the only other way you could sit but keep the closeness was if you sat on him– or rather, straddled him.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, but his back was sore and the last thing he needed was you resting all of your bodyweight on his hips– especially since its his lower back that’s hurt. “I don’t know how else I’m gonna sit properly and stay close, without sitting on you…”

“So sit on me?” He replied plainly, as if it was the most normal thing– and for you both- it was, that wasn’t the problem– you just didn’t want to hurt him.

“If I sit on your lap Joel, I’m gonna kill your back even more… all my weight will be on your hips, it’ll hurt– I don’t want to do that.” Your tone began matter-of-factly, then faltered into a worried one, eyes heavy on his and you move one of your hands to rest on his shoulder.

“Y’know that was a rhetorical question? I ain’t gonna break, I ain’t made of glass– can handle you… ‘Sides, house is empty for the first time in a week- means we don’t gotta worry ‘bout anyone.” He’s already tugging at your hips before he’s even finished his point, you laugh softly before you shake your head in a sarcastic ‘unbelievable’ way– but his borderline pleading tone made you relent.

“Okay! Okay!,” You sit up on your knees beside him as you move his hands off your hips. “–you’re relentless, Miller.” You let out a sound that’s a mix of a scoff and laugh before you move, slowly moving one knee to bracket the other side of his hips– keeping your hips off his. “Tell me if anything hurts?” You firmly tell him, no room for argument.

He sits up and nods, self-satisfied grin plastering his face– he’s so fucking proud of himself for getting you to sit on his lap, you laughed softly and lowered down at a pace that matched one of a sloth descending from a tree. When your hips made contact he winced a little, barely, but you noticed and hovered– he looked over at you with a raised brow and a non-audible ‘seriously?’ before he moved his hands to your waist and guided you all the way down, wincing again as you settled.

“You’re fucking ridiculous…” You mutter sarcastically as you shake your head, and he just nods proudly, each nod long– making sure that you understand, that he understands, just how fucking ridiculous he is, but he doesn’t care. You roll your eyes playfully, placing a hand on his chest in-front of you– you tried to play it off like you were just doing it to hold yourself up, but it might’ve helped that you could feel his broad chest and warmth beneath his t-shirt.

His hands moved under your sweatshirt, even though you weren’t cold, Joels hands felt like two heaters being placed directly on your skin– the soft heat is such a contrast from the callous and span of his hands, you let out a soft breath as they rest on the sides of your ribs. You look down at him with a gentle expression as your hand continue to rest on his chest, you can feel his heartbeat on your palm– steady and knowing, like it has a specific rhythm when you touch his heart.

“Thought comin’ on this trip meant I’d see you more, that’s why I came– realise how stupid that thought was now… though, seein’ you in those bikinis– makes me regret comin’ a little less.” As he spoke his fingers grazed the underwire of your bra.

“What about now?… if you stayed home you wouldn’t have been able to have me like this– you regret your decision even less?” You query with a smug grin, his fingers graze right around the wire of your bra till they hit the back band– resting over the clasp.

“‘Suppose… just a little pissed my backs so fucked, otherwise I’d have been down there hours ago,” He leaves his sentence open-ended and you raise a brow, he smirks smugly at you and you scoff.

“Say it…” You all but whine out, he knows you hate when he does that.

He half scoffs, half laughs before gently pulling your head closer– hovered over his again, one hand still at the clasp of your bra. His warm breath cascades over your lips, then he hovers his head up, lips against your ear as he breathes out. “You’d be up on that counter.” Your breathing halts.

As his head leans back from you, you look down with a silent craving gaze. “Joel…” You breathe out, your head dropping down to rest your forehead against his shoulder in a defeated manor– the hand on the back of your head caressing the hair there, he lets out a soft, almost teasing chuckle- he knew exactly what he was doing.

He piped up after a few seconds, tone low and deep– downright provocative. “Baby… you’re killin’ me here.” His hand continues to caress your hair, once he speaks you look up from his shoulder– your hands move up his chest, one resting a-top his shoulder, the other rests on the side of his face.

You lean down even more, lips parted as your breaths mix with one an-others– your breathing gets heavier before you lean in, kissing him gently. The kiss doesn’t stay gentle for long, your fingers in his hair gripping the short tufts as you move your lips against his– his hand gripping the hair at the nape of your neck- pulling you even closer in an attempt to deepen the kiss even further.

The hand on your bra clasp had wandered down and was now resting on the small of your back, his palm firm and flat against the skin– conforming to the slight arch in your back as a result of you on his lap. After what felt like hours (probably only a few minutes had passed), you pulled back to catch your breath, forehead resting on his as your chest heaved. “Fuck…” You breathed out, your hand resting on the side of his head moved to the back, griping the hair there gently.

He laughed softly, sort of mockingly– his chest heaving, moving his fingers right into your hair, he looks at you. “That good, huh?” Then the bastard full on smirks at you, all but gloating that he broke you down into a heaving, speechless mess from a few kisses.

You’re trying to think of a good way to wipe that smug smirk off his face, but words continue to fail you, you decide to be bold. Slowly, you move the hand that was on his shoulder downwards, till you hit the middle of his chest, you lean up straight on his lap as you keep your gaze guarded– gently, you start rocking back and forth in his lap, over his cock– you can feel his breath hitch under your palm, his length hardening underneath you. You let out a soft whimper as you keep your eyes on him, you were going to try the whole smug-dominance thing but it had been so long since you felt him that everything left your mind the minute you rubbed yourself against him.

“Jo- Joel…” You whimper softly, your eyes close softly as your head falls back– he grips your hair a little roughly, but not enough to hurt you as he guides your head back up.

“Look at me…” He grunts out. “Need to see you..” Another groan, his hips bucking upwards, begging for more friction. You open your eyes to look at him and let out your first real and incredibly needy moan, you watch as he winces with another buck of his hips– his back, in all of this you had completely forgotten about his back, immediately the doctor in you made your body pause its movements.

Then his gaze falters, his brow furrows in a hungry, frustrated manner. “Why’d you stop? Everythin’ alright?”

You nod, your chest heaving as you caress his hair carefully. “You were wincing, I forgot about your back– don’t want to hurt you anymore than you already are… we can–”

He cuts in mid sentence. “Baby… baby…” Both of his hands cup your face and your apologetic look falters, he shakes his head with a soft smile. “You ain’t hurtin’ me… I was alright, perfect actually.” His fingers tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I’m okay to keep goin’, but if you don’t wanna–”

You cut him off with a deep kiss, your hand gripping his hair as you pull his face impossibly close to yours– letting your lips part as his tongue enters your mouth. One of his hands moves to rest against the side of your neck, the other moves back to its spot under your sweater, on the small of your back– gently he pulls you closer to his chest. He’s now fully sat up with you in his lap, holding your back gently before he rolls you on your back and hovers over you- never breaking the kiss.

He pulls back and you let him, letting go of his hair, you watch as he pulls off his t-shirt and throws it to the side before he leans back down– kissing you again as his hands grip the opening of your sweater, he gently tugs it up and you arch your back off the bed slightly so he can get it off. You sit up as he pulls it off, chasing his lips as your hands cup the sides of his head, deepening the kiss again– his hands holding your waist firmly.

You’ve barely been able to breathe never-mind speak, he pulled back slightly before he leans in– kissing down your jaw, neck and collarbones till he hits your chest, he grazes his lips over the bare skin peaking out from your bra and you let out soft moans, gripping his hair gently. You look down to him and after he’s kissed the expanse of bare skin on your chest he kisses his way back up to your lips, his lips graze yours before you breathe into his mouth. “I’m so wet Joel… I need you, I really need you…” He lets out a desperate growl before he pulls you back in, kissing you hard.

He lays you down again and kneels between your legs as he sits up straight, he hooks the tips of his forefingers into the waistband of your sweatpants– leaning back down to kiss down your ribs and stomach, simultaneously, he pulls down your sweatpants till they pool at your knees. You let out a needy moan at each kiss before he hits the front of your pelvis– he places a few soft kisses over your panties then pulls back again, always leaving you high and dry.

You whined softly, immediately sitting up on your elbows so you can look down at him, tilting your head and raising a brow when you see him hovered over the space between your thighs– thumbs now hooked in the openings of your panties for your legs. “You gonna actually do something or just continue to breathe on me like I’m one of those un-blowable birthday candles?”

He smirks at you smugly and you scoff to yourself, just as you scoff you feel him grip the part of your panties his thumbs were hooking and pulls them off, enticingly slowly, once they hit where your sweatpants rest he bunches them both in his hands and pulls them off fully– throwing them aside just like he did with his shirt. You watch him sit up on his knees again, watching you lay there, just in your bra with your legs open as he sits between them– his gaze is slightly possessive as he speaks up. “Ryan ain’t ever gonna see you like this… you hear me?” You laughed softly at first, but his gaze only hardened on you– you nodded understandingly and instantly the possessiveness left as quick as it came, was he jealous of Ryan? Is that why’d he’d been doing all these things and getting involved, so he could keep an eye on Ryan?

You were so lost in thought you nearly missed his hands moving, immediately you drop all questioning thoughts– your gaze followed his hands as they move down to his hips, hooking his fingers into his own sweatpants before he pulled them and his boxers off, at the same time. When he’s sat bare in-front of you, your mouth goes dry, but at the same time the sight of him is mouth-watering- you’d seen his cock before, thick and honey-toned just like the rest of him, you look back up to his eyes before you opened your legs even wider, a beckoning invitation. He slowly crawls until he’s on top of you, your legs wrap around his waist; arms wrapping around his neck with your hands rested on his back, fingers gripping at the skin before he’s even entered you.

You keep your eyes on his, his hands bracket your head on the mattress, strong arms flexing under his weight– he looks down at you, speaking up after minutes of heavy breathing and silence. “Gonna go slow… been so long since I felt you, wanna enjoy it.” His tone was hungry, commanding and like always left no room for disagreement– like you’d ever disagree to feeling him fully and slowly.

Then, achingly slowly, he moves his hand down to grip himself, gently tracing the wetness of your folds before he lines himself up and enters you unhurriedly– your back immediately arches as you let out a broken moan, fuck that felt good. Your fingers claw at his back even harder, digging into the skin as he continues pushing himself inside you, inch by inch– each one breaking you open more and more, somehow you managed to keep eye contact; aside from the occasional flutter shut so you could let out a particularly loud moan, one that would make your jaw slacken for a second before you collected yourself.

Once he was fully inside you he waited before moving, letting you (and himself) adjust to the fact he was finally, fully back inside you, after a few seconds you looked at him– he looked down at you and knew from your gaze that you were ready, you were so fucking ready. Gently, he thrusted his hips into yours and you let out what could only be describe as a cacophony of embarrassingly desperate noises, one of your hands moved from his back into his hair as you pulled his head down to meet your lips– kissing him hungrily as his thrusts got deeper. “You feel… so fuckin’ good… missed the feelin’ of fuckin’ you.” Those words made your hips chase his movements even more, made your mouth move faster and the hand in his hair claw the fistful even harder.

His pace quickens as your noises get needier and louder, he knew what that meant, so he accommodated for it– hitting that one spot deep inside you that he knew made you see stars, and–god–were you seeing stars. “I’m so fucking close Joel… keep going...” You moan into his mouth, the heated kissing never faltering– your words seemed to work because you were moaning louder and louder till it hit, the pure rush of heat and ecstasy as you threw your head back into the pillow and let out a cry of noises and words. Some his name, others curses– after a few seconds, you’re brought out of your fucked-out daze when you feel his movements more frantic, his voice louder as he utters your name and things like ‘so fuckin’ good’, ‘fuck… oh fuck’ till theres one last ’so fuckin’ beautiful’ before a loud groan and the feeling of his warmth leaking into you slowly.

His thrusts become gentler as he rides out his orgasm, you feel him begin to soften inside you before he pulls out and collapses beside you, laying on his back- his eyes shut as his chest heaves. Your breathing isn’t nearly as frantic anymore, and you look over to him, sweaty and worn-out. Theres something inherently soft about Joel after sex– its like his whole demeanour changes when he’s post-fuck, soft and pliable, like you could ask him to do for you anything and he’d just say yes in a sex-haze because he’s so pleased. Your hand moves from the mattress to rest on his forearm, squeezing it once to get his attention, and when he turns his head with a soft look in his eye– you smile.

“Making sure you’re still alive, was worried I was wrong about your back and somehow it had killed you.” You muttered sarcastically, but gently– hand moving up to his face as you push a few sweaty curls off his brow.

“Still here, just happy- and unable to fuckin’ breathe…” He let out a gruff chuckle. “…don’t think i’ll ever get used to fuckin’ you– its like every time you just… find a way to make it feel like my first, scary stuff.” His tone was one of sarcasm as he dramatically shuddered, you pushed his arm gently– never could take anything too seriously, could he? But your stupidly, sheepish grin let all ideas of you acting annoyed fly out the window.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who went looking for things like this. Hell, he’d barely even used his damn cell phone for more than work calls and the occasional “you need anything?” to Tommy. But work had been slow, evenings long, and his bed cold for far longer than he cared to count.

It started the way everything bad always does— by accident. He’d been working late on a kitchen remodel for an older couple across town, staying after to make sure the grout set right. When he finally packed up for the night, he was sore, tired, and just needed something to take his mind off the gnawing quiet of home.

Stopped at a corner store on the way back— needed smokes, a drink, maybe a snack. That’s when he saw it. A little card by the register. Neon pink with black print. “Lonely tonight? Call now.” The girl on the front wasn’t real— he could tell. Too glossy, too airbrushed. But the number was real. He thought. He’d shoved it in his back pocket without thinking.

That night, the house was too still. He sat in his recliner, TV on low, beer sweating on the side table, thumb rubbing over the edges of that card like it was something dangerous, giving himself a little poke at the corners. He wasn’t lonely, he told himself. Just… curious. Which was probably worse.

By the time he dialed, he already felt foolish. A grown man, calling a stranger for God knows what. He almost hung up when the ring clicked over, making him freeze with the phone hovering over his ear.

“Hello,” came a warm, easy voice. Not too high, not too sugary. Like you were smiling without even meaning to.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh… this the number from the—”

“Yes, baby,” you cut in smoothly, like you’d done this a hundred times. “Do you want me to tell you how it works, or do you want to tell me what you need tonight?”

Joel’s mouth went dry. He could hear the smile in your tone. You weren’t rushing him, weren’t fake-giggling. Just… waiting.

“Not sure,” he said finally, leaning back in his chair. “Ain’t never done this before.”

“That’s alright,” you said, and God, your voice was soft. “You can just talk to me. We’ll go slow. You can tell me what you like… or I can help you figure it out.”

Something in him— the part that had been tight and knotted for months— loosened at that. Maybe he can make this work, maybe he’d like this. Maybe he needed this.

“What do I call you?” he asked.

“You don’t have to call me anything, if you don’t want,” you said. “What do you want me to call you?”

He hasn’t done this at all. Fuck. Without even fucking thinking much of it, really, he says, “Mr. Miller.” Like he has nothing to hide. But what kind of rookie mistake was that.

“Mr. Miller,” you repeated in that same soft voice, like velvet. Seductive. Thank you.

That did something to him, the hum that left him gave him away. “Alright then,” he said slowly.

“Now, Mr. Miller… what do you like? What gets you going?”

The bluntness caught him off guard. His ears went hot. “Uh—don’t really… talk about that kinda thing.”

“You’re not used to it,” you said gently, “but you can. There’s no right or wrong answer. You can be as detailed or as vague as you want. Just… tell me something.”

Joel let out a slow breath. “Guess I like… softness.”

“Softness,” you repeated, like you were tasting the word. “You mean… the way someone talks to you? Or their body?”

He thought about it, thumb rubbing the edge of the phone. “Both.”

You hummed. “What about right now, Mr. Miller? If I were in front of you, what’s the first thing you’d notice?”

His mouth went dry. “…Your mouth.”

You let out the faintest little sigh, and Joel felt it low in his gut. “Would you touch me?”

“Yeah,” he said before he could think. He hadn’t even seen you. But fuck.

“How?”

His throat bobbed. “Gentle. At first.”

You smiled in your voice. “At first.”

There was a pause, and Joel swore the silence was heavy with something that wasn’t just talk. You let it stretch before asking, “What are you doing right now?”

Joel shifted in his chair, heat prickling the back of his neck. “…Think you know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

He huffed a laugh, low and self-conscious. “Touchin’ myself.”

“Mm. That’s good. Think about my mouth, then. Think about me on my knees for you.”

Joel’s eyes shut. The sound of your voice in his ear was more than he expected — less like a stranger, more like someone who already knew how to get inside his head. The image of someone he doesn’t quite know, on her knees in front of him. The feeling of soft hands pressed on his thighs, squeezing gently– anchoring themselves to better take his hard cock.

“You can take your time,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And he did take his time. You kept him talking— little nudges, gentle questions, painting pictures in his head until his hand was moving without thought, until his breathing had gone heavy into the receiver.

When you finally whispered, “That’s it, Mr. Miller. Just like that. I want you to let go for me,” Joel bit down on a groan and came hard, shuddering in his seat.

For a moment, the line was nothing but his breath in your ear. Joel’s head was tipped back against the recliner, eyes shut, his voice rough with the kind of pleasure he hadn’t felt in years. His thick release dripping down his knuckles, making a mess all over his jeans. Then—“Goodnight, Sir,” you said softly, smirk obviously on your lips. And before he could answer, the line went to the automated payment system you had in place, leaving Joel staring at the phone while he pulled out his card from his wallet, wondering why he already wanted to hear you again.

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

Joel had told himself it’d be a while before he called again. Weeks, maybe. Let it cool off. It’d been four days. He’d spent those nights trying not to think about the sound of your voice— the way you’d called him Mr. Miller, not like everyone else did. Just the way you did. Like it actually needed to be pronounced that way always.

So by the fourth night, he caved. Sat on the edge of his bed, card in hand, number already burned into his memory. The ring was shorter this time.

“Hello,” you said, voice warm like you’d been expecting him.

Joel swallowed. “Yeah… it’s me.”

A smile slid into your tone. “I know.”

That shouldn’t have hit him like it did. “That right?”

“Mhm. You sound the same— like you’re not sure if you should be calling me.”

Joel huffed a small laugh through his nose. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“But you want to.”

“…Yeah,” he admitted.

“Then let’s not waste time, Mr. Miller. What do you want tonight?”

He shifted on the mattress, rubbing the back of his neck. “You start.”

“Mm,” you hummed, “I want to tell you how wet I am for you.” The breath left him sharp. “I’ve been thinking about your voice. The way you sounded when you came for me the other night. Bet your face gets all soft when you’re close… bet your mouth parts and your eyes close real tight. I think about that while I touch myself.”

Joel groaned low— a deep, unsteady sound— hand already pressing at the front of his jeans. “Tell me what you’re wearing,” he said, voice rough.

“Black panties,” you said immediately. “They’re soaked right now. And nothing on top.”

He inhaled hard through his nose. “…Jesus.”

You smiled in your voice. “Do you want to touch me, Mr. Miller?”

“You know I do.”

“How would you do it?”

Joel shut his eyes, breathing heavier now. “Slide my hand between your thighs… thumb on your clit. Gentle at first, then harder ‘til you start whinin’ for me.”

“I’m already whining for you,” you murmured, and Joel’s head tipped back.

“Good girl,” he rasped.

You let a few beats pass before asking, “What about your cock? Is he hard for me, sir?”

Sir. Holy fuck. He grunted— deep, strained. “Yeah… fuck… he is.”

“I want you to take him out. I want you to stroke him for me. Slow.”

Joel obeyed before he could think, his hand wrapping around himself, shuddering at the contact.

“That’s it,” you coaxed. “I want to hear you. Don’t hold back for me.”

And he didn’t. His breath was rough now, his chest rising and falling faster.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. “Your mouth… around me.”

“Mhm. I’d suck you slow. Lick you from the base all the way to the tip… take you so deep my eyes water, Mr. Miller.”

Joel’s groan cracked in the middle, his hips shifting up into his hand.

And then you fucking say, “Would you fuck my face, Mr. Miller?”

“…Christ, sugar…”

“I’d let you. I’d take every inch of you, choking on your cock while you tell me how good I am for you.”

His breathing was ragged now, the slick sound of his hand unmistakable.

“Mm, I bet you taste so good.”

He grunted. His hand pumping up and down his length faster, squeezing just that bit of precum out. His thumb flicks across his glistening bulb.

“I’d swallow every drop. I wouldn’t waste a thing. I’d be so good for you, sir.” You’re a little breathless– you know they like when you sound spent.

That tore a deep, guttural sound from him— one he didn’t even recognize as his own.

“Come for me,” you breathed. “I want to hear it.”

Joel’s fist tightened, his hips jerking, and he came hard with a broken groan into the phone. For a long moment, the line was nothing but his breath and the faint hum of your satisfaction.

“You sound so good when you let go,” you murmured. The truth. You usually lied at most men. But not this one. Not Mr. Miller.

Joel swiped a hand over his face, trying to steady his breathing. “…You’re somethin’ else.”

You laughed softly. “Goodnight, Mr. Miller.”

After hearing his payment go through , Joel sat there with the phone still to his ear, wondering if he’d make it more than a couple of days before calling again. He’d give you all of his damn money to just hear you breathe.

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

By now, Joel didn’t even bother pretending he wasn’t going to call. He’d learned your schedule— or maybe you’d learned his— because every time, you picked up on the second ring.

“Hello, Mr. Miller.”

His chest loosened at the sound. “Evenin’, sugar.”

“How’s my favorite caller tonight?”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t know ‘bout favorite… but I’m here.”

“You’re always my favorite,” you said easily, and Joel felt heat curl low in his gut — and not just from the words themselves. There was a pause, then you purred, “You hard for me yet, Mr. Miller?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, already palming himself. “Think you know the answer to that.”

“Mm. Take him out for me.”

He obeyed, boxers shoved down just enough, his hand wrapping around himself with a hiss of breath.

“That’s it,” you coaxed. “Stroke yourself slow. I wanna know what you’re thinking’ about.”

Joel’s head tipped back again. “Your tits,” he said, voice low. “Thinkin’ about havin’ ‘em in my hands.”

“Mmh, yeah? I’d let you squeeze ‘em, play with my nipples… would you suck them for me, sir?”

“Hell yes.” His voice was already fraying at the edges.

“I’d put your mouth to work,” you teased. “Make you suck ‘til they’re aching. Make you beg me to let you fuck me.”

Joel groaned, hips twitching. “You’re filthy.”

“That’s why you keep calling.”

