Shameless Hussy™

You didn’t set out to hire a contractor with the sole purpose of cheating on your husband. It just happened.

In all fairness, he cheated first. Consistently and repeatedly. His ongoing affairs are the reason you’ve found yourself in this situation in the first place. 

In truth, it started long before his infidelity had. You knew marrying him was a mistake the moment he showed just how little he cared for you and your needs, miniscule as they may be, in your opinion. 

You married Jeremy straight out of college, which was your first miscalculation. Guys your age never quite met your standards of what a healthy and loving relationship should be. But you married him anyway because you thought it’s what you had to do.

His job in finance allowed you to buy the house of your dreams, though it definitely needed some work. He promised you – insisted – that he could take care of the repairs himself despite having the financial means to hire someone else to do it and zero experience doing any sort of manual labor. Your career was just as lucrative as his, so between the two of you, there was no reason you couldn’t afford to hire someone to do the job. You lost track of the amount of times you’d fought him on the topic.

Just hire someone! No, I can do it myself! When? I’ll start soon, I swear!

He never started soon. And now, it’s been five years

The home itself was perfect – full of mid-century modern charm, large, bright windows, sleek, low-pitched roof, open floor plan. You loved it. You did not love the orange shag carpet or the lime green cabinets in the kitchen, nor were you a fan of the square teal tiling covering every inch of both bathrooms. But those problems could be easily resolved. 

Your husband, cheating, vile, misogynistic scumbag that he is, was considerably less simple to deal with.

When you discovered his habitual adultery, you were surprised to feel nothing but anger. Not hurt. Not betrayal. Just pure, unbridled anger.  You hadn’t been happy in years, and quite frankly, you weren’t sure you ever were. 

It sparked a thirst for retaliation in you that couldn’t be quenched without taking full and total control of your life again. 

First on your to-do list was filing for a divorce. You had all the proof you needed to back up your claims of his infidelity – texts, phone calls, receipts for motels – Jeremy was not smart, nor was he careful, which made the task incredibly simple. Seeing as he fucked anything with a pulse, you had plenty of evidence to go on. Your lawyer was astonished, either at his stupidity or the sheer amount of women Jeremy has been caught with, you weren’t sure.

Next, you gathered the funds you needed in order to complete the renovation to your home, and luckily, you’d been saving for that specific task. You wanted him to be dumbstruck when he saw the final product, and then you would hand him the divorce papers and tell him to get the hell out.

Finally, you had to hire the right contractors to get the job done. This proved to be your most ardent task yet. 

It took you weeks to find a suitable contractor to take on your project. You vetted and price checked and examined their work with a scrutiny that would impress even the most seasoned detectives. You took recommendations, avoided certain ones entirely, and finally landed on Miller & Miller Construction.

Their website had no flair. No pizazz. No gimmicks. It was plain, clean, and it showcased their work in stunning clarity. You were impressed. The custom cabinetry was just what you’d been looking for, the craftsmanship simple, but precise. Their eye for design, their workmanship, everything spoke to you. You set up a consultation and met with them as soon as you could.

Joel and Tommy were two completely opposing entities that you weren’t quite sure how to read. Tommy did most of the talking, his smile easy and bright, immediately likable, while Joel sat quietly, eyes trained on you, not exactly frowning, but there was no smile to be had on his face either. You liked them, despite how quiet the elder Miller was, grizzled hair, trimmed scruff on his jaw and chin, mustache flecked with grey.

Something about him made you squirm. 

You could tell immediately how their dynamic worked. Tommy was the salesman, the entrepreneur, the frontman. And Joel was the brawn, the craftsman – it showed in the rough edges of his features, his hands, his discerning eyes. Though, you’re sure they both put in their fair share of hard labor.

Tommy had a tablet in front of him, typing out the details of your project. Joel paced the kitchen, measuring, examining, testing. You watched him, admiring the slope of his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint hints of grey in his beard, rippling muscles hidden under a flannel and a t-shirt.

You blinked out of your haze when Tommy spoke.

“Full-scale kitchen remodel. Custom cabinetry. Updated appliances. Marble counters – that won’t be cheap,” Tommy muttered, but you waved your hand.

“It’s covered. I’ve been saving for years.”

His grin flashed, warm and friendly, “Don’t worry, we won’t drain it all.” He types something else out, muttering, “Hardwood floors, new trim, drywalling, tiling..” he trailed off, listing out everything the two of you had discussed for the entirety of the house. When he was done, he looked across at you with a smile, “I’ll get you an estimate in about a week or so.”

You almost bounced in your seat, giddy with the prospect of your home finally coming to life. You were so ecstatic you almost forgot about the wreckage of your marriage.

“We’ll have our design team set up a consultation, pick materials, colors and such, and then we can get you a fixed timeline. Do you have any questions for us?”