“Yeah…” His breathing deepened, the slick sound of his strokes faint but steady. Then, almost casually, he asks, “What’s your name?”

You laughed softly. “You know I can’t tell you that, Sir.”

“First name. Just a first name.”

“Mm-mm. We’re not doing that,” you murmured, voice still smooth but laced with a smile. “You’ll just have to keep calling if you want to know me.”

Joel grunted. “Already do.”

You let a beat pass, then shifted the tone right back to filth. “Bet your cock’s leaking for me, isn’t it?”

He exhaled sharply. “…Yeah.”

“I’d lick it up. Run my tongue over your slit, suck you into my mouth… make you watch me swallow him.”

Joel’s groan was deep, almost a growl. “Jesus Christ.”

“Would you pull my hair while I do it?”

“Hard,” he rasped. “Hold your head still while I fuck your mouth.” His breathing heavy. He’s close.

“That’s it. Just like that, Mr. Miller. I want you to come for me.”

His strokes sped up without thought, his breath ragged in your ear until he spilled over his hand with a long, low groan. You waited until his breathing slowed before saying, softer this time, “One day, I’ll tell you my name.”

Joel blinked at the ceiling, pulse still thundering. “…Promise?”

“Mhm. But not yet. Goodnight, Mr. Miller.”

Joel sat there with a knot in his chest that wasn’t entirely about what just happened. He hadn’t meant to ask that. But god, he wanted to know so badly. Wanted to moan your name off his lips when he came. Wanted to feel how easy it would be to say it.

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

Your parents’ kitchen had smelled like coffee and fresh paint, the air thick with the noise of men working. You’d barely set your bag down before you heard it— deep, gravel-warm, wrapping around your ribs like a hand you knew too well.

“Yeah, hand me that drill, would ya?”

Your breath caught. It couldn’t be. But it was. Even muffled through walls, even casual, even directed at someone else— it was him. Your favorite client. Mr. Miller. You didn’t see him. Didn’t dare peek around that corner. You just stood frozen, heart pounding, before excusing yourself early with some flimsy reason.

That night, your phone rang. Joel was sitting at his kitchen table, jeans loose around his hips, the card with your number worn soft at the edges.

You answered with a steady, “Hello, you.”

“Evenin’, sugar,” he drawled, always the same, and your stomach flipped because God, it was definitely the same voice you’d heard by daylight in your parents’ kitchen.

You forced a smile into your voice. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you tonight.”

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he said, and you could hear him shifting— the faint scrape of a chair, the creak of wood under his weight. “Been a long day.”

“I bet it has,” you murmured. “What were you doing?”

“Workin’ on a house. Old place. Lotta repairs.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Did you finish?”

“Not yet. Gotta go back in the mornin’.”

You swallowed. “Bet you’re tired.”

“Tired,” he agreed, “but not too tired for this.” His breathing deepened, slow and steady. “You touchin’ yourself yet?”

Your thighs pressed together. “…Not yet.”

“Start,” he ordered, voice dropping into that tone that always made you melt.

You slid your hand down, fingers parting your folds. “Mmh… wet.”

Joel’s exhale was sharp. “Good girl. Wish I could see her. Put my fingers in you, feel how warm you are.”

Your breath hitched. “You’d like that?”

“Hell yes,” he groaned. “Push two fingers in, slow. Stretch that little pussy for me.”

You obeyed, biting back a sound that still slipped into the line.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Fuck yourself nice and slow. I wanna hear every bit of it.”

You let the wet sounds carry through the phone, and Joel’s groan cracked in the middle. “Think about me,” he said, voice rough. “Think about me right there, thumb on your clit while I fuck you with my fingers.”

Your body clenched hard around your hand. “…Fuck—.”

“Come for me, sugar.”

You did, shuddering into the receiver, and Joel let out a deep, broken moan, chasing his own, that made your head spin all over again When it was over, you were breathless, heart still racing from more than just the orgasm.

“Sleep good, sweet girl,” he murmured.

And when the line went dead, you just lay there in the dark, your body still humming, knowing you’d see him tomorrow— for real, this time.

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

You smelled the coffee before you smelled the sawdust. The low hum of men’s voices drifted in from the kitchen— your father talking to someone, laughing about something. You froze in the hallway because there it was again… that voice.

“Yeah, we’ll get the backsplash up today. Should be done by the end of the week.”

Your stomach tightened. You knew that tone. Knew that slow, easy cadence and the grit in it. Last night, you’d heard it thick with need, telling you to spread your legs wider. Now it was broad daylight, grounded, businesslike— and still warm enough to slide right down your spine. You smoothed your hair, took a breath, and stepped into the kitchen.

Your father looked up first. “Morning, sweetheart. Mr. Miller and his crew are here renovating our kitchen.”

And there he was. The man whose name you don’t know. The man who’s been paying you to get him off over the phone. The man you begged to come for you a few nights ago. Joel– Mr. Miller.

Broad shoulders under a faded flannel, work jeans worn white at the knees, a rag in one big hand. You’re mesmerized. Nothing at all what you envisioned. Handsome. Dear fucking god, so handsome. He straightened when he saw you — not because he recognized you (he didn’t, not yet) but because… damn. You were pretty. More than pretty. Something in his chest gave a little pull he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Joel,” your father said, “this is my daughter.”

Joel’s hand twitched before he set the rag down and stepped forward. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice a touch lower, his posture straighter, like he needed to square up in front of you.

You slid your hand into his— warm, calloused, strong— and looked him right in the eye. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Miller.”

Something flickered in his gaze at the way you said it — maybe pride, maybe something darker. Every hair on his arms stood on end. He knew that voice.

Knew the way you let Mister slide like a tease. Knew the lilt at the end, the hint of a smile curling around the words. It was you. The girl who’d made him groan into the phone six times in the last month. The girl who’d told him, in that same sweet tone, that she’d take his cock down her throat until her eyes watered. And you were… young. You couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Jesus Christ.

His hands were big and warm around yours, mind scrambled. Images he’d only ever built in his head flashing in real life— except you were smaller, prettier, softer than he’d imagined. But you knew. Oh, you knew. The faint squeeze of his palm, the way his eyes darted over your face like he was matching the sound of you to the sight of you.

“I’m sorry,” he’s watching you intently, “didn’t catch your name.” There it was. Fuck, this guys good. He watches your lips curl into a small smile, cheeks blushing. You tell him. He repeats it, nodding almost as if he’s confirming the thoughts he had– yes, it sounds like he’s supposed to say your name. Sounds like it belongs to him. And it’s true, you hearing your name fall from his lips, it’s perfect. And you begin to wonder why the hell you hadn’t told him sooner. To make him tell you who exactly he’s cumming for.

Joel released your hand slower than he should have, rubbing his palm against his thigh, like maybe he could wipe away the memory of how you’d sounded moaning his title into the phone.

“Joel’s the best in town,” your father went on. “We’re lucky to have him.”

Joel shrugged, but his eyes kept finding yours, like he couldn’t quite help it. “Just doin’ my job.”

Your father kept talking, but Joel barely heard him. His first clear thought in that haze was dangerous and heavy: Christ, she’s even prettier than I pictured. His second was worse: I’m in trouble. And you? You smiled sweetly, Oh yeah. You need him.

Your father moved toward the coffeepot, talking about tile colors, but Joel barely heard him. He had a pencil in one hand, a clipboard in the other, and his brain was still back on the moment you’d said Mr. Miller in that sweet little voice— the exact same voice that had purred Yes, Sir into his ear more times than he could count.

He bent to check the edge of the countertop, mostly so he wouldn’t have to look at you, but his eyes found you anyway— leaning against the doorframe, watching him with a polite smile that he could already tell was trouble. You didn’t speak, but your eyes said everything– I know you know.

He shifted his weight, straightening up, rolling his shoulders like he needed to remind himself to breathe. “We’ll have the backsplash prepped by this afternoon,” he said to your dad, voice even, hands steady. But the second he glanced your way again, that steadiness frayed.

You tilted your head, eyes dropping briefly– deliberately, on his work belt sling around his waist, then back up at him with that little smirk he’s heard behind the phone more often than not. Joel’s grip on the pencil tightened.

Your father handed him a mug of coffee, oblivious. “You take sugar?”

Joel shook his head. “Black’s fine.” He took a sip, burning his tongue, and set it down harder than necessary.

You stayed quiet, almost prim, as you walked to the counter where he stood marking measurements. “Need help with anything?” you asked lightly.

Joel’s jaw ticked. “Nah. We got it handled.”

But your father piped up behind you. “You can hand him those brackets, sweetheart— top of the box over there.”

You crossed in front of Joel, close enough that he caught the faint scent of your shampoo, and bent slightly to grab the hardware. He looked away, but his ears burned.

“Here you go, Mr. Miller.” You handed him the brackets, your fingers brushing his just a little too long.

He swallowed. “Thanks.”

Your smile was polite for your dad’s sake, but Joel saw the glint underneath— the same glint he’d heard in your voice when you told him you’d lick him clean. He turned back to his work before anyone could notice the way his breathing had gone deeper. His mind betraying him, putting a face to all those words you’ve told him. He’s dying. Dying to fucking talk to you. Touch you. And he will, even if it kills him.

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

You were waiting for it. You’d been waiting since the moment you walked out of that kitchen and left Joel standing there with a handful of brackets like he didn’t know which way was up. The phone rang late— later than usual. Almost as if he was fighting with himself if he should call you or not. Or maybe it was embarrassment. That maybe you thought he was too old for you and maybe you thought it was digusting and you’d probably not answer. But the way you looked at him? He couldn’t deny that.

You answered slow. “Hi, Joel.”

Silence for a beat. Then, that low voice, he says your name, “fits you.”

You smiled against the receiver. “Told you I’d tell you my name someday.”

You could hear him breathing, heavier than usual, and imagined him sitting in the dark, elbows on his knees, phone tight in his hand. T-shirt tight around his biceps. That scruff on his face, jaw tight. Those brown eyes dark with lust.

“You didn’t tell me you were…” He trailed off, exhaling hard. “…younger than I thought.”

“How young did you think I was?” you teased.

“Old enough I didn’t feel like a fuckin’ pervert.”

“Mmh.” You shifted on the bed, letting your voice go silkier. “So now you do?”

“Don’t start,” he warned, but his tone was already slipping.

“You stood up straighter for me today,” you said. “Shook my hand like you wanted me to think you were impressive or something.. I noticed.”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was a faint groan in it. He dragged his palm down his face.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, Mr. Miller,” you whispered. “About how big your hands looked holding those tools. About how they’d feel between my thighs.”

Joel inhaled sharply. “Jesus Christ…”

“Do you want to know what I did when you left?”

“Yeah.”

“I got in the shower… and I touched myself. Thought about you behind me, work jeans still on, pulling my hips back onto you. That handsome face watching me come undone for you.”

He let out a sound that was more growl than groan. “Fuck… keep talkin’.”

“I pictured you telling me to keep quiet so my dad wouldn’t hear. One hand over my mouth, the other on my clit while you fuck me.”

Joel’s breathing had gone ragged now, his faint grunts carrying through the phone. “You dirty little thing.”

“You’d like that though, wouldn’t you? Getting me all messy while we’re just a room away from my parents.”

His groan cracked. “Goddamn it—” The thought of that getting him even harder than he’d thought.

“Are you touching yourself for me, Joel?”

“…Yeah.” His voice came out breathless. The way you say his name wrecks him.

“Faster. I want you to come for me thinking about bending me over your workbench in the garage.”

That did it. His moan came deep and rough, drawn out until his breathing slowed, the silence stretching between you.

“You’re trouble,” he said finally, voice low.

“You like trouble, Mr. Miller.” He didn’t deny it.

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

It was late again when your phone lit up with Mr. Miller in your mind.

You smiled as you answered, stretching out in bed. “Joel.”

“Didn’t see you today.”

The way he said it— low, almost accusing— made your smile widen. “Oh? Were you looking for me?”

Joel grunted softly. “Maybe.”

“Maybe you missed me.”

“…Maybe,” he admitted after a beat, voice rasping like he didn’t like being caught.

You rolled onto your stomach, twirling the cord of your phone charger between your fingers. Little butterflies. “Well, that’s sweet.”

“You around tomorrow?”

“Nope,” you said lightly. “I’m already home.”

“…Home?”

“Mhm. I don’t live there. Out of state, actually.”

There was a pause, a low sound in his throat that almost sounded like a frown. “So when’s the next time I’ll see you?”

Your grin turned wicked. “Oh, you wanna see me, Mr. Miller?”

His inhale was sharp. “…Yeah. I do.”

“What do you wanna see me do?” you asked, voice soft and dangerous.

“Christ…” He let the word drag, like he was chewing on the thought. “Wanna see you smile like you did yesterday. Wanna see those pretty eyes lookin’ right at me while you—”

“While I what?”

Joel’s breath came heavier now. “While you’re sittin’ on my lap, skirt pushed up, no panties on.”

You bit your lip, letting a beat pass before murmuring, “You’d like that?”

“More than like it,” he said, voice dropping, “I’d fuckin’ need it.” Then a pause. “How old are you?”

You smiled into the receiver. “Why do you wanna know?”

“Just… curious.”

“Old enough, Mr. Miller.”

“Yeah, but how old?”

“Twenty-four.”

There was a quiet grunt on the other end, followed by a long breath. Then you say,“Is that a problem?”

“Problem?” His voice dipped lower. “No. Just means I should be careful with you.”

You laughed softly. “Careful? Who says I like careful?”

He shifted, you could hear the faint creak of a chair. “Do your folks know what you’re up to?”

“Mmm… no.”

Joel exhaled slowly, the sound thick. “I wanna see you.”

Your pulse skipped. “And do what, handsome?”

“Things I can’t do over the phone,” he said, voice gone rough. “Things I’ve been thinkin’ about since I saw you in that kitchen.”

You let the silence stretch, your tone almost playful when you answered, “I don’t usually sleep with my callers.”

He made a low sound— something between a groan and a chuckle. “Yeah?”

“But…” you went on, softer now, “I might make an exception for you.”

Joel’s breath caught, his voice dropping to a rasp. “…Careful, sugar. You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll be in my truck before the night’s over.”

And you felt it. That familiar ache. You have a crush. And when he called you again, it confirmed it. It was only two nights later when your phone buzzed with that familiar number.

“Joel,” you said sweetly.

“Been thinking about that exception you said you’d make.”

You smiled. “Oh? Losing sleep over it?”

“Maybe.” His voice was heavy. “Figure if I’m gonna do this… I oughta know the rules.”

“The rules,” you repeated, leaning back against your pillows. “Alright, Mr. Miller. Let’s talk terms.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Terms.”

“Mhm. First one— you do exactly what I say when we’re together.”

Joel grunted. “You think you can boss me around?”

“I don’t think, sir,” you teased. “I know.”

A beat of silence, then: “…Alright. What else?”

“If you do it right…” You let your voice slow, silk over steel, “I’ll pay you.”

Joel actually laughed — that deep, warm rumble you’d never heard from him before. You heart fluttered. “Pay me?”

“Mhm. Contractor rates, even. You are the best in town, after all.”

“You’re trouble,” he said, but you could hear the grin in it. “And what if I don’t want your money?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to make sure I can’t stop thinking about you,” you murmured.

There was a pause, then his voice dropped. “You put me on a job like that, I’ll work you over ‘til you can’t walk straight.”

“That’s the idea,” you whispered.

Joel exhaled like he was picturing it right then. “When?”

You hummed, letting him hang for a moment. “Soon. If you’re good.”

“Baby…” his voice was low, almost dangerous now, “you have no idea how good I can be.”

. ₊˚ ☎︎₊˚✧

You spotted him before he spotted you.

Joel was out by the back porch, leaning against the railing, talking easy with your dad — one hand curled around a bottle, the other resting in his pocket. The golden evening light hit him just right, making the silver in his hair gleam, his flannel stretched across his shoulders. You stepped outside, all smiles. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, just for a second, but in that second there was the tiniest smirk, the barest flicker of memory from every call. “Evenin’,” he said, voice even.

You lingered just close enough to be part of the conversation, tossing in little remarks, laughing when Joel said something— leaning forward when you laughed so his eyes had somewhere to go.

Your dad, oblivious, clapped Joel on the shoulder. “You oughta stay for another drink or two. Long week like yours, you’ve earned it.” Oh, he definitely has, you wanna scream.

Joel almost glanced at you— almost— but kept his eyes on your dad. “Yeah, I could do that.”

And so he stayed. Beer after beer, the sun sinking low until the porch light was the only glow outside. Your dad was a stickler about no drinking and driving, and you knew exactly how to nudge the evening toward that inevitability.

“Another one?” you offered from the kitchen doorway, bottle dangling between your fingers. Joel’s gaze met yours — a silent, I know what you’re doing. But he took it.

By the time the night had stretched well past sensible, your dad was leaning back in his chair, satisfied with the evening, and saying exactly what you’d been waiting for: “You’ve had a few, Joel. Stay here tonight. Sofa’s free.”

Joel didn’t argue. “Appreciate it.”

You smiled, leaning against the wall like it was just another Friday night. “Goodnight, Dad.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The house went quiet after that. Joel lay on the sofa for maybe twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sound of you moving around upstairs. Every shift of the sheets, every creak of the floorboards, tightened something in his chest.

Eventually, he sat up. Stood. His boots were off, footsteps soft as he made his way down the hall and up the stairs. He didn’t knock. Just eased your bedroom door open, the dark spilling around him. You were sitting up in bed, like you’d been waiting.

“Mr. Miller,” you whispered, a smile curling slow and knowing.

Joel shut the door behind him, the dim light from your bedside lamp painting everything in soft amber. He looked bigger in here, the space making his shoulders seem broader, his presence heavier. “You gonna invite me in proper,” he murmured, “or you just plan on starin’ at me like that?”

You tilted your head, your lip tugged between your teeth. This man was so beautiful. “I was just wondering… how many times you’ve pictured me in here.”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, come on.” You slid out from under the covers, padding toward him barefoot. “You’ve pictured it, haven’t you? Me in bed, hand between my thighs…”

Joel’s throat worked as he swallowed, his voice low. “Yeah.”

“I bet you’ve imagined me finger-fucking myself for you every night.”

His breath hitched, his eyes darkening. You stepped around him and pointed to the chair in the corner— the one angled just enough toward the bed. “Sit.”

Joel didn’t move right away, his gaze fixed on yours like he was deciding if he’d let you have this. But then he obeyed, lowering himself into the chair, elbows on his knees, watching you like he could eat you alive.

You dragged yourself to the edge of the bed— right in front of him — and sat with your knees parted just enough to make his breath deepen.

“I bet you like to watch,” you teased, fingers skimming up your thighs. “Don’t you, Mr. Miller?”

His eyes tracked your hand like it was prey. “You’re pushin’ it, sugar.”

“You’re the one who called me every night to hear me touch myself,” you said sweetly. “Now you get the real thing. Lucky you.”

Joel’s hands flexed on his knees, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Your little voice ringing in his ears. “You like this, don’t you?” You slid your fingers beneath your panties, dragging a slow circle over your clit. “Pervert.”

Joel let out a sound— low, almost a growl— leaning forward but not quite reaching for you, like he was giving you the chance to keep going.

“Keep talkin’,” he rasped. “Wanna hear you ruin me.” Joel was already leaning forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees like he couldn’t stand the distance. His eyes were locked between your thighs, tracking every slow, lazy drag of your fingers. Watching you slide off your panties and toss them aside.

You let your knees fall open wider, silk camisole slipping over your hips as you tilted back on one hand. The thin straps barely covered you, your nipples pressing against the fabric, tight and aching under his stare.

“Look at you,” you murmured, rubbing slow circles over your clit. “Just sitting there, watching me make myself feel so fucking good.”

Joel’s chest rose and fell heavy, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked from your hand to your breasts, back to the wet heat between your thighs, and he swallowed hard.

“I imagined you watching me. How hard I’d get you just from touching myself.”

“Jesus Christ, sugar…” His voice was already breaking.

You slid two fingers lower, parting yourself so he could see everything — the slick stretch, the way your folds glistened. “Pretty, isn’t she?”

Joel’s hands fisted on his thighs. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“I’m so wet for you, Mr. Miller,” you whispered, your hips lifting to meet your own touch. “And you’re just sitting there. Bet your cock’s so hard right now.”

His gaze dragged up to your mouth, back down again, and the bulge in his jeans twitched under your words.

You bit your lip, moaning softly. “Mmh… I’m so close. My pussy’s so fucking needy for you. You like watching me work her open?”

Joel’s breath shuddered out. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

“Maybe I want to,” you teased, curling your fingers inside yourself, your free hand coming up to squeeze your breast through the camisole. The thin fabric darkened where your nipple rubbed against it, peaked and hard.

Joel made a low, guttural sound, like it had been ripped out of him. His knees spread wider, one hand shifting to the bulge in his jeans without even meaning to.

You watched him touch himself and smiled wickedly. “You gonna come just from watching me, sir?”

His head tipped back, eyes shut tight for a second before finding you again. “Keep talkin’, pretty girl.”

“I’m so fucking wet,” you breathed. “My fingers are dripping… wish it was your cock instead. Wish I could ride you until I can’t take anymore.”

Joel’s hand flexed on himself, his breathing gone ragged, and you could see the restraint starting to slip from his face.

“You can’t touch me yet,” you warned, curling your toes as your orgasm started to crest. “Not until I make myself come for you. Not until you watch me do it right.”

“Goddamn…” Joel’s voice was hoarse, his eyes wide, glued to you. “You’re… fuck, you’re perfect.”

It hit you hard. A soft, quiet moan escaping your lips. Your back arched, your knees trembled, and your fingers worked you through it, hips jerking as the heat rolled over you in thick, pulsing waves. You were still catching your breath, still trembling, when Joel moved.

One second he was in the chair, the next he was between your knees, his big hand wrapping around your wrist to yank your own fingers out of your pussy— replacing them with his.

Two thick, calloused fingers drove deep, knuckles pressing against your swollen entrance. You gasped, chin dropping to your chest, propped up on your elbows, your mouth hanging open. “J-Joel—”

“Sound so fucking sweet moanin’ my name like that,” he growled, eyes locked on where you stretched around him. “Feel how you’re flutterin’ on me? How you’re suckin’ me in?”

You whimpered, nails digging into the sheets, eyes blown wide and fixed on his. “Goddamn, sugar,” he rasped, curling his fingers until you moaned, your slick running down his hand. “All this for me? All that drippin’ just from showin’ me what’s mine?”

Your breath hitched, your hips rolling into his palm without thinking.