Your eyes darted between him and his stoic older brother before shaking your head, “No, thank you so much.”

In all of your searches and meetings with various contractors in the area, it was the first time you felt seen. They didn’t ask if you needed your husband’s approval. They didn’t ask if he wanted input in the project. Didn’t even ask if you had a husband. But it was clear in your surroundings – the framed picture of you two on your wedding day situated right behind you on the china cabinet, the men’s tennis shoes discarded by the door, the ugly recliner just visible in the living room. Your wedding ring.

Your meeting with their design team went even better – though team was a bit of an overstatement. A woman your age, friendly, bright, excited to help you design your kitchen. Her name was Winona, and she was bubbly without being obnoxious, smart without being a knowitall. And best of all, she took your design ideas and turned them into something spectacular. You loved her.

Jeremy was on a business trip, probably fucking anything that moved, when you signed the final contract to get the house started. And the progress was swift. Efficient for two guys who did all the work themselves. You wondered, briefly, how many projects they normally took on. If they had a crew doing work elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. They were working on your house. 

And Tommy was right. The estimate he provided didn’t drain all you’d saved for the project. You had just enough left over to tuck away for your lawyer fees for your inevitable divorce. Something you were wildly ecstatic about.

Over the course of two weeks, Tommy and Joel arrived at seven am on the dot, ripping apart your house piece by piece, hauling things away, cleaning up the site, and working at a scarily efficient tempo.

By the end of the first week, they’d had the upper level of your home completely bare, painted in the soft, off-white color you’d chosen for the hallways, and the corresponding colors you’d chosen for your office, bedroom, and guest room. You slept on the couch while the upstairs was under construction, and by the end of the second week, you were back in your bedroom, adding the decorative touches you’d been working on while they did the hard labor.

Now that your primary living space was completed, they’d moved on to the rest of the house, spending two weeks alone on the bathrooms, and another full day hauling debris from your house.

You enjoyed seeing them bright and early every day. Tommy’s friendly smile, Joel’s gruff nod. After just under a month, you’d grown accustomed to them. You offered them coffee, brewed in your home office instead of the kitchen, and had bagels and fruit out on the kitchen table for them to enjoy at their leisure. Tommy ate the bagels and fruit. Joel guzzled coffee like it would cure whatever had him looking so grumpy all the time. 

You chatted with Tommy during your lunch breaks, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed his company. He was charming and friendly and sweet and nothing like his quietly cantankerous brother. You were lucky if you got more than two words out of Joel in a day, but Tommy was quickly becoming the highlight of the entire project.

You learned a lot about him, and incidentally Joel, every time the two of you sat down for lunch. He told you about their construction company, the scale of their work, and how business has really picked up over the last couple of months. He told you about his wife, Maria, and how she was due to give birth any day now. He expressed his excitement, his trepidation, and joy at becoming a father. He’d had a lot of practice with Joel’s daughter, but she was grown now. That surprised you.

You couldn’t picture Joel getting close enough to someone to have a child with them.

While Joel cut lumber on your back patio, you lowered your voice and asked, “He’s married?”

Tommy took a heaping bite of his sandwich and shook his head, “Nah, wife ran off a couple months after Sarah was born. ‘S just him now that Sarah’s gone off to school in Washington.”

You could see Joel through the patio door, hunched over a piece of lumber, marking it with a pencil, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused. You hadn’t let yourself examine him very closely, but watching him work, you were struck by how handsome he was. You’d thought so when you first met the pair of them, but you were so focused on getting the project off the ground, you paid little attention.

His green flannel drew tight over his shoulders and biceps, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tucked the pencil behind his ear as he maneuvered the piece of wood into place and ripped it through the saw. His forearms tensed, fingers deft and precise as he pulled the wood through. His jaw clenched as he examined it, flicked away the sawdust, eyes singularly focused on his task. 

“Easy, sugar,” Tommy drawled, snapping you out of your trance, “He’s a surly old bastard. Don’t wanna get mixed up with that.”

You gaped at him, cheeks coloring, pressing a hand to your chest, “Excuse me? That would be highly inappropriate.” You tried to sound glib, but Tommy was right. You were attracted to Joel. And you were aching for someone to touch you. 

You hadn’t had sex in nearly a year thanks to Jeremy’s exploits. You were not interested in contracting an STD from him, and you were so disgusted by him, the thought of having sex with him turned your stomach.

In the month since the project began, Jeremy had only been home twice, complaining about the mess and the dust and screaming at you for going through with the renovation when he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself.