“That’s it,” Joel murmured, his thumb pressing against your clit now, his fingers fucking into you deep and filthy. “Milk my fingers, baby girl… fuckin’ wring ‘em dry.”

You were half-gone, body clenching around him in desperate pulses, and Joel’s eyes burned into yours, dark and hungry.

“Pretty little mouth hangin’ open… you got no idea what you’re doin’ to me,” he panted, voice gone rough with it. “Gonna fuck you so full you’ll still be leakin’ tomorrow.”

Your head tipped back, a raw moan ripping from your throat as you clenched down hard, his fingers buried to the hilt. He feels around the bed for your discarded panties and stuffs them in your mouth, “shh, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake your daddy now, do we?”

You knit your brows together, shaking your head. The ache in your core so unbelievably heavy.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers. You moan. Eyes rolling back at how the words innocent as “pretty” can be coming from a man knuckle deep inside your pussy. Your head falls back, chest heaving up and down, feeling that orgasm creeping in.

“Yeah,” he grunted, watching every twitch, every flutter. “There she is. That’s my girl.”

Joel didn’t give you a chance to breathe. The moment your body stopped quaking around his fingers, he pulled them out, slick coating them to the knuckle, and shoved them into his mouth with a low, wrecked groan.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he rasped — and then his belt was hitting the floor.

Your eyes went wide, heartbeat slamming in your ears as he tore his jeans open, the heavy line of him springing free. Thick. Flushed. Veined. Bigger than you could’ve even conjured up in your little head.

You yank the panties from your mouth to say,“Joel—”

“Shh,” he cut you off, his voice low and dark as he pushed you back onto your mattress, head hitting your sheets softly, one big hand sliding up your thigh. “I’ve been dreamin’ about this since the first night I called you, sugar. Since the first time you said sir in that sweet little voice.”

He dragged your hips to the very edge of the bed, his cock slapping hot against your swollen folds, smearing you open with every slow grind.

“Look at that,” he muttered, eyes locked where he was lining himself up. “Pussy so wet for me she’s beggin’.”

And then he pushed in. The stretch burned in the best way, forcing your mouth open on a gasp as he bottomed out, thick and deep and there.

“Fuuuck,” Joel groaned, head tipping back for a second before his gaze snapped to yours. “Tighter than I imagined. You’re squeezin’ me like you don’t wanna let go.”

Your nails clawed at the sheets, your eyes locked to his. “Y-you feel—”

“I know,” he rasped, hips pulling back only to drive in harder, deeper. “Been thinkin’ about this every goddamn night, baby girl. Every moan, every little gasp I heard through that phone—” He punctuated each couple words with a thrust that shoved you up the bed. “—I pictured this.”

His hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face so he could watch your expression as he fucked into you. “That’s it. Let me see how good I make you feel.”

You bit your lip, but a moan still slipped out, high and helpless. Joel’s eyes went darker. “You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m not gonna last, baby girl.”

He slammed in again, groaning low, his other hand sliding down to your clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucked you deeper. “You’re gonna come for me,” he growled. “Gonna make this cock all messy while I’m still inside you. Do it, sugar. Give it to me.”

Your back arched, the tight coil in your belly snapping hard, and you came with a strangled cry, clenching him so tight he cursed into your neck and buried himself to the hilt.

“God—fuck—”

Joel held you there, hips pressed flush, filling you in thick, pulsing ropes until his jaw went slack and all that was left was the sound of your panting in the dark. He stayed inside you a moment longer, his hand still cupping your jaw, his eyes still drinking you in like he couldn’t believe you were real. Joel stayed buried, his hips pressed flush, one hand heavy and warm at your hip, the other still cupping your jaw like he didn’t want you to turn away.

His breathing was slowing, but his eyes… his eyes were still roaming every inch of your face like he was memorizing it.

Your cheeks were hot and pink, your lips swollen from biting back moans, hair a little messy against the pillow. You looked wrecked — and dreamy, and soft, and younger than you’d let on with your words over the phone. Innocent, almost.

Joel’s thumb brushed over your cheekbone, rough against the softness of your skin. “Pretty little thing,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Look at you… all fucked out for me.”

You swallowed, your voice small, almost too shy for the room you were in together. “I’ve… never done that before.”

His brows pulled together slightly. “What d’you mean?”

Your gaze flicked from his eyes to his chest, then down to where you were still joined. “Never… had sex with a client.” A pause, your breath catching. “Never had sex with an older man, either.”

Joel went still, his hand at your jaw tightening just slightly. “You tellin’ me I’m the first for both?”

You nodded, your blush deepening. “Mm-hm.”

Something shifted in his eyes — softer, heavier, like the words were settling somewhere deep in his chest. “Christ, sugar…”

You let your lashes lower, voice barely a whisper. “Was I… any good?”

Joel’s head tipped, like he couldn’t believe you’d even ask. “What?”

You bit your lip. “Did I… live up to the person I was on the phone for you?”

For a beat, he didn’t speak — just looked at you like he wanted to burn this exact moment into his memory. Then his hand slid from your jaw into your hair, tugging gently so you’d look right at him.

“You were better,” he said, slow and certain. “Nothin’ I pictured even comes close to the way you feel… the way you look right now.”

Your chest tightened, the sincerity in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. Joel leaned in, brushing his lips over your temple. “You were more than good, sugar. You ruined me.”

Joel still hadn’t pulled out, his weight heavy and grounding between your thighs, his hand threaded through your hair like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go. He still felt hard, somehow. You could feel his heartbeat in the press of his chest against yours, the way his breath was still warm on your cheek.

“This ain’t gonna be a one-time thing,” he said low, almost like it was a decision he’d just made aloud.

You blinked up at him, eyes still hazy. “…No?”

He shook his head, lips curving just faintly. “Not a chance in hell. You think I’m lettin’ you go after this? After the way you just milked me and looked that pretty doin’ it?”

A little rush of heat rolled through you, your blush deepening again.

He studied your face for a long moment, his thumb stroking lazy along your jaw. “Gonna see you again before you leave.”

You hesitated — and then your voice came soft, testing the waters. “Joel… did you ever imagine kissing me?”

His eyes sharpened, the line of his mouth tightening like you’d just pulled something from deep inside him.

“More than I should’ve,” he admitted, voice rough. “Had to stop myself plenty of times, even just over the phone. Always figured if I got the chance, I wouldn’t stop.”

You swallowed. “So what’s stopping you now?”

Joel’s gaze dropped to your mouth, his hips pressing forward just slightly, like he could remind you exactly where you were still joined.

“Nothin’, sugar,” he murmured— and then his lips were on yours, slow but deep, tasting you like he’d been starving for it since the first call Joel’s mouth was warm, sure, and slow at first — the kind of kiss that sank straight into your bones. He kissed you like he was claiming something, his thumb brushing your jaw while his other hand stayed heavy at your hip, keeping you anchored beneath him.

You sighed into it, lips parting, and the second his tongue slid against yours, his hips shifted— a deep, unhurried roll that reminded you he was still inside you, thick and hot, filling you in a way you could feel in your ribs. A quiet, broken sound slipped from your throat. Joel swallowed it, groaning low into your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to hear it up close.

You shifted under him, your thighs widening just a little more, and his grip on your hip tightened. “Mm, baby,” he murmured against your lips, “you keep movin’ like that and I’m gonna make you cum again.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you breathed, kissing him again, slower this time, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck.

His chest rumbled with a half-laugh, half-growl. “Goddamn insatiable.”

Another roll of his hips had you gasping into his mouth, your nails curling into his hair. You could feel the way he shuddered when you clenched around him, his cock twitching to life, his kiss turning hotter, filthier— his tongue sliding deeper, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothed it with a soft suck.

You pulled back just far enough to whisper, breathless, “Do you like kissing me, Joel?”

His eyes were dark and locked on yours, his mouth slick and swollen from you. “Sweetheart… I fuckin’ love it. Might love it too much.”

And then he kissed you again, harder this time, hips starting to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had your toes curling and your mind going hazy all over again. “Gonna gimme another one?”

“However many you want, Mr. Miller.”

“That’s my girl.”

PART I: The Ordinary Instant

Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant - Joan Didion

Its raining outside, tapping onto the dark street outside the window I'm next to. It feels appropriate for how I'm feeling. Everyone who walks in shakes off the damp, smiling at the servers and following them to booths that litter the cramped space. It's popular with the University crowd like myself.  Cheap eats and beers, dart boards and pool tables on the far side. 

I'm two beers deep when my best friend Emily sails into the pub, her large eyes scanning the space for me and I must look a sight with my body slumped over my drink because her eyes flutter wide as she approaches. 

She wraps me in a floral scented hug and slides into the booth next to me. She pushes back my hair from my face, cupping my cheeks. 

"What the fuck happened?"

"Jack told me he wanted to take a break."

"Oh honey."

Emily orders a wine from the waitress before glaring angrily. Its not directed at me of course, but her vitriol is still enough to make me flinch. 

"That fucker. I'll kill him. When did this happen?'

"Saturday."

For the next ten minutes I verbally vomit all over her. Between sniffles I tell her the following information: 

My boyfriend Jack Miller and I have been together happily for almost a year and last Saturday over cereal and through tears he told me he needed us to take a break. It came out of left field, leaving me stunned and heartbroken.

I tried to understand, sobbed asking what I did wrong. But there was only his arms around me, tears in his eyes and the soft murmur of, "it's not you. It's something I have to figure out. I love you, I'm sorry." 

I was devastated when on Sunday he moved his stuff out of our tiny shared apartment by the university and went to stay at a hotel. It was barely anything anyway since all our stuff was packed up for graduation. 

Oh shit. Graduation.  Our college graduation is tomorrow and I'll have to see him being all handsome and perfect.

Emily listens, getting angrier by the minute. "You're only telling me this now?"

"You always hated him," I say petulantly, "and I thought we'd be back together by now. It's been a week." 

I really did think this would blow over. Jack is the kindest man I've ever met. We bonded over midterms in our junior year and it took him almost a month before he got the nerve to ask me on a date. 

And the thing is, we've been so happy during our relationship. I don't remember even one fight we've had. I've never had a partner this attentive and patient and loving in my life. He's my best friend, the one I can tell everything to. He never gets jealous, never acts possessive and supports me in my desire to be an architect.

Emily is sitting there, sipping her wine looking worried. I hate it when she looks at me like that. 

I look at my sad reflection in the bottom of my drink. Drink me looks warped and drained. 

"I mean, it wasn't that serious, right?" Emily insists. "Only a year."

She's never made it a secret that she doesn't think Jack is good enough for me. Even after a year she says there's something about him that just doesn't feel right. 

But that's because she doesn't know him like I do. Or, like I did. 

"I mean you haven't even met each other's families yet,' she continues. "The most you've done is a few weekend getaways." 

"And they were fun," I say into my drink. 

"You said the sex was boring. Nothing but doggy."

"I like doggy."

Emily rolls her eyes, waving off the waitress coming to give her a fresh water. After an hour of listening to me complain, getting me sober and hugging me until the after work crowd showed up Emily decides to change her approach. 

"Babe, you had that gap right after high school. Three years of travelling and new experiences. Jack is younger, he's not as worldly. Maybe he wants that time."

It's possible that she's right. Jack is three years younger than me. Maybe that's what he meant when he said he wanted to go take a break. Or maybe he just wanted a break from me. 

"Listen. You're hot and smart and if Jack is too dumb to see it, then that's on him."

I shrug my shoulders. The thing is, Jack is a really good guy. He's polite to professors, respectful of my friends, makes sure I'm comfortable with anything we do. He's a gentleman. 

I miss him. 

"You're single for the first time in over a year,' Emily adds with a cheeky wink.  “And you know what they say; The best way to get over one guy is to get underneath a new one."

Emily doesn't really get relationships. Her actual goal is to fuck someone from every county in the world. She keeps a notebook and plans on turning it into a book one day. So this advice doesn't really shock me. 

Thanks to her my tears have dried and I can finally laugh. "Great idea, Em. I'll just fuck the next guy who walks i-"

My voice gets caught in my throat because a tall man like I've never seen before has just walked into the pub with an air of authority that makes me go still. 

A suburban cowboy.

It's the only way I can describe him. Tall and broad with big hands. His arms are muscled by labour not the gym. He wears flannel over a graphite T-shirt with dark jeans that hug his perfect ass. He has that aimless look most men wear when they're out by themselves. The awkward tension of a man who relies on others to take the lead in social situations. 

I see it when he sits at an empty booth across the pub. A waitress comes to take his order and he rubs the back of his neck when she asks him to repeat himself because - "I can barely hear you, handsome." 

Shy. He is handsome though. Plump lips, neat beard, thick waves of brown curls kissed with grey pushed back enough to see his sharp eyes as he glances around the room. 

When they slip to mine in his casual surveillance of the space he noticeably stiffens. He blinks once ... Twice... Then his eyes keep moving. But my heart is fluttering in my chest.

Emily notices my distraction because she glances over her shoulder covertly before she looks back at me with a rakish smile on her pretty face. "You certainly have a type." 

I take another look and have to admit that she's right. This guy and Jack definitely have the broad body in common, though Jack is svelte from his time on the rowing team. Their hair is similar in texture and even the nose is the same sharp shape. 

But their eyes differ greatly. Both are brown, but Jack's are narrow, like he's always squinting. This man across the room has large, soulful eyes that make me flush when they slip past me again. 

"He's so... Broad," Emily says trying to spy on him, pretending to look for the waitress. 

"Mhmm."

"Kinda guy that could fold you like a lawn chair no problem."

I'm trying not to moan out loud at the thought of this man caging me underneath him, my legs over his shoulders as he pumps into me hard and deep.

I need a good fucking. Because yes, it's true, Jack's sex game could use work. He never goes down on me, only really enjoys doggy and his foreplay skills are...lacking. Were. Was. I need to start thinking of him in past tense.

The thought of this older, strong looking man using me to get off is making me flush all over, thighs pressing together. 

 "He's hot but he's kind of old," Emily adds in a murmur over her wine glass. “At least over forty.”

"He's perfect." 

Emily gives me her classic Cheshire cat grin. "Then go get your man."  

I laugh. "Are you insane?"

Emily's face goes grave and she reaches across the table to smooth her hand over my knuckles.

"I know you don't want to hear this babe, but Jack is a hot, newly single guy..." 

She trails off, not looking away from me. I know exactly what she's implying and it makes my stomach sink. But it's also what I need right now.  A reality check that I’m worth more than a man who would toss me aside.

"You're right." 

In any other situation I would never be the one to approach a man, simply out of intimidation. But tonight I rise on shaky legs, throwing my purse over my shoulder and walking to his table. 

I want to push Jack from my mind. I want a man to look at me like I'm desirable. Jack and I had sex so infrequently in the last three months that I cannot for the life of me remember the last time we did it. 

I want a man to touch me with purpose, to fuck me hard enough to forget my pain. I want husky groans and the smack of bare flesh colliding. And I want it from the man across the room. The one nursing his beer and scrolling his phone, unaware that he's radiating energy; a power, a siren song just for me. 

The closer I get, the more I can make out his features. I can see the soft creases at the corner of his eyes, the eleven lines between his thick brows. I wonder how much older he is than me and decide no more than twenty years. 

Fine by me. 

He's attractive in a way that makes men confused and women giggly. It has a bit to do with his good looks but most to do with his energy. I can't really explain it, but it's magnetic. It draws me to him, a moth caught in his deadly glow. 

He's still on his phone scrolling when I finally reach his booth. This close I see the fine dusting of hair along his forearm, the length of his calloused fingers. Working hands. 

He glances up, expecting me to be the waitress and squinting, confused, when it's not.  I lick my lips, trying to tamp down the buzzy sensation in my body, to swallow my own wanton desire. I'm worried my voice will come out as a high pitched giggle or a whimper if I don't. 

"Hello," he greets me politely. His smile is expectant, like he's trying to place if he knows me, waiting for the connection in his mind. 

"Hi," I say breathing slowly, trying to keep my heart rate even. I keep looking at his mouth with the insane urge to take his plump lower lip between my front teeth. 

He's still looking up at me expectantly and I realize I'm just standing there staring at him. I shift closer to his table, hip braced against the wood. His eyes go there, taking in my body, the softness of my voice.

"I saw you across the room," I purr, "and I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?"

It's not a clever line by any stretch of the imagination but I'm not trying to be inventive, I'm trying to direct. A neon flashing sign that points to my pussy. 

Realization hits him now, because he belatedly understands my motivation. I hide an oily smirk when I see the pink crawl up the back of his beautiful neck. He gives a small, disbelieving scoff, eyes moving over to Emily who is enjoying the show from behind her drink. He smirks up at me, a dimple making his smile all the more charming. 

"Think your friend's waitin' on you, darlin'." 

His voice is a honeyed drawl that makes my skin flush. Darlin'. 

I glance over to Emily, giving her a subtle look, a raised eyebrow and squint. The kind we shoot together that speaks volumes, before looking back at him. 

"She was just leaving." 

On cue Emily rises, crossing the pub to pay our tab. I make a mental note to venmo her later. She waves, mouthing- I'll see you tomorrow. I slide into the booth opposite him as she exits. 

"See? Now I'm all yours." 

He gives a throaty chuckle, quiet and warm. Like this whole thing is a joke. He doesn't look away from me though. 

The pub is getting crowded and the space feels warm, verging on suffocating. His phone buzzes and he turns it over, face illuminated by the screen. He frowns. For a moment I feel a flicker of hesitation. 

"You waiting for someone?"

"Not anymore," he sighs, turning off his phone and leaning back to put it in his pocket. "Just cancelled on me."

"Her loss." 

A brow rises. "Who said it was a she?" 

His voice is dark syrup that runs between my legs. I squirm, my eyes not leaving his face. 

"Lucky guess." 

He watches me as I lean forward, cleavage exposed in my shirt. Just a glimpse, a little taste. His eyes flick to my collar and then back. He sucks at his teeth a moment as the silence stretches taut before he relents, the cord snapped. 

"Can I get you somethin' to drink?"

"I asked you first."

He gives me a long look, a disarming one that says don't push it. One that makes tingles dance down my spine. I give a slow smile, lifting one shoulder. 

"I'll have what you're having."

"You sure? S'just Bud."  

I lean back in the booth, eyes dancing as I feign nonchalance. "Fine by me, cowboy." 

Another smile, the dimple deeper this time. Maybe the hint of fresh pink over his cheekbones.

"Cowboy?"

I shrug, smiling toothily. He turns his head to flag down his waitress and I take the opportunity to stare at his neck, admiring the tendons that jut as he moves the sharp of his jaw under a beard kissed with grey. 

She approaches with a breathless smile, breasts bouncing under her thin shirt. She's here for tips and I can't fault her for that. But I'm watching the man, noting with a relieved pleasure that his eyes remain on her face. 

"Could I bother you for another Bud, darlin'?"

Darlin'. I love how he says that. 

"Sure thing," she says with a flutter of thick lash extensions. 

She thinks he's handsome, snagged by that same inner confidence that makes my nipples strain underneath my shirt. She leaves with a gaze over her shoulder and I look back at him, trying not to fixate on his lips. 

"I like your accent," I tell him when it's just us again. "Texas?"

"Born 'n raised."

I make a humming noise as the woman returns to bring him the beer. She gives me a pointed look, curious if we're together. Maybe she's calculating her tip. 

"Can I get you two anything else?" She asks. 

"Naw, we're fine, thank you," he says with a warm smile. That's part of his charm, I think. The way he can look and sound so genuine. He waits until she walks away before speaking again. "How about you? Where're you from?"

"It doesn't matter." 

The man blinks slowly, a cat in a sunbeam. "No?"

"No."

He shifts in his seat, fingers wrapped tightly around the bottle neck of his own beer, dwarfing it. It sweats under his thick digits. 

"M'name's Joel," he says raising the beer bottle to his damp lips. 

I let the name drip onto my tongue, sugar turning to honey. Joel. His smile broadens, tempered with a touch of confusion when I don't reply. 

 "You gonna give me your name, sweetheart?"

"Does it really matter what my name is?"

"Doesn't it?"

I shake my head slowly from side to side before raising the lip of the bottle to my lips. The tip of my tongue comes to swipe the tip. His eyes track my tongue, watching the pink muscle dart to lick the shiny rim. His lips have parted and I see before I hear the hitch in his breath. 

"I'm married," he says in a rush, like he's hoping it'll make up for not bringing it up before. 

I don't miss how his eyes trace the curve of my mouth before peeling away. I should pack up and leave right now. The last thing I need is to get caught up with a married man. But something compels me to stay. 

"Where's she tonight?"

He leans back in the booth, wide arms crooked, elbow balancing on the cracked faux leather. 

"Back at the hotel." 

“Hotel?”

“We’re just in town the weekend.”

“Why brings you so far from home?"

"Does it matter?" he teases gently. He grins when I snicker softly, like he's proud of himself. 

"Touché."

Another soft chuckle, a subtle smirk. His lips part again, dark pink and plush. I long to kiss them, to nibble them

“And why is she at the hotel instead of having dinner with you?”

“Migraine. She get em sometimes.”

"That's too bad," I tsk while not caring in the least. I begin licking the cheap beer from my lower lip, glancing down at his broad hand around the bottle.  "You don't wear a ring."

"I work in construction. S'a safety thing."

My thighs clench when he says that and I don't know exactly why. Perhaps it's the masculinity of the job, or the knowledge that he works with his hands. 

A group of college boys laugh loudly in one of the booths, braying over something on their phones. Joel's attention darts there, watchful before crawling back to me. 

I survey his handsome face, watching his face turn from amused to curious

"Ain't you a little young to be flirting with a man my age, darlin'?"

What is his age? I realize I don't give a shit how old he is. My body is pulsing with want at this point and I feel like his aftershave is seeping into my pores at this point. 

I fold my hands flat on the table, breasts leaning over them as I tilt forward, dropping my voice. This next part is just for Joel. 

"I don't really care how old you are, Joel."

He swallows thickly and blinks when I say his name. Like he likes the sound of it rolling around in my mouth and feels bad about it. 

"You're the sexiest man here all I can think about is how much I want you to fuck me." 

His eyes blink faster this time, his entire body stiff. He watches me like he's waiting for the punch line and when none comes his brows draw together. 

"You serious?"

I nod, not even the tiniest bit ashamed. I feel like I've just plunged into an ice bath. Rejuvenated, alive, awake for the first time in a week, maybe even longer. But Joel is still wearing that mask of wary apprehension. 

"I told you I'm married."

"If that mattered to me I'd have left."