“Who’s paying for all of this anyway?” He asked derisively. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. Joel and Tommy were downstairs, completing the tile work for the guest bathroom, and you knew they could hear every word. “I bet they’re taking you for a ride. Women always get scammed by contractors, are you stupid?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy!” You shouted at him, unable to contain your fury. “Why don’t you just go back to fucking your assistant and keep your shitty opinions to yourself!” You stormed out of the room, slamming the door in his face and retreating to the back patio where Joel was hunched over a wet saw, lining up a tile to cut with with the precision you’d come to expect from him.

He looked up at you, his face neutral, lips set in a firm line, dark eyes assessing.

“Everying alright?”

Stunned by his gentle voice, you’d been unable to speak, simply nodding your head and watching as he nodded back and hunched over the saw again.

Jeremy left, and hadn’t been back since.

Between your frustration at your husband, and Tommy’s comment about Joel, a spark of determination lit inside you like dry shrub in a wild fire. Your previously controlled, distant admiration of Joel transformed into a cloying, desperate urge, and he was the one and only thing on your mind.

But that didn’t mean anything would happen. Not with Joel’s sour disposition and gruff exterior. Talking to Tommy was easy. Talking to Joel – well, there was very little that came out of his mouth, so you weren’t sure it could be qualified as talking. Which is why it was so shocking to you that he’d spoken to you in the first place.

You tried. You really did. Every time he came to your office for a coffee refill, you immediately dropped what you were doing in order to strike up a conversation with him. But he never budged. Just grunted, gave one word answers, sometimes even just stared at you like you hadn’t spoken at all. You wondered why he even bothered coming into your office in the first place. Why not just send Tommy to get his refills if it was such a burden to talk to you?

His silence perturbed you. And you were determined to get his attention. 

You were so desperate, you started wearing less. Instead of yoga pants and a conservative pull over sweater, you switched to shorts and loose t-shirts that hung off your shoulder. It was an easy switch to make as the last remnants of chilly spring weather finally succumbed to the prickling heat of summer.

If Joel noticed your slowly deteriorating selection of moderate clothing, he didn’t let on. And the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.

Instead of letting him come to you for coffee, you brought the pot out to him, low cut, form fitting, spaghetti strap top displaying your perky breasts. Your shorts barely covered your ass. And he didn’t even blink.

“Coffee?” You ask coquettishly, lifting your chest just a touch. His eyes stayed on yours, steadfast, hard, and determined, as he held his mug out for you to fill.

“Thanks,” he grunted, taking a large gulp. 

“Hot today,” you point out, the beginning of summer making its presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside? Take a break?”

His eyes never strayed. Not once. He shook his head, “Tommy should be back with more lumber any minute.”

It’s the most words you've heard leave his mouth in a consecutive string. It emboldens you.

You nod at the comfortable, air conditioned living room just on the other side of the French doors, “Just a quick break. I can get you something cold to drink. Lemonade? A beer?”

You were pushing, and he wasn’t conceding, turning back to the makeshift work table he had set up under the shade of your patio; three saw horses with a large piece of plywood acting as the tabletop, “‘M alright, darlin’. Why don’t you go cool off?”

Darlin’. That subtle Texas drawl, syrupy smooth, deep and rich like honey. He’d called you Darlin’. 

You shouldn’t devote too much thought to it. Tommy calls you ‘Sugar’ all the time. Even goes as far as ‘Sweetheart’ on some occasions. But it was natural coming from him. Harmless and utterly platonic. He’s a smooth talker and a schmoozer. From Joel, it was so foreign, so out of character, you didn’t know what to do. He’d hardly said two words to you in the past, and now he’s giving you sweet nicknames. Calling you Darlin’ was just as harmless as Tommy calling you Sugar, but it did something to you.

You left him on the patio and shuffled back to your office, dazed. 

You liked it, you realized, skin flushed and heat simmering low in your belly. You wanted him to do it again. Call you by more endearing pet names. Even in your five years of marriage to Jeremy, he’d only ever addressed you by your name or a condescending ‘babe’. You hadn’t realized how pathetically you’d been yearning for more. Something softer, sweeter, kinder. Not until Joel.

But he didn’t seem interested. Should you be more direct? Ask him, outright, if he was attracted to you? Should you strip naked and throw yourself at him? No, no. That was too direct. You had more self respect than that. Maybe. Probably not.

Jeremy had neglected you for so long, your mind was spinning out of control. You want to be wanted. You want to be touched. And you want Joel.

When Tommy returned with the lumber, you watched them unload it from his pickup truck. Joel shed his flannel and was now clad in a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps, his back spotted with sweat and his muscles bulging with the effort of lugging wood into your home. Fuck, you couldn’t stand it.

You have to do something about this ache between your legs. The sudden, unquenchable thirst you feel for him. If skimpy outfits and shy invitations to join you for coffee don’t do it, you know what will. And it’s just about as close to stripping naked as you could get.

When Joel arrives the next day, without Tommy, you greet him with a smile, a fresh pot of coffee, and a question in your gaze that asks where his brother is.