He shifts in his seat again and I watch the bob of his pebbled neck. "It matters to me."

"If it did you never would have bought me a drink." 

It's a gauntlet thrown at his feet but he sidesteps it, face impassive as he looks at his drained beer.

“I was bein" polite."

"No, you were acting on desire. It's the same reason I came over to talk to you in the first place. Because the moment I saw you I knew what you could give me."

The music drifts over our heads and the braying table of college boys fades as they get up and leave. With them gone the pub is back to its easy, relaxing atmosphere. Couples and groups eat fish and chips and cheap beer. 

"Or maybe I read this wrong and you were just flirting with me. Maybe you wanted to have a little harmless fun," I say by way of an exit route. 

But I lace my fingers in front of me and prop my chin atop the knuckles, looking coy and playful. 

"But I don't think I read this wrong, did I Joel?"

I can feel him debating, the guilt like cobwebs around his face. I watch him lick his lower lip, fiddle with the label on his beer and I know that he's interested to see where this goes. 

But still there is that lingering hesitation, tighter than the non-existent ring on his left hand. His eyes go to the window, watching the droplets of rain cry down the panes of colorful glass. 

"S'raining pretty hard," he says quietly, jaw tight. "Lemme drive you home."

I give him a broad smile before sliding out of the booth and looking at him expectantly. 

"Where are you parked?"

_______________________________________________

It's still raining when we leave the pub, a drizzle that sticks to my cheeks and eyelashes. I'm surprised when he takes my hand, large and dwarfing mine. It's warm, so warm I forget there's rain at all. 

When we both load into the cab of his truck I clock the way that it smells like pine. That artificial scent from the air freshener he has hanging from his rear view mirror. It sits alongside a small laminated photo of a young boy with a baseball bat.

"This your kid? He's young."

Joel looks at my finger tracing the laminated photo. 

"S'an old photo," he mutters before he leans over and removes it from around the mirror with a wince. 

I watch him shove it hastily in the glove box, mouth set in a line. Plump mouth tamped thin with what? Irritation? Or more likely, guilt. He doesn't want the reminder that he's a husband, a father. I can't say I blame him. 

The rain is tapping down, a plip that makes the silence feel full. I relax into the seat, eyes on him. The rain has made his waves turn into loose curls that fall into his forehead. His lips are shiny, shoulders of his flannel damp. 

He's facing the windshield, eyes downcast. He doesn't make any attempt to start the truck. He knows that's not what this is and yet he makes no movement. 

This isn't what he does, isn't the kind of man he is. I can almost hear that thought running through his mind over and over. Like he needs to convince himself he's still a good guy even though he has a young woman in his car, her nipples visible through her damp shirt, her want written all over her face. 

"I don't know what I'm doin'," he says right on cue. "This isn't... This..." 

He trails off before taking a shaky inhale.

I want to tell him this is only a few stolen moments in time, crystallized by our memories, made shiny every time they are replayed. That after tonight we’ll never see one another. That this makes me feel calm, knowing that this won't drag out. No awkward run-ins at markets, no avoiding eyes at the pub. 

I slide a little closer to him across the bench seat, watching his nostrils flare as I approach. 

 "Do you think I'm attractive?"

"Course I do. Look at you."

He flinches, embarrassed at the ready admission, like he'd been thinking about it all along. Long before I took the seat across from him. Maybe the minute our eyes first connected. 

The rain is falling heavily, momentarily distracting when we hear squeaks and voices coming from the entrance to the pub. Some soft version of stairway to heaven greets us. 

Joel's eyes dart around, concerned. 

"No one can see," I assure him, smiling serenely. I motion to the windshield which is now drowning in rain, shielding us. "You parked in good spot." 

He turns his head and his dark gaze locks onto mine. The windows are fogged from our breath, the air thick with anticipation. I want to be direct now, I’m growing weary of this reticence on his end. My voice goes smooth and my eyes smoulder.

"Do you have a condom?"

He hesitates, face dropping. "No. Shit, no, i didn't-"

"-didn't think you'd be fucking a woman in your truck?" 

I say it to lighten the mood but instead this silences him, the harsh vulgarity of what's happening between us spoken aloud. He frowns, fingers going to curl around his steering wheel. I watch him turn the key in the ignition almost violently and the radio glows to life playing some country ballad I'm not familiar with.

"I'm drivin' you home." 

He says it with conviction, like he could almost believe it himself. And yet, five quiet minutes later we remain seated there with the truck on and he makes no move to put it into drive.Instead, he's clenching his teeth, gaze fixed on the windshield as the wipers go back and forth in a strangely hypnotic dance.  

My fingers twitch in my lap and for a long while I just stare at the space between us, then at the dark denim stretching across his thigh, the fray near the seam, the way the tendons in his forearm flex every time he exhales.

There is so much of him I want to touch and so I slowly move my hand. I drag it from the hem of my skirt, over the faux leather seat, until it rests just beside his leg. Joel's eyes stay on my hand the entire time. 

He doesn’t flinch, but I see his jaw tighten. I wait one long breath before I let my pinky graze the side of his jeans, feather-light, just testing. His leg shifts slightly under the contact, like he’s trying not to lean in. 

I press my hand more firmly against him. The heat of his body seeps through the fabric, and underneath it, the slow swell of something undeniable. He’s getting hard. His thigh tenses beneath my palm, and when I curl my fingers slightly, I feel it: the guilt, the arousal, the war playing out in his body.

He turns the engine off and shifts in his seat like it’s a physical ache, his hips barely moving, but it’s enough to press him closer into my hand. When I slide my palm higher, his cock twitches through the denim, thickening with each slow second. A rough breath escapes him, half growl, half groan.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, like he’s scolding himself. But his hand drops from the steering wheel, grazing my wrist. Not pushing me away, just grounding himself. His fingers curl once, then let go.

He wants this. He hates that he wants this. But the more it scares him, the more turned on he gets. And I can feel every ounce of it right there under my palm hot and hard and throbbing.

"Should stop," he mutters, eyes still focused on my hand stroking him through the denim. 

The leather seat creaks under the shift of Joel's weight as I withdraw my hand, placing it back in my lap. Not finished, but waiting. 

He's debating; I can see it in his uneasy expression, the tic in his strong jaw.

 It reminds me of Jack when he was in one of his quiet moods. 

Jack was the quiet kind, someone who was more at home playing video games with all our friends instead partying. He was a deep thinker, philosophy class was one of his favourites. It's probably what led to our sudden breaking off, he'd likely been ruminating on it for weeks and I was none the wiser. 

Joel's fingers twitch around the steering wheel and I'm brought back to the now. I remember what this was all for. Or, why. To forget, to replace an internal pain with an external distraction. 

"You know why I came over to you, Joel? Why I picked you out of a roomful of men?"

He tightens, classic male ego rearing is head when he chances a look my way from the corner of his eyes. But it's softer, more sincere, like he really wants to know not to bolster him but perhaps to remind him. 

He shakes his head. No. 

"Because I could tell you were the sort of man that knows what he wants." My head tilts, serious and coquettish all at once. "So what do you want Joel?" 

His hand is still on the steering wheel as if he’s trying to keep himself grounded.

His eyes flicker between my mouth and my eyes, like he’s memorizing both, burying it deep and hidden for a later inspection.

 I hold my breath and wait for his reply when he finally, mercifully twists to look me in the eye. And it finally arrives between breaths, husky and low. 

"I wanna make you cum." 

It's simple and direct and he says it with both the quiet confidence and lingering shame of a man who knows what he wants and knows he shouldn't. 

My eyes trail down his neck, travelling down his midsection, stomach and then focusing on the bulge in his jeans, the damp spot at the tip. 

Delighted, I gently tilt back until my spine hits the passenger door, the back of my head against the cool glass. In silence my fingers come to the buttons of my jeans, popping them open with subtle flair. 

Joel breathes deeply through his nose, eyes unable to stop the journey my fingers are taking as they slip under the waistband, sliding the jeans off down my body. Joel's hands flex in his lap, throat bobbing as he watches me peel the damp jeans from my body, tossing them into his back seat. 

My shirt is lifted in slow increments, breasts heavy and nipples puckering as I peel the fabric from my body, tossing it to join the jeans. 

His gaze is searing, warming each part of my body that he takes in as I exist there in just my panties before moving to my knees, sitting primly. 

A sex goddess, a gift, a temptation. His damnation. Objective proof that love isn't real isn't lasting. I was dumped, he's married. Love is a delusion. 

He stares at me, eyes fixed on my bare tits, the pinch of my waist, the plush of my hips. He groans softly. 

I've never had sex with a stranger, never fucked a man twice my age in a truck, but with Joel it feels safe to do, with his ravenous gaze it feels exciting.  

He wets his dry lips, eyes moving between my thighs. He can see the damp spot that I myself can feel. He speaks almost to himself, husky and transfixed. 

"I just know you're sweet."  

When he says this he wets his lips again and stares at me with eyes so beautiful i feel like I'm in a trance. 

I know that he wants to go down on me, to make me cum on his tongue and for a moment I think about it, imagine myself arching my cunt against his mouth. But I also think about how cramped it’ll be, the angle awkward. I think about how he'll want reciprocity and that's not what I want right now. 

No, what I want from Joel is quick and dirty. The kind of thing I've never been given from the sweet and gentle Jack. 

I smile delicately, moving with quiet grace across the bench seat. He tracks my movements with his eyes, the rest of him held stiff.

His body is fully clothed, still in his work jeans, his shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved up to the elbows. But I can see his cock is still hard in his jeans, stuffed to the left, strangled by the denim. I press my chest to his shoulder, lips curling as my breath huffs against his neck. 

"I wanna ride you cowboy," I murmur, lips grazing his jaw. "And I don't want you to be nice."

He takes me by surprise when his hand jerks from the steering wheel and cups my jaw, rough and demanding before his mouth crashes into mine.  Our lips collide, open, searching, messy and I taste the remnants of his beer, the salt of his skin, the low sweetness of something buried deep in him. 

His tongue finds mine slow at first and then drives deeper, more desperate, until he’s devouring me. His stubble scrapes my chin and I finally give into my earlier temptation when my teeth catch his bottom lip and tug. The low growl he lets out lights a fire in my blood.

I moan into his mouth and it’s all he needs. 

He's strong, not that it's a surprise. But his agility strikes me when his hands grip my hips and haul me into his lap. 

I straddle him, thighs open wide, my knees bracing against the door and console, my hands in his hair, tugging like I’ll lose him if I let go.

He feels intense against me with his rough denim and flannel and all hard muscle barely restrained. Every part of him is solid, tense, like he’s holding himself back, but his hands on me are shaking. 

The contrast between us makes me dizzy. My thighs are bare where they wrap around him, skin meeting the scratch of his jeans with every shift of my hips. My panties are the only thing I’m wearing, and they’re soaked through, clinging to my folds, useless. 

Every move sends sparks across my nerves; his belt buckle cold when it brushes my stomach, the edge of his shirt damp where our bodies meet. 

His hands span my hips like he owns them, thumbs pressing into skin, fingers curling under the band of my underwear like he’s tempted to tear them off but can’t bring himself to yet. 

And when I move to break our kiss as I grind down on him, slow and steady, he can only stare at me. He looks fucked-out already, mouth swollen from kissing. 

He groans low in his throat, his jaw tight, and the muscles in his arms flexing where he holds me in place. And still, he’s trembling. Not from weakness, but from restraint. His breath stirs the hair by my ear as he groans again, arms tightening around me.

We grind together like its instinct, his hips lifting into mine, my centre sliding against him again and again. The friction makes me gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound with another kiss, this one hungrier and dirtier. Our tongues tangle, lips slick and swollen. 

His hands are everywhere; one fisted in my hair and the other roaming over my ass, gripping hard as he rocks me forward.

“Shouldn't be doing this," he whispers but it's half-hearted, barely any energy behind it. 

I pretend I didn't hear him, tugging my panties to the side instead. I can feel the tension coiled in his body like a spring, every part of him radiating heat when his eyes fix there, watching me drool for him. A dark spot expands on his jeans. 

"I wanna cum for you, Joel."

My fingers slide down, landing on my perky clit. She's swollen with need, slick like a kidney bean in oil. When I rub her gently i keen, eyelids fluttering. Everything about this experience is heightened. 

Joel watches me play with myself for a moment, breathing heavily with his mouth open. I realize between groans that he's watching to see how I touch myself, learning my body like a map. 

My head is tilting back when I feel his fingers come to slide up the seam of my pussy, trembling with need as his digits meet mine. He nudges my fingers out of the way with his own, thumb tapping my clit, the other two sinking into my cunt. 

"S'okay," he whispers when I whimper a little. "I'm gonna take care a'you now." 

His fingers sink deep, curling and rubbing. I buck into his palm just in time for him to withdraw and do it again, and again, and again. 

He smells like warm after-shave and sweat, like a man who works with his hands and hasn't let himself feel anything soft in a long time. But I know I am because he tells me so through groans. 

"So fuckin' soft." 

I've never been fucked like this, thick fingers that fill me better than Jack's cock thrusting into me harshly up to the knuckle, veined forearms flexing as he repeats "uh huh just like that" while watching my face.

The illicitness, the scent of my pussy, the rain on his skin and the knowledge that we could be caught is a heady mix.  There’s a noise deep in his throat, almost a growl, and it sends a thrill down my spine. 

His free hand crawls up and wraps around my throat. Not tight, just enough to let me know he’s in charge now and I allow it. His thumb presses lightly under my jaw, tilting my face up. His eyes are dark, unwavering and hold mine in a way that makes my whole body go still.

“Open,” he says, low and rough, not a question.

I nod as best I can with his hand at my throat. I tilt my head back, eyes half closed. He watches as my lips peel back, jaw hinging open and without warning he leans in close, breath ghosting over my lips and spits in my mouth.

It’s bold and lurid and I feel my cunt tighten around his fingers as he does it. My body lights up like it’s been wired wrong, heat unfurling everywhere.

"Swallow."

I do, giving a filthy smile that he returns. I look at the blacked out look in his eyes, the way his face is dancing with the shadow of the rainfall outside. 

He watches me with that same steady, unreadable gaze, like a shark, his hand never moving from my throat, thumb still resting right over my pulse

And then he squeezes, softly, the perfect pressure to make my head go floaty without being uncomfortable. 

"Now cum." 

I grind against his fingers and he begins to finger me faster, thick digits pumping in and out in a fever, watching my face as I start to crest. 

The sound is filthy, wet snaps that distract me from the fact that I'm fucking a married man in his truck. It helps me forget that I was ever in love with Jack. 

Joel watches his hand wrapped around my throat, my breasts that bounce for him and my soaked cunt as I ride his hand and I see an inferno of emotion in his needy gaze. 

"C'mon now," he orders huskily. "Give it to me."

His lips part, breath hot and uneven as he watches me begin to cum on his fingers, my cries cracked and low as my brows saddle.  

"Uhuh, uhuh there she goes."

I cum hard, the slick noise overwhelming as he continues to thrust his digits into me, palm grinding against my clit until I shudder, pushing his fingers from me from over sensitivity. 

"Atta girl," Joel says to me with a crooked grin. His cheeks are pink and his dark curls are damp at the temples. 

We sit there panting, smiling shakily at one another, like we can't believe what we've just done. Joel's fingers, still slick with my arousal come to pinch my chin and drag my lips to his. 

"Sweet little slut," he murmurs against my mouth like its affection. Maybe to him it is. Whatever it is, it makes my pussy flood. 

Joel’s eyes stay locked on mine, even as my hands go between us, palming him through his jeans, greedy and unashamed.

I stroke him through the denim, fingers dragging up the thick line of him. His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenched, throat tight. He’s so hard it makes my mouth water.

“You’ve been like this a while,” I whisper, wrapping my fingers around the shape of him through the fabric as he hisses. 

His eyes cut to mine, sharp and full of heat. 

"Since you sat down at my table." 

I feel my cheeks heat as I look away, delighted and flattered. I know he doesn't mean physically, but still, I suddenly feel shy. 

“You knew what you were doing,” Joel says, voice low and steady, like it takes effort to keep it there. “Lickin' that beer bottle, pushing up your tits."

"You wanted me then?"

It's a tease, an opportunity for flattery, attention from a handsome man as my the love of my life begins walking a new path away from me. 

"I wanted you the minute I walked in and saw you." 

His admission is quiet and intimate. It sends a bolt of heat straight through me. We're past pretense, past shame. I've come on his fingers, swallowed his spit. My thighs clench around him as I rub harder, slower. I feel him twitch beneath my palm, and it makes me want to push him further. Make him lose that composure.. 

"I want this," I tell him simply, mouth brushing his as I squeeze his cock through the denim. "Please, Joel."

There’s something raw in his gaze, something that cuts through the heat and lands low in my belly. And maybe guilt is there too, flickering just behind his pupils. But right now, it’s buried under the weight of our combined lust. 

"I don't have a condom," he reminds me, a devastated look growing on his face as he remembers.  

"I don't care," I tell him, tongue tracing his lower lip. "I'm on the pill."

His breath stutters against my mouth, one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other sliding down, fumbling with the fly of his jeans. It's stupid and risky. We both know that, but we don't stop. If anything I'm excited to feel him bare. 

I feel the shift beneath me, the subtle jerk of his hips as he frees his cock. The air inside the truck heats when I let out a soft sigh. 

His cock is large, the head blushing pink and beading with pre-cum. I stare at it with my mouth watering. With the deftest of touches I trace the underside of the head, revelling in the shiver and muffled groan that draws from him. 

I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, lips red from kissing me too hard. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, something feral simmering under the surface.

"Thought you said you were gonna ride it,” he says, low voice wrecked. It's a challenge, it's a dare, it's desperate hope from a man who clearly needs this. 

I smirk. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, the word breaking out of him like a confession when I position my folds atop the head of his cock. I rub back and forth slowly, letting his bulbous head graze against my clit. 

I don't break his gaze when I let the thick head of him breach my cunt. It's easy; I'm so wet, so ready that we both groan as it happens. 

His hand moves between us, low and urgent and I feel the heat leech off of him, the barely restrained tension radiating off his body as he begins to rub my throbbing nub again. 

The heat between us is molten now, too thick to breathe through, and when I brace my palms against his chest and lift myself just enough to sink down onto him fully it's like everything stops. 

My breath catches at the contact. Bare he's so warm, so silken. His eyes gaze back at mine, breath hot and steamy, fogging the windows. He stretches me slow, thick and steady. I feel myself clench around him instinctively, my body gripping him like it already knows this is borrowed time.

I let out a broken sound and he grits out something low under his breath. It might’ve been my name or just a groan that got strangled on its way out.

I don’t move at first. I just sit there; full, stunned by the way it feels. He's so thick, the biggest cock I've ever taken. 

He's breathing heavily, mouths inches from each other. In and out. In and out until our breaths sync up, until we're breathing as one. 

"So goddamn pretty sittin' on my cock," he pants, muscles tensing as he holds himself back from thrusting up. 

He's watching my body, letting his eyes travel the length of my exposed flesh. I imagine him taking mental snapshots. Moments that he'll keep, bringing them out to furtively stroke his cock to, back in his suburban life. 

His hands have moved to curve around my ass, kneading the cheeks as I begin to move. He still hasn't touched my tits and I feel like it's because he doesn't know how far to push things. He's waiting for me to take the lead in this area. 

My hands cover his, urging them to cup my tits as they jiggle for him. I smile when his head immediately darts forward and his puffy lips latch over one waiting nipple, my head tilting back as he begins to suck.

I've never been one to get off on nipple play, but the attention is nice. Jack really loved sucking on them too. I feel it, the graze of Joel's teeth. They close around my left nipple and nibble lightly. Bolts of arousal hit me everywhere, lightning in my body. I shudder, gasping.  

His dark eyes raise to mine immediately, nipple popping from his mouth in concern. It's wet from his saliva, throbbing.  

"Don't stop," I tell him through whimpers. "It's so good."

He grins, eyes still on me as he takes the other into his mouth, warming it with his hot tongue before he nips that one too. 

"Keep makin' those sounds," he groans when I whine again.  

His large hands span my shoulder blades, pulling my chest against him. And for the next ten minutes Joel tastes my nipples, he licks them and he nibbles them and gives them loving attention while I roll my hips.

We stop only when the sound of drunken laughter and the beep of an unlocking car door sounds nearby.

You said you were buying.

Next time I swear.

Asshole.

Joel's cock still throbs inside me, not softening but he pulls his head back abruptly. I whine at the loss. 

We can hear the muttered voices of friends so close I think I can see their blurry shadows through the rain. 

It was so good to see you 

We gotta do this again

Yeah but remember your wallet

Soft laughter tempered with booze rings out. I'm sure it's their shadows I make out and something about the knowledge that I'm here getting fucked by Joel in his truck and they have no idea, turns me on. 

 I feel his panic when I shift my hips, thighs widening.

"Stop," he whispers anxiously, dark eyes darting to the side of the truck. "They're close." 

I rise up, fingers curling around his broad shoulders as I clench my pussy around his twitching length. 

"I told you, I'm riding you, cowboy,"' I purr before slowly sliding my pussy down his cock. 

His head drops back against the seat with a guttural sound, jaw tight, chest rising fast. "They'll ... Hear."

"Let them," I gasp when my ass hits the top of his thighs. I roll my hips, amused when he closes his eyes and inhales shakily through his nose. 

After a moment of watching Joel fight the internal war of stopping or starting, I lean in and begin kissing down the line of his throat, feeling it flex under my tongue. 

"Let them hear, Joel," I tease huskily. "Let them hear what you do to me. Let them hear how wet I am for you."

His eyes crack open and go between us watching how stretched I am, how arousal soaks the dark curls at the base of his cock. 

"Christ," he spits between thrusts. "Look at her." 

I preen as I curl my hips. Joel can't stop looking at my glossy cunt, can't stop biting his plump lower lip.

"Prettiest fucking pussy," he grunts, watching the slick of it slide up and down his thick length. 

Maybe it’s because he’s married. Maybe it’s because I know this can’t happen again. Maybe it’s the heartbreak I haven’t admitted to anyone, the raw bruise I’ve been carrying like a secret. But it all crashes together inside and turns into a kind of pleasure I’ve never tasted before as I start to bounce on his cock.

His fingers find my throbbing clit, sorely neglected the past few moments. I'm dizzy with sensation, my nails digging into his shoulders as I rock against him. I whine his name, not even sure why I'm doing it, just that I need to.  

"That's right, darlin'," Joel groans against my jaw, no longer worried about being caught. "This cock is yours tonight. You ride it how you need." 

Every inch of him drags against something sharp and sweet inside me. Every thrust is a reminder that this is real, even if it’s fleeting.

He wants me. He wants me. He's grunting that I'm so good, my pussy is so fucking good. Pleasure builds and desperate for an angle that will hit just right, my hand flies out, palm smacking against the foggy window as I bounce. 

"That's right, that's right," Joel pants, watching me start to unravel. "Fucking ride it, baby."

I cum out of nowhere, overtaken by his words, his attention, his desire. My cries are loud and sharp in the cab of the truck. He watches me with his mouth parted, breathing hard, his brows pulled tight like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead against mine again, his voice low and desperate. But he doesn’t finish. 

He just kisses the hollow of my throat as I rut my hips. I feel him shudder beneath me, his body tight with restraint. And I know that it isn’t enough. I need to know what he sounds like, what he looks like when he cums.  I need to be the one that does it to him.

“Fuck me, Joel,” I whisper.

And despite me being the one to take the lead it's Joel who starts to bounce me furiously on his cock, grunting and gritting his teeth. 

"So fuckin' tight for me," he groans, his fingers dimpling my hips.

It's like I'm his own personal fuck doll, bouncing and whining for him. My hands move to his biceps, holding tightly as he fucks up into my pussy, bouncing me along his cock as he tells me to ride it faster.

"S'so big," I slur as his cock slams up into me, spearing me. Pleasured tears spring into my eyes. 

He gives a breathless laugh, like he can't believe this is happening, that I'm here and that his touch is doing this to me.

“This what you needed?” he rasps. “Huh? You needed to get fucked by a stranger’s big cock?”

I make a sound halfway between a moan and a yes. 

I think about asking him who's tighter, me or his wife. I want to remind him that he's married, fucking some co-ed in his truck. I want him to know it's debased and wrong and still pump me full of his cum because he just can't help it.  But I worry that might shake him loose of this passionate exchange, so I just think these sinister thoughts, swallowing them when they resurface in my mind. 

"I fuckin' knew it the second I saw you," he rasps, "knew you'd take cock like a champ."

I wasn't expecting such a filthy mouth on him but I am pleasantly surprised. I smile, tilting back and sinking lower. He stretches me, thick cock nudging deeper and deeper

The truck rocks gently with the rhythm we fall into, the windows fogging over completely, sealing us into this impossible little world of heat and friction and breathless, aching want. My smeared hand print disappearing like a ghost. 

His hands are so big on me, holding me against his chest like he never wants to let go. I revel in the slick, aching tension between us as I bounce on his lap furiously.

"Beg," he grunts, thrusting up into my sex like he can't help himself. "Beg for my cum, you little slut."

My eyes roll back into my head at the light degradation. My moans reverberate in the cab, almost like I can feel them in my bones. I feel the start of Joel coming apart, thrusts stuttering.

"I sai-said, beg."

I give a whine, arms banding around his neck, mouth wet and hot at his ear. "Please give it to me...Fuck It ... Fuck your cum deep in me, Joel. Please." 

He gives a growl into my neck and I feel his hips snap, hear the strangled moan he presses into my neck as he floods my cunt. 

"Take it, fucking take it," he groans, the wet sound of our bodies slapping against each other vulgar as he empties himself into me. 

It goes on forever, his breathless groans and my whimpers to fill me, that I want his cum. And then with a gritted groan he finally relaxes, body giving one last twitch and then .. silence.

He holds me loosely, arms around my waist, pressing his lips to my shoulder. 

"Thank you," I murmur feeling sleepy and sated.

He surprises me then in the post orgasm clarity when his mouth comes to slant over mine, kissing me tenderly.

"It's still early, do you want to go back to your place?" He asks, his voice smooth and his body warm. He tries to sound casual but I hear the desire clear as day. 

He probably thinks this is his free pass, one night in a marriage of decades that he gets to play, to forget his construction job and responsibilities. He wants to make it last. But I don’t need anything more from him.

"Not a good idea." 

He looks a bit crestfallen but he nods, understanding. I pull myself off his softening cock, sighing at the loss of him. He felt so good. Cum oozes from my spent pussy all over his jeans and boxers.

There’s so much.

"One second," he says, shrugging off the flannel he wears over his t-shirt. It's tight with me on his lap but he manages it, using the soft fabric to wipe between my legs, cleaning his cum from me the best he can. 

"I'm sorry I don't have anything softer."

His sweetness makes me smile while I watch him delicately clean me, his eyes focused, brows furrowed. It makes me want to kiss him again.

When I feel he's done enough I slowly crawl off of him. I thank him and lean over the seat to grab my belongings from the back. I can feel his eyes on me as he tucks himself back into his jeans, zipper and belt buckle jangling. 

"You pick up a lot of strangers at places like this?" He asks me gently before motioning to the pub.

 It's not judgmental, just curious. 

"Never," I say as I tug on my jeans, shaking my head. "You're the first."

His eyes go wide, just slightly, just enough for me to catch it before he schools his face back into something quieter. And then his head tilts, just a fraction, like he’s trying to read me all over again. Like maybe he got it wrong the first time.

"Why me? Why tonight?"

I could lie so easily. I could tell him it was a personal dare, that I needed to burn off energy, that I just saw him and wanted to. 

But there's something about Joel's continuous sincerity this evening that makes me want to tell him the truth. That knows after this we'll never see each other again. That I can be as honest as I want. 

I'm embarrassed when I feel my eyes stinging, an anxious flutter in my chest. I tug my shirt back on, trying to keep my breathing even. 

“My boyfriend just broke up with me,” I admit finally, and my voice cracks on the last word."I just didn't want to be alone." 

I don’t look up, I just stare at my hands, fingers tangled tight in my lap, blinking hard and fast to keep the tears from falling.

When Joel pulls me into his big arms I instinctively want to push him away because it feels much more intimate than what we've just done. 

Instead my hands fist in the fabric of his shirt and my face is buried at his throat. I begin to cry, soft, little sniffles that quickly turn into ugly sobs that rack my body. 

I expect him to be repulsed now that he's seen the true me and not the little sex kitten act I've been wearing like a second skin. 

"S'okay darlin'," he soothes, pressing a kiss to my forehead as he continues to hold me. "Let it out." 

I'm confused at how Joel can go from fucking me raw to this sudden sweet and almost paternal gesture. But I don't focus on it too much, I'm too busy crying, wetting his t-shirt with my tears. 

He murmurs soft words and presses soft kisses to my temple. Everything about him is pillow soft, gentle in the way that the sun is gentle in spring. 

He lets me cry it out, his arms never leaving me and I don't know how much time passes before I raise my head, nose red and eyes bleary to see him looking down at me with a kind expression on his handsome face. 

"Your ex is an idiot," he tells me, wiping my tears away with his thumb. "He ain't worth your time or your tears."

"He's actually wonderful," I sniffle. "Smart and handsome and..."

I know that if I keep going I'll just start crying again so I swallow down the last of my affirmations.

"I don't understand why he doesn't want me anymore."

Both of Joel's big hands have come to cup my face and he fixes me with a look that insists I listen to his words.  "He ain't that smart if he'd let a woman like you go."

It's the kind of banal comment that you give to anyone that's hurting. But I'm touched that he would attempt it anyway. 

And it strikes me as we sit tangled up together that we're not so dissimilar. Two lost souls chasing comfort, craving the touch of another who gives it freely. For some reason that makes my chest ache.

"You deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate. Someone who thanks the stars above that you're theirs."

I give him a watery smile and know that I need to leave immediately or I'm going to start crying all over again. I let myself have a lingering look at his dark, open eyes and his sweet mouth.

I'll memorize this moment and tuck it away somewhere safe where I can access it on dark nights when the bed feels too empty. 

"Thank you, Joel," I tell him quietly.

Impulsively I lean up, catching his mouth in a full lipped kiss before sliding towards the passengers door. 

"Hey."

I turn back, struck that there's so much more I want to tell the broad man sitting behind the steering wheel. 

"You gonna tell me your name, now?" 

He says it teasing but I can hear the hint of something deeper in it. Something that urges me to stay and nestle into his arms. 

But that's not what this is. That was never what this was going to be. I was never supposed to cry, never supposed to debate returning to his hotel with him. 

So I hop out onto the wet concrete, the sky still drizzling and I give a short wave, a girlish look from under my lashes and I skip off towards my car, knowing he's watching me from his truck until I pull out onto the street for home. 

_______________________________________________

The apartment is dark and cold when I step inside I leave the door half-shut behind me, not ready to close myself in completely. The air smells faintly of cardboard and rain. My shoes land by the door with a soft thud, and I stand there for a second, just listening to the echo of it.

 Boxes are stacked along the wall, sealed and labelled in black marker. My books, my bedding, the funko collection I swore I wouldn’t start, all of it taped up and ready to go. 

Tomorrow, after graduation, I’m heading home for good. Not in the back of Jack’s parents’ truck heading to Austin. Not to an apartment we’d talked about renting.

I turn on the shower and let it heat while I peel off my clothes. My skin’s still damp from the rain, my hair frizzing. The water hits hot and hard when I step in but I don’t move right away, I just stand there, watching steam curl around my arms. It feels good, like a pause button I didn’t know I needed.

The scent of Joel is washed from me, pungent when the water hits me but soon faded and carried down the drain. Joel’s face flickers behind my eyes. His hands. His voice. The way he looked not only when he was inside me, but that calm, reassuring way after. 

I dry off and tug on my softest pyjamas; a worn band t-shirt and cotton shorts, fabric faded and loose. I wander barefoot into the kitchen and pull open the fridge, reaching for water.

I catch sight of the photograph still taped to the freezer door. Jack and me at the cabin during winter break. We’re half-drunk and grinning, my hand frozen around a snowball while he throws his head back laughing. I can hear it if I concentrate, can smell the citrus scent of his hair, the taste of the gum he chews.  I stare at it, heart aching. 

I’m going to see him tomorrow at the ceremony and then… Will we pretend not to know one another?  I told myself I was ready. But now, looking at this photo I feel everything all over again. That rush of nerves, the soft hope tucked under my ribs. The ache of still wanting answers I’ll probably never get.

I press my palm against the fridge door, just beside the photo, and close my eyes just as there’s a knock at the door.

The sound feels out of place in the quiet. I glance at the clock on the microwave. 10:42 p.m. I move slowly, crossing the living room in my bare feet, my heart already ticking up even before I’ve touched the doorknob. When I pull it open, my breath catches.

"Jack?"

He’s standing there, soaked from the rain. His jacket clings to his shoulders, dark hair plastered against his forehead. There’s water dripping off his nose, his jaw, the tips of his fingers. But it’s not the rain that gets me; it’s the look on his face.

His handsome features are twisted in something close to panic. Relief floods in the second our eyes meet, and then he moves, crosses the threshold and pulls me into his arms.

It’s not a polite hug. It’s not cautious or restrained. It’s full-body, desperate. His arms wrap around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. He buries his face in my neck and just holds me there, breathing hard, like he ran the whole way here.

I just sink into him without thought. His body is warm despite the rain, familiar in a way that hits straight in the chest. I clutch the back of his soaked shirt and close my eyes. He smells the same. He feels the same.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words muffled against my skin. “God, I’m so sorry.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are glassy, jaw trembling slightly

“Jack why are you here?”

“I made a mistake. A huge one. The worst one of my life," He steps back, cupping my face in his cold, wet hands.

I let him hold my face, not caring that he's freezing, not caring that he's not been in contact all week. It just feels so good to be held by him again.

"I was wrong to end things."

I say nothing, but feel my chin wobble when he presses his forehead to mine.

“I said I needed space, and I thought I needed to figure myself out, or whatever," he says, eyes closed. "But I haven’t slept properly since I left. I can't breathe without you.”

I swallow hard, thinking of Emily's ire.

“You couldn't have told me this a week ago?”

"I needed to make sure," he says, always honest. "For both of us I needed to take a moment to get my thoughts together." 

"But why, Jack?" I whisper, chin trembling. "We were so good."

“Too good. It felt too good and I was scared,” he says, voice cracking. “We were on the edge of everything with graduating, moving, all of it. I panicked and I pushed you away like a coward.”

His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, soft and trembling. “But this week apart… I don’t want to figure things out without you. I don’t want a life that doesn’t include you in it.”

My heart stutters because he drops to his knees right there in the doorway, water pooling beneath him, eyes locked on mine with a kind of fierce, broken devotion that knocks the air out of me.

“I love you,” he says. “You’re it for me. You’ve always been it. Please, just tell me it’s not too late. I’ll do anything to be with you again. Anything, babe. Just please tell me its not too late for us.”

All the hurt, all the confusion, all the nights I stared at my phone waiting for it to buzz, it rushes out of me in a single breath and I fall to my knees with him.

My arms wrap around his neck, and I whisper, “It’s not too late.”

He exhales like a man saved. His hands clutch at my waist, then my face again, kissing my cheeks, my jaw, my forehead, over and over until I'm laughing and crying all at once. He kisses me desperate and unpolished. All teeth and rain and salt. It tastes like a beginning. Like something we almost lost but didn’t. I pull him closer, and he groans into my mouth.

And for a brief moment I think of Joel, of his tongue and cock and the way his growling voice told me to cum. But I push it away and kiss Jack feverishly. 

Eventually, I get up and pull him inside, shutting the door behind us. He shrugs out of his jacket, wet fabric slapping against the floor. I grab a towel from the bathroom and hand it to him as he toes off his boots.

We settle on the couch that came with the apartment. He’s wrapped in my old hoodie, the sleeves too short for him, and I’m curled up beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Eleven at night in a rainstorm," I say softly. “Never took you for my dramatic type." 

“I couldn’t wait,” he says. “I couldn’t risk it. I needed you to know tonight. I want us graduating and going into a future together.”

I study his face, the way his lashes clump from the rain, the little scar on his chin I always loved, the way he’s still looking at me like he can’t believe I’m here with him. 

“I was so scared,” I whisper. “I didn’t know what I’d say to you.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, pulling me against his chest. “Just let me hold you. That’s all I want.”

And I do. I melt into the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. For the first time in what feels like weeks, I feel safe.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, the quiet, uninvited part, there’s Joel and his hands on my hips, his mouth against my throat. He fucked me better than Jack ever has. That’s the truth. Not just physically. It was the way he looked at me when I unravelled, the way he didn’t flinch from the wreckage. The way he never once asked me to be anything but exactly what I was in that moment.

But it’s over. It was never supposed to mean anything. A blip. A night.

Jack is here now. Jack, who knows my middle name and my favourite pizza order and the song I play when I can’t sleep. Jack, who’s held my hand through every exam week and late-night breakdown and still brings me chocolate when I'm on my period.

Joel was like a storm. Beautiful, sudden, and gone. But Jack? Jack is home, comfort, enduring. 

"Come back to Austin with me, tomorrow," Jack whispers, still rocking me in his arms. "Please. Like we always planned." 

The plan post graduation was to rent a little place in Jack's hometown and save up for a few years. It was cheaper than my hometown with plenty more job opportunities. 

When we mused about the future he was emphatic that I come home with him after graduation to start our life together and I'd agreed, so ready to start putting down roots with him. 

I thought that this plan was gone, discarded the second he left. But now he's back and it's like everything is good and right again. 

I reach up and thread my fingers through his damp hair, brushing it back from his face. He leans into the touch like he’s been waiting for it.

"Of course I'll come with you. I love you,” I say again, and I mean it.

He pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. “I’m going to make it up to you. Every day.”

“You already have,” I whisper. “You came back.”

We stay like that for a long time, curled into each other while the storm moves quietly across the city outside. The streetlights blur through rain-streaked windows, and the boxes sit waiting in the corner like little promises of a future we now get to choose together. 

_______________________________________________

The air smells like sunshine and damp grass, the kind of warm, sweet day that feels like a reward after months of rain. There are students everywhere;robes fluttering, heels sinking into soft ground, caps slightly askew, and I’m floating through it all, fingers laced tightly with Jack’s.

We can’t stop smiling.

Everything feels brighter today;  the sky, the future. Even Jack’s eyes when he looks at me like he still can’t believe I forgave him. He leans in to kiss my temple as we wander toward the main quad, where everyone’s starting to gather for photos and speeches and the rest of the chaos.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tugging my hand, “we’ll be waking up in Austin. Can you believe that?”

I grin. “It doesn’t feel real.”

He pulls me in for a quick kiss, and I can’t stop laughing. I feel drunk on it all; on the sun, on the noise, on the way he keeps looking at me like I’m his favorite surprise.The fact that we’re starting a new life like we planned.

"And you're still okay crashing at my parents for the first little bit? Just until we can find something of our own?" 

I can tell he’s thought about it. That he’s been picturing us unpacking boxes in some cozy apartment, grocery shopping together, sleeping in on weekends with sunlight pouring through the curtains in a place of our own. Whats a few months of saving in trade for that future?

"More than okay,” I say into his shoulder.

“I love you,” he says into my hair. 

“Hey!” a voice calls out. “There you are!”

It’s Emily. She’s walking toward us, her cap tucked under one arm, curls bouncing as she makes her way across the grass. She looks beautiful, as always, and mildly uncomfortable, as always, when she sees Jack.

I brace myself. I texted her this morning to let her know what happened because I didn’t want her blindsided.

hey, Jack and I are back together. long story. would appreciate your support. thank you for the drinks last night btw despite my best intentions I went home alone lol

It’s a pathetic lie and one she can probably see right through when she takes in my nervous expression.

“Emily,” I say, forcing my voice to stay light. “Hey! You made it through.”

“Barely,” she says, then wraps me in a quick hug. “Congrats, hon.”

I pull back and smile at her, unsure of what to say. Jack clears his throat awkwardly beside me. I feel his hand press gently at the small of my back, a quiet reminder that he’s here, that we’re okay.

Emily glances at him. Then back at me.

“I just wanted to say…” she starts, and there’s a tightness to her voice, like she’s had to rehearse this in her head. “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”

She looks at Jack, and for a second, I swear I see something almost like forgiveness flicker in her expression.

“Take care of her,” she says. “Seriously.”

Jack nods, earnest. “I will. I promise.”

Emily smiles, small but real. “Good.”

Then she steps back. “Well, I should go find my family. Congrats again.”

“Let me know if you’re ever in Austin.”

She gives a tight smile before she turns and disappears into the crowd before I can say anything more. I exhale, slow as my shoulders drop a bit.

“That went better than expected,” I murmur.

Jack wraps his arm around my waist, tugging me against him. “Told you. Everything’s working out.”

The campus hums with energy, full of hugs and tassels and champagne bottles popping in the distance. I keep looking over at Jack, half expecting this to all vanish. But he’s still here. Still mine. And tomorrow, we start something new.

Together.

After the ceremony, Jack and I wander toward the outskirts of the quad, the buzz of celebration still thick in the air. His robe is half unzipped, flapping in the breeze, and I’m clutching my diploma like it might disappear if I let go.

He’s talking animatedly about Austin; about neighbourhoods we could explore, little cafés he wants to take me to, how we’ll make a game out of furnishing our first apartment with thrift finds and marketplace steals when we get there.

“i told my mom we would both be coming and she was so excited. She's probably already redecorating the guest room in her head.”

I smile, a little dreamy. “Sounds like she’s excited.”

“She’s been dying to meet you since she saw your name on my phone,” he laughs.

 “Jack!”

He turns immediately, eyes lighting up. “Speak of the devil. Come on.”

I follow his gaze. A tall woman is weaving through the crowd toward us, waving, her smile open and radiant.  Long chestnut hair pulled back in a low twist, cream blouse tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers, everything about her elegant but approachable. 

“Mom!” Jack jogs a few steps forward, wrapping her in a warm, familiar hug. I hang back for a beat, suddenly nervous. 

When she looks over at me, her expression softens even more, like I’m exactly who she hoped I'd be.

“Hey there, I’m Tess,” she says, stepping in close, voice warm with barely restrained excitement. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand, which she ignores entirely in favour of pulling me into a hug.

“I’m so glad you two are coming to stay for a little while,” she says as we pull apart. “You’ll love the house. Jack’s room still looks exactly like it did when he left. I made him promise I could keep it.”

Jack groans. “She’s not joking.”

“I’m totally not,” Tess says, laughing. “You’ll see photos of his hair phases.”

I chuckle and for a second, I forget everything else. Tess is easy to like. There’s no performance in her warmth, it’s just there, natural and effortless.

“Oh!” Jack says suddenly, looking over his shoulder. “Here comes my dad."

I'm still looking at Tess when I hear it; a voice too familiar. Low, even, with that unmistakable rasp that wraps around the vowels with a twang id know anywhere. 

You noticed it in the produce section.

At least, that’s where you started paying attention.

Joel was standing in front of the tomatoes. Arms crossed over his chest, brows low, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. You watched him stare at a container of cherry tomatoes for a solid minute without blinking.

You approached slowly, pushing the cart with your forearms as you scrolled on your phone. “What’s going on over here?”

No answer.

“...Joel?”

His head tilted, just slightly. But he didn’t look at you. Then he spoke. That flat, deadpan, bone-dry drawl. “Tomatoes look like shit.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“They’re soft.”

“You don’t even like cherry tomatoes.”

Joel still didn’t look at you.

You stared at the side of his face. “...Are you mad at the produce section?”

Nothing.

Just a grumble under his breath and a slow pivot toward the green beans like that would explain everything. You stared at his back as he walked away—boots heavy, jaw set, posture stiff—like he was storming a trench.

Okay, you thought, weird.

You exhaled, rolling your eyes affectionately, and turned back to the tomatoes, tossing a decent-looking carton into the cart anyway. He was right, they did look a little sad. But they were for Sarah, and if she wanted soft tomatoes, soft tomatoes she would get.

You plucked up a few avocados next, giving each one a careful squeeze, mind half on ripeness and half on tomorrow. Joel had been buzzing around the house all week like a man possessed. Re-caulking sinks that didn’t need caulking. Replacing lightbulbs that hadn’t even burned out yet. He scrubbed the guest bathroom twice.

You hadn’t been much better. The linens were washed, the throw pillows fluffed and rearranged. You dusted the top of the kitchen cabinets, for God’s sake. You’d picked up her favorite shampoo, baked muffins for her first morning back, and cleaned out a corner of the garage in case she wanted to bring any boxes home from her dorm.

She wasn’t yours biologically, but it didn’t matter. She was Sarah. Bright, funny, stubborn as her father. She gave the best hugs and asked about your day even when she was swamped with finals. You’d loved her before you even realized that was what it was. And now that she was coming home?

You were nervous.

Ridiculously so.

So Joel’s poor attitude today was the least of your worries. 

You shrugged it off. Kept pushing the cart. You were halfway to the cereal aisle when he started doing it again.

You held up a box of your favorite granola. “This one okay?”

He didn’t even look. “S’fine.”

"Or do you want something else?”

“Nah.”

"...Raisin Bran? You’re always weird about fiber—"

“I said it’s fine.”

You blinked again. Slowly lowered the box. The tone was clipped. Not sharp, not angry, but weird. Off. Tired and dry and… cold.

That was when it really hit you.

He was being weird. Really weird.

Joel was never chatty, sure. You didn’t expect him to spin cartwheels down the aisles and ask about your day like a sitcom husband. But he did usually toss random things in the cart. Made fun of the music playing. Stood behind you at the fridge section and pressed his hand low against your back like he always needed to touch you somehow, even in the most ordinary moments.

But today? Nothing.

You watched him reach for a gallon of milk. Shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight, no eye contact. He handled it like it might explode if he moved wrong—slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the 2%  as he dragged it off a wire shelf.

You grabbed the cart and rolled up beside him, not quite shoulder-to-shoulder. “Okay. Seriously. Are you mad?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

The voice was outhern and flat, worn paper edges and deadpan delivery. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t so much as blink in your direction. Just dropped the milk into the cart like it might bite him if he held onto it too long.

You sighed. Here we go.

Joel wasn’t dramatic by nature—not loud or combative, not the storming-out, voice-raising type. He didn’t get into shouting matches or start fights for the sake of it. No, when he was pissed, it was like this.

Quiet.

Tense.

Internalized.

Five years married to him and you could spot the signs from a mile off: the long silences, the passive-aggressive sighs, the way he clammed up like someone stapled his jaw shut. He’d sulk for anywhere from 24 to 48 hours depending on the severity of the offense. And, of course, with how hot it was outside, it added about twenty percent to his overall grump factor.

It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even intentional, really.

It was just Joel. It was his version of cooling off. Letting his mind spin out until he could file his feelings into neat, Joel-shaped boxes. Then he’d let you in. After he’d suffered in silence for a while first.

You’d learned to give him space. Learned to let him take the long road back to you.

So, you just sighed, patted his shoulder as you passed, and said, “Okay. You do your thing, baby.”

Joel followed behind you like a mutter-shadow.

Not close, not far—just hovering within a four-foot radius like some brooding, ghost. You could hear his boots behind you, heavy and slow, the rhythm off-tempo like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to walk next to you or not.

You didn’t look back.

You were wearing one of your thinner sundresses—pale yellow, soft cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs. It clung in the heat, even in the fridge aisle, the air conditioning barely keeping up with the July temperatures that had been frying the pavement outside. Your thighs felt tacky. Your collarbone was slick. You could still feel the outline of sweat across your lower back, even though it had dried on the walk from the car to the store.

You crouched in front of the dairy case, cold air blasting against your legs, trying to find the right cheese for the pasta you were planning that night. You could feel him watching you—even if he was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t.

You stayed there for an extra second, reaching slowly, letting your fingers graze a few of the blocks. Then, without looking back, you asked:

“Joel, which cheese do you want for your pasta?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, with no help to you what-so-ever: “Cheese.”

You blinked and turned your head slowly.

“You wanna say that again?”

He was leaning on the edge of the freezer case, arms crossed, pretending to study the shredded cheese.

You held up a block of cheddar. “Yes, Joel. Cheese. Incredible answer. Groundbreaking. But what kind of cheese?”

“You pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, hell no. Last time I picked, I used goat cheese and you had one of your little fits.”

“I do not fit,” he growled.

You arched a brow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

Just crossed his arms harder, like he could make himself immune to the conversation by doubling down on the pout.

You looked him up and down. The heavy brow. The tight jaw. That stubborn line his mouth always settled into when he was trying to bury his emotions six feet.

“Sure,” you said. “Sure, you don’t throw fits. You just stop talking, glower at your dinner plate, and mumble about textures like you’re the one who did the cooking.”

That earned you a twitch. Not a full reaction— but a crack in the armor.

You rolled your eyes, sighed dramatically, and grabbed the block of aged white cheddar you knew he liked. “Fine. If this one suddenly offends your delicate palette, that’s on you.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at you. So you pivoted and veered into the home décor section.

You didn’t need anything.

But Joel wasn’t talking, so you were going to use the opportunity however you wanted.

You could feel him trailing behind you, still not talking, still definitely watching, filled to the brim with opinions he refused to say out loud.

You stopped in front of a little wooden sign that read Home is where the coffee brews and snorted. “We need this.”

Joel scoffed behind you.

You didn’t turn around. Just kept moving, hips swaying a little more than necessary, letting your fingers trail across a row of throw blankets you absolutely didn’t need. The fabric was soft, plush. Your fingertips curled around the edge.

“Hmm,” you murmured. “This one would look good on the couch.”

“We got three already,” Joel said, voice gravel-thick and grumbled.

You gasped and turned. “Oh my god. He speaks.”

Joel gave you a dead stare.

You sighed, amused, and reached up to adjust the strap of your dress. The movement lifted the fabric just enough to expose more skin, your hand brushing your collarbone lightly.

Joel’s eyes—subtle as they tried to be—dropped.

For just a second. Just a flicker of heat. Then gone. Buried again under that mask of annoyed indifference.

You reached for a vase you didn’t need. “Should I get this? Maybe put some fake sunflowers in it?”

Joel didn’t answer.

But when you gently dropped the too-expensive vase into the cart, he reached out with one big, calloused hand and nudged it so it wouldn’t tip over.

You saw that. You always saw it.

The little things. The quiet things. The kinds of gestures that lived in the in-betweens. Between I’m pissed and I love you too much to let you drop something and break it. Between leave me alone and don’t go too far.

You smirked to yourself, just a little.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mad,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond.

Still standing there like a statue. Still arms crossed, still jaw clenched, still eyes focused anywhere except you. He looked like he was trying to manifest a portal in the linoleum. Like he’d rather fall through it than talk about his feelings.

So you stepped in close.

You didn’t even think about it, you just moved on instinct. The same instinct that had been honed over five years of knowing his rhythms, his moods, the way he built walls only so you could gently scale them.

You lifted your hand and cupped his face.

Fingers soft, brushing over his scruff. His skin was warm—not just from the heat in the store, but from him. Always was. Like he carried a low burn under the surface, something he never let reach his mouth, but always lived in his eyes.

His body went still the second you touched him.

And then—after a breath—his arms dropped from his chest, as he slightly melted.

You tilted your head, giving him your softest smile. The one that usually melted him like butter left out in the heat.

“Sorry,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I don’t even know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

Joel’s eyes finally met yours. They were darker than they’d been earlier. Brow drawn, mouth slightly parted—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite sort out what.

“You’re not mad at me,” you continued gently. “Not really.”

He still didn’t speak.

So, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Just soft lips brushing rough skin. Just one warm second of closeness. You pulled back with another sheepish smile, fingers still cupping his jaw.

“Truce?” you whispered.

Joel blinked, then his eyes darkened. His voice came low. Tight. Gritted like he’d chewed through a whole bag of nails.

“…Don’t do that.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Look at me like that.”

Your hand dropped. You took half a step back.

“I—I was just saying sorry,” you said. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. His other hand went to his hip. Like he was physically restraining himself.

“Not really mad at you,” he muttered. “Ain’t even the point.”

You stared. “Then what’s the point?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the concept of gravity. Something he felt every damn day, pulling at his bones, weighing him down—but couldn’t quite put into words.

The silence stretched. You stared at him.

And he stared at your mouth. Then your neck. Then your legs.

The hem of your sundress had hitched higher when you leaned forward earlier. You didn’t even realize.

But Joel did.

You reached for his hand.

That was it. That was the end of him.

He took a step back. Like he needed space. Like he was two seconds from doing something that’d get you banned from this store for life.

“Go get the soap,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Go. Get the rest of what you need. I’ll finish up here.”

“Joel—”

“Please.”

The look in his eyes stopped you cold. It was raw. Like he was hanging on by a thread.

Your head tilted, then you nodded slowly, trying not to let your smile falter. “Okay… yeah. I’ll, um… I’ll grab the rest.”

You stepped back, turned away.

You rush, but you didn’t look over your shoulder either. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you were even a little wounded by the way he’d shut down.

Like you weren’t standing in the middle of a home decor aisle asking your husband for a truce while he looked at you like touching you was some kind of mistake.

You grabbed the last few things you needed: soap, razors, paper towels. You took your time. Didn’t linger, didn’t sulk, but you didn’t exactly hurry either.

It wasn’t the first time Joel had gotten like this. And it wouldn’t be the last. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

You knew his moods. Knew how he simmered. But today felt different—a little sharper around the edges. A little less I just need a minute and a little more don’t touch me unless you want me to snap.

You sighed and rolled your cart toward the checkout.

Register Four was open. You recognized the boy behind it—he was young, probably twenty at most. Soft brown curls under a baseball cap, name tag crooked, fingers fidgeting with the barcode scanner like it might bite him if he didn’t angle it right.

You came here often, usually alone. Joel was extremely busy during the late afternoons to do anything like this with you, but Tommy had given him the day off to go on a ‘real date’ for once. 

“Take your wife out,” he’d said with that crooked grin, “‘fore she starts thinkin’ Maria’s the only one in Austin who knows what wine is.”

Joel had grunted. You’d been excited. But now?

Now you were standing in line feeling vaguely rejected while the AC hummed and a nervous boy with too-kind eyes struggled to scan your bottle of dish soap.

He cleared his throat. “Uh—uh, sorry, ma’am.”

You smiled politely. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Take your time.”

He flushed immediately. His fingers fumbled with the box of pasta. Nearly dropped it. Caught it at the last second and blurted, “C-Can I ask you somethin’?”

You cocked your head to the side. “Sure.”

He looked like he was going to combust. Then, suddenly, in a rush: “Can I have your number?”

You froze.

The world tilted for a second, like the floor dropped two inches beneath your feet.

“Oh,” you said. His face turned crimson. You held up your hand slowly, showing him your ring. “Oh, sweetie—I’m married.”

The words left you gently. Kind. Soft. Not an ounce of mockery in your voice.

His eyes went wide. “Oh my God—no—I didn’t—I didn’t mean anythin’ bad—I just thought—y-you come in here a lot and you always smile and you’re so—uh, I mean—ma’am, I’m so sorry—”

You winced. “Oh no, don’t apologize. I’m not upset. Really.”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”

“You didn’t!” You leaned forward, laughing softly. “Hey. Breathe. I promise you, it’s okay. You’re sweet. You were just being brave, and I think that’s admirable.”

He stared at you like you’d just spoken ancient Greek.

“Some girl’s gonna be real lucky,” you said, giving him an encouraging nod. “It’s not me, but—hey, you’ll get there.”

The poor boy looked like he might cry. Or faint.

You reached into your purse to grab your wallet, hoping the small distraction might settle the tension—and that’s when you heard it.

The huff. Low. Dangerous. Behind you.

You felt him before you saw him—a heat behind your back, a presence too heavy to ignore. All broad shoulders and silence. The cart creaked slightly as Joel gripped the handle tightly. You didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.

The boy  immediately blanched.

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set, eyes fixed like a sniper’s scope on the poor kid who had just made the mistake of his life.

You turned slowly. Looked up at your husband. He didn’t glance at you.

He was too busy leveling his deadpan, I’ve killed a man with a wrench stare at a twenty-year-old cashier who probably still lived with his mom.

The kid squeaked.

Literally squeaked.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know—I didn’t mean anythin’—”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, turning fully to Joel. “Joel.”

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

His presence was doing the job just fine. His glare was practically a physical force. You stepped between them slightly, trying to cut off the eye contact.

“Hey, baby. Relax.”

Still nothing.

The boy was now full-on panicking. “Please—I swear—I wasn’t trying to cross a line—I just—I didn’t know!”

Joel’s brow twitched.

You pressed a hand to your face. “Joel, stop.”

“I ain’t sayin’ a word,” he muttered.

“Your face is saying words. Loud words.”

The kid swiped your items faster than humanly possible. It was honestly impressive. You barely saw his hands move. Bags were packed, receipt printed, card already back in your purse and you hadn’t even finished sighing.

You took the bags gently.

“Have a good day,” you said softly.

The kid didn’t reply.

He just nodded, eyes still wide, and looked like he might call for security if Joel so much as blinked wrong.

You and Joel walked out of the store in silence.

The Texas heat hit you again like a slap. Joel loaded the bags into the truck while you stood there with your jaw locked and your arms crossed.

Finally, once everything was packed and the cart shoved into the return stall, you turned to him.

“Well,” you said dryly. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Joel didn’t answer.

“You traumatized the poor boy.”

“He’ll live,” Joel muttered, rounding the front of the truck.

You followed behind, shaking your head. “He’s like, twenty.”

“He asked for your number.”

“He asked once. The second he saw you he died, Joel. Like he was gonna apologize himself into the floor.”

Joel didn’t answer.

You threw up your hands. “If he pushed after I said I was married, then fine—that’d be a problem. But he didn’t. He backed off. He was nervous as hell. That’s it.”

Still nothing.

He opened the driver’s side door, one big hand gripping the top of the frame as he climbed in. You swore you heard him mutter something under his breath—something that might’ve been kid shoulda known better.

You stared at him for a beat.

And then you dropped into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and exhaled sharply. “Just drive, Joel.”

The truck rumbled to life.

The drive was quiet.

Unbearably quiet.

No music. No conversation. Just the buzz of the engine and the whoosh of cars passing by. The windows were rolled halfway down, letting in thick summer air and the occasional wail of cicadas from the tree line. You sat with your arms crossed, looking out the window, sighing loudly every five minutes like it might crack the silence open.

It didn’t.

Joel didn’t so much as glance at you.

Your mind spun in circles the whole way home.

He pulled into the driveway, killed the engine, and got out without a word.

You didn’t follow right away.

You just sat there, hands limp in your lap, watching as Joel carried every single grocery bag inside on his own—arms full, face still unreadable, steps heavy against the driveway like he was stomping out a fire.

You finally got out once the door swung closed behind him.

Inside the house, you didn’t say anything.

Just slipped quietly into the bathroom, peeled off your sticky clotes, and stepped under the hot water.

And then you let yourself think.

Okay.

What the hell could you have done?

You rewound the day like a cassette tape.

Grocery list. The belt joke. Teasing him in the dairy aisle. Cupping his face. The kiss. Okay, maybe the kiss.

But he didn’t even look mad about that.

More like… tense.

You dragged your hands through your hair, water cascading down your back, and sighed. Again.

This wasn’t like a normal Joel mood. He was always slow to process—needed time, needed space, needed quiet. But this felt different. Sharper. Heavier.

More... personal.

By the time you shut off the water, you were still no closer to an answer.

You toweled off, still thinking, still analyzing, and threw on one of Joel’s old contracting t-shirts—the faded gray one with Miller Bros. Construction across the chest in chipped blue lettering. It hung soft and oversized over your hips, swallowing your frame in familiar cotton.

You slipped on a pair of sleep shorts. Didn’t bother with a bra. Your skin was still warm from the shower, hair damp, sticking slightly to the back of your neck.

You padded out barefoot.

Joel was in the living room.

Sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown across the back cushion, the TV flickering against his cheekbone. Some football game was on—low volume, closed captions flickering across the bottom of the screen.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say a word.

Just sipped a beer, eyes on the screen.

You stood in the doorway for a minute, watching him. Your arms folded gently across your chest, the hem of your shorts brushing your thighs.

The silence crackled.

You cleared your throat softly. “Hey.”

He grunted.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just gonna do the Cold War thing ‘til I forget why I like you?”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

You narrowed your eyes and slowly walked around behind the couch. Your steps were soft. Bare feet against wood. You leaned over the back of the couch, arms draping over Joel’s shoulders like a shawl. He was so warm. Stubbornly still.

You pressed your mouth to his neck. Right beneath his ear. Soft. Sweet.

Nothing.

You did it again.

Still nothing—except for the slight shift in his shoulders. Barely there. But you felt it.

He swallowed.

You smirked to yourself. Didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Baby,” you whispered against his skin, “if you don’t tell me what I did, I’m gonna start apologizing for everything I’ve ever done.”

No response.

“I’m sorry for throwing away that old shirt you said you didn’t care about, but definitely cared about.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep during Scarface. Twice.”

Still nothing.

“I’m sorry for making you late to that dentist appointment ‘cause I wanted to see how long I could make you moan in the shower—”

His head tilted slightly. Barely.

But you saw it.

And you grinned.

Bingo.

“I’m sorry for using your flannel to clean up that wine spill,” you continued sweetly. “I’m sorry for not telling you I bought more candles when you said we had enough. I’m sorry for giving the mailman banana bread and not saving you the corner piece you like.”

Still nothing

You leaned over the back of the couch, lips brushing his temple, hands sliding around to gently cup his jaw and turn his face to you.

“Joel,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear, “Please.”

He finally looked at you.

Expression flat. Deadpan.

Eyes dark, unreadable.

But there was something under it. A spark you could feel in your chest like a struck match. His hands didn’t move. His shoulders stayed tense.

You sighed dramatically and rounded the couch.

Then you flopped onto him—full weight, no hesitation. Limbs splayed, pressing him into the cushions like a weighted blanket of pure intent.

He let out a soft oof like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

Good.

You wiggled, settling in. Your leg slid between his. One arm wrapped around his middle. Your cheek found the curve of his shoulder, pressed against soft cotton and sun-warmed skin.

“You’re not that fragile,” you murmured into his shirt.

“Didn’t say I was,” he replied dryly.

You smiled.

Joel always gave you something when you got dramatic enough. It was like chipping away at a glacier with a spoon, but eventually, you knew he would crack.

You sighed. “You know this would be a lot easier if you just said what was bothering you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine when you say you’re fine.”

He didn’t respond again.

So you started stretching—slowly, like a lazy cat. Arms up, spine arching, your full weight still sprawled across his lap and chest. You felt his hand twitch slightly against your waist, like he wanted to grab you. Anchor you. Maybe throw you.

You smirked.

“God, you’re such a man,” you muttered teasingly. “All silence and brooding and long-suffering looks. It’s like being with a cowboy who doesn’t know how to write his own country song.”

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressed a soft kiss there. Then another.

Joel stayed still.

Stone quiet.

But you could feel the tension in his chest now. Could feel the way he wasn’t breathing evenly. The heat of his skin.

Still, you pressed another kiss to his jaw.

You pulled back slightly, leaned over him, peering into his eyes. “Is this about the cheese?”

Joel blinked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Be honest.”

He sighed. “It ain’t about the cheese.”

“Oh, thank God,” you whispered, deadpan. You threw your head back for dramatic effect. “Because if I have to listen to your slideshow on all your picky foods, I’m calling Sarah to mediate.”

That got him. A tiny—tiny—upward quirk of his mouth.

You leaned down and kissed it.

Soft and sweet.

You pulled back just an inch.

Then climbed farther into his lap.

Joel’s hands hovered near your thighs now. Not touching. Just there. Like he didn’t know what to do with them. Or he did, and was trying not to.

You kissed his cheek.

His jaw.

The soft curve of his neck again.

And all the while, you kept talking. Soft little murmurs between kisses.

“Remember when we first moved in and you said, ‘I don’t need throw pillows’ and now you’re the one who fluffs them before bed?”

No response.

“Remember when you said you didn’t want a dog, and now every time you see one on the street, you stop and talk to it?”

Still nothing.

“Remember when you said you don’t do pouting?”

You kissed the edge of his mouth.

Then pulled back and pouted.

Big eyes. Bottom lip jutted. Full dramatic effect.

He exhaled hard through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

But not nothing either.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

You gasped, loud and dramatic. “You do still speak!”

Nothing in his expression changed.

But his eyes flicked over your face. Down your body. Then quickly back up, like he hadn’t done it.

You didn’t comment.

You just smiled—soft and amused—and stretched again, your hips shifting in his lap as you moved to loop your arms around his neck.

“God, you’re warm,” you murmured, half to yourself. “You always get warm when you’re annoyed. Or when you’re turned on.” You snorted. “Which, now that I think about it, probably means I’m annoying and hot.”

Joel blinked once. Slowly.

You ran your hands along the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape as you kept going. “Also, this shirt is very soft. I get why you wore it for ten years. Smells like you too. Not fair.”

Joel exhaled—tight. Controlled. His hands hadn’t moved, but the one at your waist was gripping just a little harder now. Not enough to stop you. Just enough to let you feel it.

Joel dropped his gaze.

You didn’t stop.

“Y’know,” you added thoughtfully, fingers trailing down the edge of his collar, “when I was in the shower, I kept thinking about all the stuff I could’ve done to make you mad. I even washed all the way behind my knees just in case you were mad about that.”

That got him.

A strangled sound—half cough, half growl—escaped his throat.

“What?” you asked, blinking innocently. “You’re always saying I never rinse right.”

Joel’s hand flexed hard against your thigh.

And then his head dropped.

Right onto your shoulder.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just slumped a little heavier, his breath hot against your skin.

You froze, heart thudding in your chest.

Your voice came quiet. “Joel?”

He didn’t lift his head.

Just sighed. Deep and long. A full-body exhale like he'd been holding something in for hours.

Then, low, gravelly, and rough:

“You really don’t know?”

You blinked. “...Know what?”

He turned his face slightly, forehead still pressed to your shoulder, lips near your collarbone.

You waited.

Silence stretched.

Then finally, slowly, he said:

“You were wearin’ that dress.”

You paused. “…What?”

He sighed again. Frustrated. “At the store. That yellow one. The one that clings. That makes your thighs—” He cut himself off, groaning. “Fuck.”

You stared at him.

“…You’re  being pissy at me ‘cause of my dress?”

He finally sat up. Met your eyes. And oh—his face.

That quiet, deadpan fury.

That exasperation laced with the deepest, dirtiest want.

“I ain’t mad at the dress,” he ground out. “I’m mad ‘cause you wore it without even thinkin’. You just—put it on. Walked around the store, leanin’ over, lookin’ like—like that. Like you didn’t know. And that little boy looked at you like he’d just seen God.”

You blinked.

Then you bit your lip.

But Joel wasn’t done.

“I’ve been hard since the dairy aisle.”

You choked.

He leaned in. Voice lower now. Rougher.

“And then you came home. In my shirt. No bra. Crawled all over me. Kissed me like it was sweet. Like you didn’t know what you were doin’. Whisperin’ all soft, makin’ those fuckin’ pouty faces. I’m sittin’ here tryin’ not to throw you over the back of the couch, and you’re talkin’ about ‘behind your knees.’”

Your lips parted.

He growled.

“And I can’t be mad at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “Not really. ‘Cause you didn’t do it on purpose. You were just bein’ you.”

You opened your mouth to respond.

But nothing came out.

You just stared.

Joel stared back.

His chest was rising hard now. His hands had slid to your hips. Gripping. Holding you still in his lap like he wasn’t sure what he’d do if you moved again.

“I hate how much I love you,” he said, voice like gravel. “Hate it when you’re cute. Hate it when you wear my shirts. Hate it when you kiss me when I’m tryin’ to be mad.”

You whispered, breathless, “So don’t be mad.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to be mad,” he snapped, fingers tightening. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ lose it.”

You blinked.

And then—quietly:

“…You want me to get off you?”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

“Fuck no,” he said, and the word hit like a warning. “You move now, I swear to God—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just smiled—soft and stunned—and whispered:

“…So I’m off the hook about the cheese?”

Joel scoffed.

But it came out rough.

More breath than sound.

Then, without another word—

He kissed you.

Hard.

Like he’d been waiting all day to do it. His mouth found yours with heat, with hunger, with the kind of urgency that made you squeak softly against his lips before melting—completely—into him.

His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other sliding over your hip to keep you grounded, pressed tight into his lap where you belonged.

You gasped into his mouth when he angled you just right, when he kissed you like he wasn’t your husband of five years but a man trying to earn you.

“Joel—” you breathed, between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, “baby, I—need to start the pasta—”

“Screw the pasta,” he growled, dragging his mouth down your throat, kissing along your collarbone like he was mapping it for memory. “Fuck all of it.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It bubbled up in your chest, bright and breathless.

Joel kissed the sound right out of you.

“God, I missed you,” he muttered against your skin.

You blinked, a little dazed. “Missed me?”

He nodded, nose brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. I know you’ve been here, but baby… you’ve been everywhere but with me.”

Your brows drew together, guilt tugging already, but Joel just kept going, voice low and full of heat and heartache.

“You’ve been movin’ nonstop all week. Preppin’ the guest room, scrubbin’ the floors like it was a damn hotel inspection comin’. Stressin’ over the timin’ of the plane, re-foldin’ towels that didn’t need foldin’, runnin’ errands twice ‘cause you forgot the list the first time. Cookin’ like we’ve got ten people to feed instead of just one girl comin’ home for the week.”

His hand curled at your waist, grounding you.

“Runnin’ out the door before I can even tell you I love you.”

He was still kissing you, slower now. Softer. Like every word cost him something.

“I ain’t mad about the cheese,” he whispered. “Ain’t mad about that poor boy at the register lookin’ at you like his world was endin’. I’m just…”

He sighed.

And then held you closer.

“…selfish,” he admitted. “I want my wife.”

You melted against him, curling your fingers through the back of his hair. “Joel…”

“I want her mouth,” he murmured, kissing the corner of yours. “Want her laugh. Her hands. Her smart mouth and her soft skin and her stupid apologies about flannel.”

You giggled again, and he kissed that too.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said roughly. “And I still missed you.”

Your heart cracked open. And that was it.

That was the moment you moved.

You slid forward, slow and deliberate, swinging one leg fully across his lap until you were straddling him—knees planted firm on either side, thighs bracketing his hips.

Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

He just watched you.

His hands landed on your waist automatically. Like muscle memory. Like they’d been there a thousand times and still weren’t done learning the shape of you.

You lowered yourself slowly into his lap, letting the weight of your body sink against the growing heat beneath his jeans. The second your hips touched down, you felt it—thick, hard, there.

Joel’s jaw clenched.

But he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a move.

So you did.

You leaned in and kissed him. Open-mouthed and deep.

Not sweet this time.

Not soft.

You kissed him like you missed him too, like you hadn’t seen him every day. Like you meant it. Like every minute of silence between you had been a mistake you were now determined to fix with your mouth.

He let you lead, just for a moment.

And God, the sound he made when you pulled back just slightly, only to roll your hips forward, pressing down against him with a teasing grind—

A low, broken grunt spilled from his throat, half-pain, half-prayer.

“Jesus, baby…”

You smiled into the kiss. Innocent. Dangerous.

And did it again.

Joel’s hands gripped your waist like he was barely holding back. Like he was grounding himself. You felt the flex of his fingers through the fabric of your shirt—his shirt.

He pulled back, just an inch, breathing hard.

You shifted again, dragging your cunt over the firm line of his jeans, and Joel exhaled like it physically pained him.

He grunted and dug his fingers harder into your skin.

“You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered again, trying to keep his classic deadpan delivery, but his chest was rising hard now, breath shallow.

You tilted your head, smiling innocently, biting the corner of your lip like you weren’t absolutely soaked and unraveling already.

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “What am I doing?”

He gave you that look—half narrowed eyes, half disbelief—like he could see straight through you.

You didn’t give him time to answer.

Just leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his.

Soft, at first.

Just a brush.

Then firmer, deeper—trailing kisses along his jaw, down the column of his throat, until you reached the warm patch of skin behind his ear that always made him twitch. You kissed it slowly, let your breath spill over it.

“You said you wanted my mouth,” you whispered. “Just trying to give it to you.”

Joel groaned. Just one low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like it cost him something.

You felt his grip slide lower, from the swell of your hips to the backs of your thighs, and then he rocked you forward for you.

One, slow drag.

Denim on cotton. Pressure exactly where you needed it.

Your breath hitched. “Oh—”

“Yeah?” he muttered, voice rough and fraying. “Then give it to me, baby. Just like that. Keep grindin’. Nice and slow.”

You whimpered. Didn’t mean to. Couldn’t help it.

So you did what he asked. What he always made sound like a command, even when he spoke soft.

You rolled your hips against him again. And again.

Each pass sent sparks shooting down your spine. Each brush of friction left you clinging a little tighter, breathing a little harder.

The TV flickered in the background, some commentator still droning about pass coverage or something equally irrelevant.

But Joel didn’t look away from you. Not once.

He kissed you again—messier now, more desperate.

His mouth opened against yours, tongue curling deep, hand still anchored around your thigh, keeping you pressed tight. Like if he let go, the earth might shift.

“This what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing yours between kisses. “Crawlin’ all over me in that damn shirt… knowin’ I was tryin’ to stay mad?”

You huffed out a breathless laugh, hips still moving, pace steady and deliberate.

“I was trying to apologize.”

“Tryin’ my ass,” he growled, biting the edge of your jaw. “You were makin’ it worse. Bein’ all soft and sweet… kissin’ on me like you didn’t know what you were doin’.”

You leaned in close again, breath mingling.

“Didn’t I say I was yours?”

Joel looked at you then.

Really looked.

And it hit you—like a wave crashing in all at once.

That stare.

That devotion.

That deep, simmering heat that lived behind his eyes, like he was fighting it every second just to keep it contained.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You did.”

His hand slid up under the hem of your shirt, fingertips dragging slow and reverent across your stomach, then higher, like he was relearning every inch of you.

“Still tryin’ to stay mad,” he muttered, tone dry but unraveling. “Not doin’ a very good job of it.”

You grinned. Pressed your hips to his again. Harder this time.

Joel hissed through his teeth, hands tightening on your waist for just a second. Like he had to remind himself not to flip you over right then and there.

Because the truth was—he was just as mad. At himself. At the way he always snapped at you first before ever admitting how he felt. At how you knew how to twist him up without even trying. At how good you looked in his damn shirt.

At how fucking much he wanted you.

“Up,” he grunted.

“What?”

He didn’t explain. Just grabbed the hem of the shirt and tugged it up over your head, arms slightly rough but careful, like muscle memory had him treating you like something expensive.

You didn’t even get a second to tease him for it. Because the second your shirt hit the floor, he was on you.

Mouth hot. Open.

His mouth locked around your nipple like he’d missed it. Like it was a lifeline.

“Jesus—Joel—”

His only response was a low groan. One hand splayed between your shoulder blades to keep you pressed to him, the other still gripping your waist like he didn’t trust you not to float away.

The couch creaked beneath both of you. That ugly old brown one you always said he should’ve gotten rid of when you first moved in. But right now? The way he had you anchored in his lap, thighs spread, chest bare under his mouth—you would’ve worshipped that goddamn couch if it meant you got to stay right here.

He switched sides, mouth greedy now, and your head dropped back as your nails dug into his shoulders. He sucked, slow and deep, then grazed his teeth along the sensitive skin, a groan vibrating low in his throat when your hips rolled again—instinct, need, love, all tangled together.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

Hair tousled, lips red, eyes feral.

You barely had time to register the look before he moved—swift and deliberate. One arm looped around your waist, the other shifting beneath your thigh, and suddenly you were airborne for half a second—

Then thud.

You yelped, a high, startled sound, as your back hit the couch cushions, Joel’s weight braced above you, one hand cupping the back of your thigh as he hiked your leg up and perched it over the armrest like it was his position and his idea.

Your hands flew to his chest, more out of instinct than resistance, heart thudding as he looked at you with that flat, unreadable Miller stare. The one that meant he was thinking something loud but saying absolutely nothing.

“Joel,” you warned, already breathless. “I just showered.”

He didn’t even blink.

“Yeah.”

His fingers were already sliding under the waistband of your shorts.

“And the game’s still on,” you added quickly, trying to hold onto a sliver of reality as your shorts started disappearing, Joel tugging them down like they were offending him.

Joel didn’t answer.

Just stared at you, flat and unreadable, that slow blink that always made you feel like he was assessing something. Whether he was going to tease you or be straight forward. Go gentle or go mean.

Then—his brow lifted. Just a slight arch, subtle, but smug in that way that made your stomach twist.

Your hips jolted as he tugged your shorts the rest of the way down—slow, unhurried—and left your panties on. Thin lace, soaked clean through. Like it was part of your punishment.

You shifted, instinctively trying to lift for him, to help.

He didn’t let you.

“Stay,” he muttered, pressing one broad palm flat on your hip. His other hand slid between your thighs, spreading them open with firm, heavy pressure, until you were open for him.

Then his mouth.

Hot breath dragging over fabric that felt thinner by the second. His tongue didn’t touch skin. It ran slow and warm across the center of you, pressing the soaked material against your aching clit.

You whimpered. The sound came out high and needy, and he smiled.

“Joel—” you gasped.

“You said the game’s still on,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. “So we’re watchin’. Both of us.”

And then—finally—his tongue. Right through the center of you. A slow, deliberate drag that made your eyes roll back in your head. Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, hips bucking before you could stop them.

He paused. Pulled back. Looked at you with that lazy, lethal stare. “Don’t move,” he said, quiet. Dangerous. “Or I stop.”

You swallowed hard. “This is insane.”

Joel didn’t reply. He never did when he was in this mood—this controlled, razor-sharp space he sank into like second nature. He just bent again, licked over you with slow, measured cruelty. Tongue steady, pressure maddening. Over. And over.

You were soaked. The lace clung to you, sticky and wet. And he didn’t move it. Didn’t need to. He was teasing you through it, sucking at it like it was skin, like he had all day.

“Joel,” you whispered, hips twitching again.

“Watch the game,” he murmured, lips brushing right against your clit, his voice muffled by your body. “You’re fallin’ behind.”

You blinked at the screen, trying to focus, but everything was heat and static and him.

“What’s the down?” he asked.

You froze. “What?”

Another flick of his tongue—sharper this time. Precise. You choked on a moan.

“I said,” he said again, tone cooling, “what’s the down, baby?”

Your brain scrambled. “Uh—third?”

His brow quirked. “You guessin’?”

You hesitated. “Maybe?”

Joel sat back on his heels. Fingers hooked in the side of your panties, tugging them aside with infuriating gentleness. He leaned in again. One long, hot lick—bare skin now. Bare clit. Bare torture.

Then he pulled away. Sat there. Breathing you in. Looking at you like you were a meal he’d decided to starve just because he could.

You shook, panting. “Joel—”

“You don’t guess,” he said flatly. “You either know, or you don’t get to come.”

You whimpered. Full-body shiver. Nails curled into the couch cushion. Every muscle screamed for friction, for movement.

“Focus,” he said softly. Not kindly. “Get it right, or I’ll make you beg for more than just permission.”

You turned to the screen, vision blurred with tears and need. Some play was happening. You weren’t even sure what anymore.

Joel’s tongue met you again. Gentle, coaxing, relentless. And then—

“Possession?”

“Colts,” you gasped.

He hummed. A reward. His tongue flattened against your clit, slow circle, firm pressure. Just enough to make your breath hitch. You moaned, moved just barely, and he immediately pulled back.

“Nope.”

“What? Joel—!”

“You moved.”

“I twitched.”

“You moved,” he repeated. Cold. Decided. “Better learn the difference.”

You covered your face with your hands. “You’re evil.”

“I’m patient.” He brushed a single finger over your thigh. “That’s worse.”

You whimpered, again. And he didn’t stop.

The next stretch was agony.

He mouthed at you—sometimes slow, sometimes fast, always calculated. Just when your hips rose, just when your chest stuttered with that telltale gasp, he’d pause.

Then came the questions.

Flag on the play—what for?

Which quarter?

What yard line?

If you answered right—he’d reward you. Tongue firm and dragging. The kind of lick that made you sob.

If you answered wrong—he went silent. Kissed all around your thighs, letting his stubble drag out whimpers and pleads.

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t give in. Joel Miller had you mapped. He knew every twitch. Every inhale. Every desperate, clenching muscle. 

He kept you on the edge for what felt like hours—until your eyes were glassy and your thighs were trembling. Until your nails had torn at the cushion. Until your chest was heaving and your panties were ruined, and you weren’t even watching the game anymore, just listening—but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. From his mouth. From his tongue tormenting you.

“Joel,” you begged, voice cracking open under the weight of it. “Please—please, I’m—”

“Score?”

Your mind scrambled, hands fisting the cushions. “Uh—24–21?”

Joel looked up at you from between your thighs. Smug. Ravenous. His mouth slick and glistening, chin wet with your arousal. His eyes held that gleam—that sharp, satisfied gleam that made your stomach flip.

“Good girl.”

And then he devoured you.

No teasing. No slow build. No more cruel, lingering licks meant to test your patience. He shoved your panties properly aside, and dropped his mouth to your cunt like a man starved—like he’d waited all damn day to rip into you and was finally cashing the check.

Your breath caught, then tore loose in a sob. You cried out, voice shattering in your throat as heat rolled over your body in waves. Hands flew to his hair—those thick strands you loved to grip—fingers curling in deep. Your thighs twitched around his head, instinctively trying to pull him closer, to anchor yourself to something as he wrecked you.

And fuck, did he wreck you.

His tongue slid through your folds with obscene pressure—long, deliberate strokes that left you soaked and quaking. Like every lick was a reminder: this was his. You were his.

His beard scraped deliciously against your thighs, the rough drag a perfect contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Joel groaned into you like the taste of you was everything. His hands gripped your thighs tight—bruising tight—thumbs digging in, keeping you open, helpless, exactly where he wanted you.

“Sound real sorry now,” he growled against your cunt, voice shredded and low. His tongue never stopped moving. “Should I keep goin’? Or you wanna get smart again?”

You sobbed. You sobbed, the sound barely human. Your legs clamped around him and your hips bucked wildly against his face.

“N-no—please—don’t stop—please—”

Joel laughed. A dark, amused sound, muffled by your cunt. He sounded pleased. Too pleased.

Then he flattened his tongue over your clit and dragged it slow. Long. Torturous. Like he knew how close you were. Like he could feel it in your thighs, in the twitch of your hips, in the broken way you moaned.

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a huge wave. There was no slow climb. It hit hard—violent in its release—like your body had finally quit holding back and gave itself over to him completely.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound ripped free—raw and wrecked. You came with your whole body—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his head, back arching off the couch. Fingers yanked hard in his hair, like that was the only thing keeping you from flying apart.

And Joel didn’t stop.

Didn’t budge.

He kept his mouth on you like it was his right, his job, his revenge. Licking you through it, dragging it out until your thighs trembled and your hips jolted with every aftershock.

When he finally pulled back, your thighs were shiny. And you were boneless, panting like you’d just run a marathon barefoot.

Joel sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lick the rest off his lips, and gave you that look. The one that was from a smug husband who just made you weak from one orgasm.

“You cryin’?” he asked, brow arched. “Or just finally quiet?”

You blinked up at him, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your voice was wrecked. “Need more—”

He tilted his head. “More?”

You nodded desperately. “Yes—please, Joel, I—fuck—I need it—”

He looked at you for a long, quiet second. Then glanced at your ruined panties, still moved off to the side, completely soaked through. Then back at your face.

He  slid them off slowly with a firm grip on your ankle. They made a quiet, wet sound as they peeled off your cunt.

“Should make you wear these around the house after I’m done,” he muttered. “Let you feel how soaked you get beggin’ for it. Make you sit in your own mess while I watch somethin’ nice.”

You whimpered.

Joel smirked again. “What, that too much?”

You shook your head. “No—no, I want it.”

He leaned in, hand sliding up your bare thigh, settling heavy on your pelvis, thumb brushing between your folds where you were still sensitive and trembling.

You gasped. Twitched. Your hips bucked helplessly into his touch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured. “Look at you. Blissed out and still greedy.”

You whined.

And Joel—dear and evil—laughed low in his throat.

“C’mon, baby. Spread these legs wider. I ain’t done teachin’ you your lesson yet.”

You did as told. Because how could you not?

Your hips tilted, thighs falling open, and the pads of his fingers got better access as he barely brushed where you were soaked, and your hips jumped.

You let out a shuddery breath, squirming beneath his touch. “Please—”

“Please what?”

You swallowed, tried to speak, but your voice cracked in the middle of it. “I—I want your cock.”

That earned a low hum.

Joel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was especially unimpressed.

“Yeah? Wantin’ don’t mean gettin’,” he muttered. “Don’t remember sayin’ you could ask for anythin’.”

Your cheeks burned. “Joel, I—I need—”

He cut you off with a sharp glance, fingers sliding between your folds in one slick.

“I said,” he growled softly, “you take what I give you. And you stay damn quiet.”

You whimpered again. Loud. Desperate.

And that was it. That was enough.

He reached behind him without warning, took your panties in his free hand, and before you could even react, he stuffed them into your mouth.

You gasped, muffled immediately, lips stretched around the fabric. You could taste yourself—warm, musky, sharp from where he'd worked you over earlier—and the moan that escaped your throat was pathetic.

Joel grinned. Not wide. Not gleeful. Just slow and knowing.

His hand cupped your jaw for a moment, thumb dragging across your cheek, eyes sharp as they bore into yours.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “Gettin’ worked up over your own mess. Filthy girl.”

You nodded because it was all you could do. Your thighs tried to rub together restlessly. Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure where to go, what to do with yourself.

Joel got up. Shifted his weight to sit back onto the couch next to you.

Then, without warning, he reached for you and dragged you into his lap. Strong arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you easily until your spine was pressed against his chest, your legs straddling his denim-covered thighs, your ruined panties still in your mouth.

The couch groaned under both your bodies, the old leather protesting with every shift—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. Your brain was mush, your limbs boneless, your mouth still slack and wet around the wad of fabric he’d stuffed there minutes ago.

And then—Joel’s hand again.

Sliding down between your thighs like it belonged there. Like it had never left.

Two fingers pushed into you without warning. Thick. Slick. Deep. The stretch punched the air from your lungs and sent your hips jerking reflexively.

Your cry was strangled by the fabric in your mouth.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was low, right at your ear, slow and steady like he wasn’t the one wrecking you open on his lap. “You stay still.”

But you couldn’t.

Your hips moved anyway, rocking helplessly against his hand, the wet sounds obscene in the space between you.

His fingers curled inside you, just the right pressure against that devastating spot that made your back arch and your knees quake.

You choked on a moan, muffled and desperate.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw as he fucked his fingers into you harder. “Can feel you clenchin’ already. Barely inside and you’re already fallin’ apart on me.”

You pressed your head back against his shoulder, trembling all over, thighs spread wide over his lap. The rough fabric scraped your skin. Your hands clawed at the front of his jeans, grabbing at anything, his belt buckle, waistband, seams, anything to keep you sane.

His pace quickened. His fingers drove up into you, every stroke sharp, confident, filthy. His palm was soaked, smacking wetly with each thrust, the heat of your arousal smeared over your thighs, your folds, your inner legs.

His thumb started to brush your clit. Fast. Tight little circles.

Your whole body jolted.

“Fuckin’ greedy thing,” he murmured, lips dragging against your neck. “Thought you were done cryin’. Thought I’d worn you out.”

You whimpered around the gag, back arching. Every muscle tight, electric.

Joel grunted softly, like the sound of you unraveling turned him on more than anything. “Dumb question,” he muttered. “Course you got more in you.”

You were ruined. The couch cushions beneath you were damp, and the mess between your legs was shameful, slick, and constant. Your thighs were shaking. Your jaw ached from the gag. Your body burned—hot and tight and strung out.

His arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you still, keeping you open. His fingers fucked into you relentlessly, slick and punishing, while his thumb dragged over your clit with merciless precision.

And then—

You came.

So fast, it blindsided you.

That coil inside you snapped, sharp and raw, and your whole body convulsed in his arms. Your thighs slammed shut around his hand, your spine bowed, and the scream that tore from your throat was strangled by cotton and spit.

You shattered—mouth wide, tears spilling, muscles spasming.

“Mm. There she is,” he said, low and warm like you hadn’t just come like you were dying. “Knew you had another one in you.”

You whimpered, boneless now. Arms limp. Head heavy against his shoulder.

His fingers slipped out slow, wet and obscene.

You let out a broken sob through your gag, and Joel just grinned, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

He shifted behind you—gentle now. No more teasing pressure. No more mean streak. Just a warm, solid wall of comfort at your back.

His big hand rested low on your belly, spread wide, thumb tracing little slow, aimless circles over sweat of your skin.

Protective.

Sweet.

Possessive.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Bare skin, damp with sweat. His nose nudged you after, slow and unhurried.

One kiss. Then another.

Then one right behind your ear, soft enough to make your heart hiccup. You made a small sound, muffled by the panties still stuffed in your mouth.

Joel heard it.

“‘S’alright,” he murmured. “I got you. Just breathe a sec.”

You did. Or tried to. Inhale in. Exhale out. His scent wrapped around you—soap and salt and the heat of his skin. The TV was still on, some post-play analysis murmuring in the background, but it felt far away. Fuzzy. Like it didn’t matter anymore.

Joel reached up. Fingers brushed along your jaw. Then gently, he pulled your ruined panties from your mouth.

They came free with a soft, wet sound, and he set them aside without a word. You breathed in deeper, lips tingling, tongue dragging over them instinctively.

“You with me now?” he asked, pressing another kiss to the shell of your ear. “Hm?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice rough.

You felt his smile more than saw it—small, private. His chin dipped down, and he kissed your cheek. The side of your neck. Then your shoulder again.

“Did good for me,” he murmured.

Your lip quivered. “You were so mean.”

That earned a low sound in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a hum. You could hear the apology in it, even if he didn’t say it aloud.

“Was I?” he asked. “Don’t remember hearin’ any complaints.”

“You gagged me with my own panties.”

He kissed the side of your mouth.

“You whined so damn loud, baby. Was the only way to shut you up.”

You huffed—weakly. No real fight in it.

“I was desperate.”

“You were perfect,” he said.

That quieted you. Completely. Because even with your hair stuck to your forehead, your thighs slick and trembling—you believed him. You felt it in the way he rocked you just slightly in his lap, grounding you. Felt how he loved you completely with no conditions.

Joel didn’t say shit he didn’t mean. He didn’t waste words. So when he whispered things like that—it hit hard.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looked tired. Soft. His forehead rested against yours.

But even through all the love, you could feel it.

Pressed tight behind you, the warmth of his body steady, grounding—but his cock, straining hard against the thick denim of his jeans, throbbed like a barely-contained secret. And it wasn’t subtle, either. Not with the way you’d come apart for him, more than once, all over his tongue and fingers and the damn couch.

He was giving you a break.

Just like he always did.

Even if it cost him his own pleasure. Even if it meant sitting there while you trembled, thighs sticky and breath still catching in your throat.

Because Joel never asked for more than you could give. He knew your edges, every single one.

Where to push. Where to let you fall.

And right now, he was holding.

Letting you rest.

Even though his body was screaming to take.

That kind of restraint? It made your chest ache.

So you shifted—slow at first, experimental—grinding your hips back into him. Rubbing your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans, where you knew he was aching, pulsing.

Joel groaned. Low and guttural, barely contained. His hand tightened on your hip like a warning.

“Baby,” he gritted out, voice hoarse, “I’m bein’ nice.”

You rocked again. Firmer this time. Your breath hitched when you felt him twitch beneath you. Big. Hard.

“Tryin’ to give you that break,” he went on, jaw clenched. “C’mon. Take it.”

Your smile was lazy. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“I had my break.”

He huffed. Short. Sharp. No patience left. “You sure?”

You turned your head a little. Just enough to whisper, “Yeah.”

Joel paused, studying your face to confirm you were sure.

“Alright.”

The next second, his hands were under you, lifting you like nothing, and you squealed, breathless as he turned your body with ease and planted you down again. Hips against the armrest this time, bare skin against leather, ass in the air, legs spread.

Vulnerable.

Exposed.

Ready.

You barely had time to breathe before he was behind you again—hovering close, hands sliding down the back of your thighs, thumbs digging in like he wanted to mark you there.

You felt the heat of him through his jeans. Still in control. Always in control.

He palmed your ass, slow and reverent at first. Then slapped it, sharp and deliberate.

You jumped. Moaned softly. Chest pressed to the armrest.

He did it again. Slower this time.

“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Such a pretty ass for my pretty wife.”

You huffed, still breathless but unwilling to let him have the last word. “Pretty enough to make you lose your damn mind in a store.”

Joel made a sound. Something between a groan and a laugh. His palm skimmed over your ass again, this time lingering. Loving.

“Mm,” he drawled. “You think I forgot about that dress?”

“I think you stared long enough to memorize every inch of it.”

“Wasn’t the dress I was memorizin’,” he muttered, hand slipping lower. “You walked in front of me on purpose.”

You smiled against the armrest, eyes fluttering shut. “Sure did.”

Another slap. Harder this time.

“Goddamn tease.”

You moaned at that. Couldn’t help it.

Behind you, you heard the soft clink of metal. His belt—coming loose. Then the snap of his jeans as he unbuttoned himself one-handed, still keeping you pressed down with the other.

You craned your head, trying to look back at him. “You’re still dressed.”

“Yeah.” His voice was low. Dangerous. Warm. “And you’re not.”

The implication of that was everything. The unfairness of it. The intentionality.

You clenched around nothing, already needy again. You heard him sigh—a deep, throaty exhale like he was trying to keep his composure.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured.

You smiled again, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “I think I do.”

Another pause.

Then the sound of his zipper lowering. Slow, easured and drawn out like a threat. Like a promise.

Your whole body tensed—not from fear, but from the kind of aching anticipation that made your skin burn.

“Joel—” you started, breath hitching.

“Shhh.” His mouth was close. Too close. The rough scratch of his beard brushed your cheek as he leaned in, voice pitched low and raspy—like it came from the center of his chest. “Lemme look at you…”

His palm braced against the small of your back, steady and firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

His other hand?

Stroking.

You felt it—hot and thick behind you, heavy in his grip. The barest brush skimmed your ass, then slid down the curve with a slow, deliberate drag.

Then over the swell of your hip. Along the inside of your thigh. Everywhere but where you needed him.

Your breath caught. Fingers clenched the couch cushion like it was the only thing holding you to earth. Your knuckles ached. Your thighs twitched.

He let the weight of him trail over your bare skin. Lazily. Like he was painting you with it. Marking every inch of you with his cock before he even gave you the chance to take it.

You panting. Absolutely wrecked, your body overstimulated, used up, still trembling from two orgasms, but it didn’t matter. Not when Joel was like this. Not when his patience was more devastating than any touch.

“Joel—” you gasped, trying to tilt your hips back, desperate to catch the head of his cock, to line him up, to feel something. You missed.

He chuckled. Low. Pleased. Like you were performing exactly the way he liked. “Aw. Sweet thing,” he murmured. “You’re tryin’, huh?”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, just—just put it in—”

“Mm.” That small sound of false consideration. Barely interested. “You think beggin’s all it takes?”

You let your forehead drop to the cushion, gasping now, thighs spreading wider out of instinct. “It’s not fair,” you said, voice cracking with frustration. “You’re teasing—”

“That’s ’cause I can,” he said simply. Another drag of his cock, this time notched so close to where you needed him—almost there—and still he didn’t push forward. “And you like it.”

You shook your head. Tried to protest. Then he leaned down again, chest brushing your back, the rough cotton of his flannel rasping against your flushed, sweat-slicked back . His breath ghosted over your neck.

“You been good?” he asked, casual as anything. Like he was asking about the weather. Like you weren’t spread open and dripping for him.

You nodded, frantic. “Yes.”

He hummed, unconvinced. A kiss landed at the base of your nape. Warm. Unfairly tender.

“Don’t believe you.”

“Joel—”

“You wore that little yellow dress,” he murmured. His mouth dragged down your shoulder, slow and unhurried. “Knew exactly what it’d do to me.”

Your breath hitched. “You liked it, though…”

“I liked it too much.”

He shifted, and his cock slid down the inside of your thigh again, hot and impossibly slick from how ready you were. The head caught—just briefly—at the edge of your folds.

It was enough to make your spine jolt.

Joel grunted softly. Like the feel of you against him had snapped something loose in his control. “You wanna be filled up, baby?”

“Yes.” Your voice broke, wrecked and raw. “Yes—please—God, please—”

The hand at your back flattened. A warning. A reminder.

He just hovered. Let the head of his cock rest there, heavy and perfect, teasing your entrance, just existing. Threatening.

“You look real pretty like this,” he murmured, dragging a hand down the curve of your spine. “Bent over. Waitin’. Drippin’.”

You were panting now. Shaking. Your hips trembled with need.

“I’m ready,” you whispered.

He laughed—low. Dark. A little cruel, a little sweet. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you or worship you.

“I know you are,” he said.

You felt it. The tip of him, thick and flushed, pressing just barely where you needed it most. The promise of relief, right there—

And then he paused.

“Say thank you,” he commanded.

You whimpered. Nearly sobbed. “Thank you.”

His voice dropped, a growl at your ear. “For what?”

Your legs shook.

“For—fuck—baby—”

“Say it.”

You shut your eyes, mouth trembling, chest heaving. “Thank you… for making me feel good.”

The words left you hoarse and broken. Quiet and sincere. Your voice barely made it past the pounding of your pulse.

But Joel heard it. He always did.

A beat of silence. A low grunt.

He pushed in.

All at once.

Your breath left you in a broken gasp, your spine arching hard as he filled you deep, impossibly deep, the stretch so intense your hands scrabbled against the couch for anything to anchor you.

“Jesus,” Joel hissed behind you, voice ragged, gravel thick in his throat as he started to rock back and forth. “Always so fuckin’ tight after you come.”

You whined. Couldn’t help it. Could barely hold yourself upright with the way your body shook, stretched full and pulsing around him. It felt like he’d taken everything—what was left of your breath, your bones, your reason—and replaced it with him.

He was so warm. So there. One braced at your waist, holding you in place like he was scared you’d float away.

You reached for it.

Blindly. Desperately. Your left hand stretching back, trembling midair, searching behind you for something that made this real. Something solid.

You didn’t even have to ask.

Joel’s hand found yours. Rough, warm fingers threaded between yours, locking down. Anchoring. His palm enveloped the back of your hand like a promise.

And that’s when he broke.

You felt it in the tremble of his exhale, the way his hips faltered for just a beat before crashing into you again, harder, deeper. A growl built low in his throat—raw and breathless, cracked at the edges.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, tightening his grip on your hand. “I’ll never get over this.”

You whimpered. “Joel—”

“Our rings,” he gritted out between his teeth, his thrusts jolting your whole body. “Your fingers on mine like that—fuck.”

He didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t slow down.

But the rhythm had changed. Something deliberate in it now. Like every thrust was a vow.

He shifted forward, chest brushing your back, his weight covering you now, thick denim scratching against your thighs. His breath was hot at your ear.

“That ring, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking now. “Means you’re mine when we’re like this. Means you chose me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’ll always choose you,” you whispered.

He pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder, soft and fleeting, like he couldn’t let himself be gentle for long without unraveling.

You cried out when he bottomed out again, your body clenching down instinctively. The sound tore from your throat was high, open, and honest.

He held your hand tighter. Like it was the only thing tethering him now.

You could feel his wedding band press into your skin as he gripped your hand. Could feel your own—twisting slightly on your finger as his thrusts jolted you forward and pulled you right back again.

You were trembling. Overstimulated. Barely here—but that grip in your hand kept you grounded.

“You love this,” he whispered, nose brushing behind your ear, breath hot. “Love when I take my time. Love when I make you earn it.”

You nodded—shaky, frantic. “I do. I do, Joel—”

He kept driving into you like he wasn’t done yet. Like he needed to finish what he started and brand the memory of this into your bones.

“I give you everythin’, baby,” he muttered, fingers flexing in yours. “All day long. Every day. You know that, right?”

You gasped, nodding. “Yes—yes—”

“So when I ask you to wait,” he said, still going, “when I tease… make you beg…”

He pulled your hand further, dragged it down the curve of your stomach, placed it flat over your own belly, his on top.

“This is what I’m thinkin’ about.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“You. This sweet body. Mine.” He grunted the word, thrusts getting sloppier, chest heaving behind you. “You wearin’ my ring, cryin’ for my cock—”

“Joel,” you gasped, throat burning, hips jolting with every punishing thrust. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snapped. “You will.”

And God help you, you did.

The orgasm hit like a truck.

Your whole body seized. You went rigid, then loose, your limbs jerking helplessly as pleasure tore through you—raw, electric, and far past the point of sanity. Your vision blurred. Your knees buckled.

Joel didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He just adjusted his grip, dragged you up against his chest, and kept going, growling low in your ear.

“You think I’m gonna let you go now?” he breathed, his arm banded tight around your waist. “After that? After the way you fuckin’ beg for it?”

He pushed in deep and held, breath shuddering. His hand slid down between your legs, fingers toying with the mess he’d made of you.

“Look at this,” he muttered. “Look how good you take it. How fuckin’ ruined you are.”

You whined—pathetic, needy. Your whole body was trembling, oversimulation taking over, heart jackhammering against your ribs. And Joel…

“Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, pace stuttering. “Gonna come so fuckin’ deep you feel me for days.”

Then you heard him groan. It hit all at once—warm and hot and so thick inside you, it made your stomach twist.

Joel kept pushing. Grinding. Emptying everything into you with his jaw clenched and breath stuttering.

You cried out—overwhelmed, stunned, mind white-hot and blank. It was all too much. Too much heat, breath, heartbeat, and sweat. The air around you thick and quiet, like the house itself had stilled to make space for what just happened.

Your cheek was pressed to the couch, your chest heaving. Your knees trembled where they’d gone weak. Your fingers were still laced with his, though neither of you had moved.

And he was still inside you.

Or maybe it just felt like he was. The weight of him, of what he’d just given you, settled so deep, so complete, it didn’t feel like something that would leave anytime soon.

Then you felt it. His breath on your spine.

A kiss.

Just between your shoulder blades. Warm and lingering.

Another, lower. Then one to the side of your neck, his lips pressing into the flushed skin like they had all the time in the world.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak yet. Could barely think. But God, you leaned up into him.

Shivering a little, your muscles twitching, nerves frayed, but still chasing every brush of his mouth. You could feel him softening in you, feel the shift in his breathing, calmer now.

His nose brushed the back of your neck. “I didn’t mean to go that hard,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin between words. “You always just—fuck. You bring it outta me.”

You closed your eyes. Your hand found his again, right where he’d dropped it at your hip. You tangled your fingers, holding him.

“You okay?” he asked again, a little lower this time.

“Mmhm.”

He chuckled, just under his breath. “That all you got in you?”

“Don’t make me talk, Miller.” You hummed, too wrecked to laugh. 

Another kiss. Your shoulder this time.

“I’m serious,” he said, quieter now. “You need water? Blanket?”

“Maybe… a new back,” you whispered.

He laughed for real then. Low and breathy. God, you loved that laugh.

“Smartass,” he murmured.

Joel pulled out slowly, quiet and attentive.

You winced. A soft inhale through your teeth. Your whole body trembled once, a shiver slipping down your spine like your nerves hadn’t figured out that you were done.

And then you felt it.

Warmth. A slow trickle between your thighs.

Joel stilled behind you. You didn’t have to look at him to know he was watching.

Closely. Intently. Probably with that smug, twitchy-lipped expression he wore when he was trying not to look smug.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice hoarse as you buried your face into the couch cushion. “Don’t say a word.”

Silence.

Then: a short huff. Half a chuckle. A shake of his head. “I didn’t say anythin’,” he muttered.

You lifted your head just enough to side-eye him. He was standing now. Somehow still put-together while you were bare and wrecked in the living room sunlight. His belt hung loosely open, jeans low on his hips, cock still out.

He looked down at you like you were the prettiest mess he’d ever seen.

You sighed, every limb jelly. “Joel.”

“I’ll get somethin’,” he said simply. Voice flat. Not unkind—just Joel.

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall. You took a breath. Stood up slowly. Very slowly.

“Oh—shit,” you whispered, biting your lip as you shifted your weight to maneuver around the couch to sit. The movement sent a dull ache radiating through your thighs and lower back. Everything between your legs was sore. Sticky. Tender.

Your arms wrapped instinctively across your chest—not out of shame, but because your skin felt loud. Touched in every sense of the word.

You looked around your living room. The way the sun hit the hardwood. The TV was still playing, now with an ad that was sponsoring some new water bottle.

And there you were. Naked. Blown apart. Sitting on a couch you complained constantly about.

Great.

Joel returned with a warm towel in one hand and a bottle of cold water in the other, zipped up and looking a tad bit flushed. He handed you the towel first wordlessly, and you took it with a whispered, “Thanks.”

He didn’t move far. Just leaned a hip against the armrest and waited. You cleaned yourself slowly.

Carefully.

The towel was soft and warm from the dryer. You pressed it between your legs and flinched, hips jolting at the sting. Not pain, not exactly. Just the  rawness..

And God, the mess. You breathed through it. Wiped slowly, trying not to tense up, trying not to think about how full you still felt.

And Joel watched.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed. Like he was giving you the space to care for yourself, but couldn’t stop making sure you were okay.

When you were done, you dropped the towel back into his out stretched hand. He handed you the water next. You drank.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just sore.”

“Figured.” He stepped away and returned a second later with a folded t-shirt and another pair of cotton sleep shorts. He didn’t hand them to you, just set them gently beside you on the couch. “These’re clean. I’ll throw the rest in the wash.”

Joel dutifully went around the living room, picking up each of your discarded clothes. His fingers brushed over your panties on the opposite end of the couch, and you swore a smile crossed his face. He then disappeared back into the hallway.

The shirt he gave you was soft and worn—another one of his. Still smelled faintly of him and laundry detergent. You tugged it over your head slow, your limbs still limp, body aching in all the right ways. The cotton shorts were better. And, importantly, clean.

You sank down onto the couch with a quiet exhale, limbs folding in like you’d melted. The TV was still droning on in the background—some post-game commentary, pixelated stats dancing on the screen. 

You grabbed the remote with the tips of your fingers and clicked around until you landed on something quieter. Comforting. Just background hum. A house-hunting show, with soft music and couples debating backsplash options.

You should’ve stood up. You should’ve gone to the kitchen. Started the water. Chopped the garlic. That was the plan, wasn’t it?

But your body wasn’t listening. It was sunk deep into Joel’s shirt—your shirt now—and your limbs were humming, still, faint echoes of everything he’d done to you not even five minutes ago.

And then you heard the washer click on down the hall. Then the creak of the floorboards. The sigh of the hallway. Joel’s footsteps, low and even, approaching from around the corner.

He rounded the corner, changed into a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp from where he’d splashed his face. 

You glanced up, already reaching for the armrest to start pushing yourself up.

“Joel, I need to start on the pasta—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t even like making pasta.”

“I like you not passin’ out in the kitchen ‘cause you’re too stubborn to sit down.”

You huffed, flopping harder against the cushions. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, already heading for the kitchen. “And you’re gonna be walkin’ funny, so maybe hush.”

You covered your face with your hands and groaned.

God, he was impossible.

But you didn’t move. You stayed curled on the couch while he rummaged through into the bags, found the pasta box, clattered the pot onto the stove. You heard him muttering about the olive oil again. He never remembered where you kept it, even though it hadn’t moved in five years.

The water started to boil. You caught the smell of garlic—strong and sharp, mixing with the citrus of the countertop cleaner he must’ve wiped up with after.

He was humming now. Quiet. Just a line or two of something—sounded like it was from the radio. You couldn’t quite place it, but the low timbre of it settled in your ribs like a lullaby.

You peeked over the back of the couch.

Joel stood barefoot at the stove, spoon in one hand, your favorite chipped mug full of water in the other, waiting for the timer to go off. The sunlight caught on the edge of his watch. Alongside that, his wedding band glinted.

Your chest squeezed.

It hit you like it always did after days like this—when your body was sore, and your heart felt wrung out, and the house was quiet. That ache of love. That sense of this is real. This man. This home. This life. Five years of inside jokes and laundry folded wrong and everything in between.

You leaned your cheek against the back cushion and watched him for a moment longer, smiling softly to yourself.

You then tell yourself it was fine to just let Joel do it—to lay back, enjoy the pleasure of being cared for, every ounce of soreness earned and every bite of pasta lovingly stirred by the same hands that’d destroyed you.

But the moment he muttered something about not being able to find the damn colander—again—you were already on your feet.

You padded into the kitchen slow, your knees sore but steadied. The ache between your legs was sharp, but not enough to stop you. You leaned against the fridge for a beat, watching Joel try to juggle both the spoon and the strainer.

He clocked you instantly. Didn’t even turn, just said, “No.”

You blinked, faking innocence. “What?”

“I told you to sit down.”

You reached up and grabbed the block of cheese from the grocery bags. “Just grating cheese. I’m not building a deck.”

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Gratin’ cheese turns into settin’ the table, then stirrin’ the sauce, then fillin’ glasses—”

“I’m just grating,” you repeated, fighting back a smile as you pulled the grater down from the cabinet and got to work.

He groaned under his breath. “You don’t listen to a damn thing I say.”

“No,” you chirped. “Not a one.”

He went back to stirring, jaw working like he was biting back whatever scolding he wanted to give you. You didn’t look at him—just grated slowly, deliberately, watching curls of cheese pile onto the plate.

There was a silence as you both worked. Only the sound of water bubbling and voices of a couple decided between city or suburban life echoed between you both. Then, quietly, you placed down the cheese and grater, and stepped around him

You didn’t say anything at first—just looped your arms around his neck from behind and pressed a kiss to the nape of it, right where his skin was still a little warm.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Joel sighed. “You’re ‘pose to be gratin’ cheese. Why are you kissin’ me?”

You smiled, let your lips trail to his shoulder, pressing soft kisses there through his shirt. Then another. And another.

One to his jaw. Another to the spot just behind his ear.

Finally, he turned—just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What’s all that for?”

You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his shoulder.

“I love you,” you murmured. “And all your little grievances.”

He stilled.

“…Grievances,” he repeated, flat.

“Mhm.”

His brow twitched. “The hell does that mean?”

You grinned against his cheek. “Just sayin’ I love all the Joel-isms. The stuff you complain about every day.”

“Complain?”

“Yep.”

He turned now, fully, the spoon still in his hand, water boiling quietly behind him. “Like what.”

You counted on your fingers. “The thermostat. The towels being folded ‘wrong.’ Your mystery colander you keep misplacing. People who park too close to your truck. People who walk too slow at the store. Mushrooms—”

“I hate mushrooms.”

“Exactly,” you laughed. “And you complain about them like they’ve been made to spite you.”

“They are,” he grumbled, but his mouth twitched.

You kissed him again. This time slower. Right on the lips. Your fingers hooked behind his neck now, your body slotting up against his.

“And I love all of it,” you whispered.

He was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Even when I get pissy ‘cause you wear that dress to the grocery store?”

You grinned against his mouth. “Especially then.”

Joel huffed, but he was smiling now, really smiling, that quiet, softened version of it that only ever showed up at home, when no one else was around to see.

You rested your cheek against him again. Let him hold you.

The water boiled behind you. Garlic and tomatoes scented the air. Mushrooms in a pack laid unopened.

But neither of you moved.

Because some grievances could wait.

It’s official, Tumblr hates me 😭. A girl can’t write fan fic in peace without having to gut her work to fit the 1000 block limit.

Can you guys tell I'm obsessed with domestic Joel?? I love all the requests that ask me to do Joel when he's your husband/boyfriend. Hehe...