“Wife went into labor late last night. I’ll be finishin’ up without him,” he grunts, though without any of the typical irritability that comes with the need to socialize. Maybe the birth of his nephew had softened him.

You’re a little sad you won’t get to see Tommy, but thrilled to have Joel all to yourself.

As you step aside to let him in, you don’t miss the way his eyes flit down your bare legs. You hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still clad in your oversized sleep shirt that barely hangs down past your ass. 

As he sets about getting his bearings from where he left off the previous day, you pour him a cup of coffee and toast and butter a bagel for him, knowing he doesn’t much care for the indulgence of cream cheese or jelly. He thanks you with a grunt and shuffles his way onto the patio to get started. Your eyes linger on the way his navy t-shirt stretches across his broad, muscular back.

After you change into a revealing tank top and the shortest shorts you own, you coop yourself up in your office to get some work done. But when you’re done for the day, you can’t help yourself. You check in on him, peering through the back doors and asking if he wants something to eat. You expect him to decline, but when he graciously accepts, you bounce giddily to the kitchen to make him a sandwich. 

Today is different. You can feel it. 

When you present him with the sandwich, he dusts his hands on his jeans and nods at you in thanks, but doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, eyes flitting to your cleavage so quickly, you think you imagine it. But then he looks you dead in the eyes as he takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly.

Something in you snaps and your blood heats, making your skin flush. You rush away from him, and as you retreat inside, you swear you hear him chuckle.

With your heart racing and an idea bubbling to life in your mind, you race upstairs and start digging through your closet until you find exactly what you’re searching for. If he wants to tease you, you’re going to tease him right back.

You pull on a white and blue bikini with strings that tie at the hips, around the base of your neck, and at the middle of your back. After applying a nude gloss to your lips and dabbing a light amount of makeup across your cheeks, you pull on a black sheer coverup, that flows down past your ankles, leaving it open. It does little to hide your scantily clad body as you tiptoe back downstairs with a book and a bottle of tanning oil in your grip.

You walk past the back door as deliberately as you can, making sure to catch his attention as you carefully maneuver your way through your deconstructed kitchen to fill a glass with ice water and lemon slices. With your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, you finally step onto the patio, your tits on display, legs bare and gleaming, and smile coy and searching.

”I’m going to lay out by the pool for a bit. If you get hungry or thirsty, help yourself to anything you like,” you tell him, feigning disinterest. Acting like you don’t see the way his throat bobs and his eyes greedily drink you in. He doesn’t say anything to you as you take the three short steps down to your yard and traipse over to your pool.

The early summer sun is blazing hot, and sweat prickles your skin the moment you lay out on your teakwood lounger, the white cushion comfortable but warm from the heat of the day. Your eyes dart toward Joel to make sure he’s watching, and you slowly slip out of your coverup, intentionally dropping it and bending at the waist to pluck it off the stone pavers surrounding your pool.

It feels almost comically pornographic to resort to this type of temptation, but with the blatant way he watches you, it’s worth it.

You lean back on the lounger, snatching up your book and flipping to the page you’d left off on. It’s some tawdry romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the front. Painfully transparent with little to no plot, but you’re not reading it for the plot, anyway.

Your skin prickles with awareness, your eyes darting toward Joel every few minutes to catch him watching you for the briefest moment before he returns to the meticulous work of assembling your cabinetry. 

When your ice water is half gone and too warm to enjoy, you decide to take a brief dip into the pool. You stand, adjusting your bottoms, pulling them up just a touch, before wading slowly into the rippling water. The effect is instant, the water immediately cooling you and making goosebumps pebble across your skin, tightening your nipples. 

You’re careful not to get your hair wet, brushing it aside as you drift further in, then back toward the shallow end. A quick glance in his direction makes you frown. His back is to you, broad shoulders leaned over his plywood table. 

The power saw buzzes to life, then quiets. He blows away the sawdust, t-shirt damp with sweat. Biceps straining as he joins two pieces of wood together, fastening them with a clamp. You’re enraptured by his focus. Envious of your very own cabinets and wishing he’d look at you with such deliberate intent and concentration. House be damned.

When you can tell he’s about to turn in your direction, you climb out of the pool, allowing the water to trickle off your frame and slick down your body. You run a hand down your stomach, briefly toying with the pink jewel at your naval, then adjust your bottoms again as you strut back to the lounger.

Under the dark, impenetrable lenses of your sunglasses, your eyes dart to him. He’s staring, his throat bobbing, hands tight around the clamps he’s using to fasten the cabinets together. 

You hide your smile, laying out on your towel to let the sun soak up the water from your skin. You feel his eyes on you more prominently than the moisture coating your body. With a sly smile, you push your sunglasses down your nose to look at him.

“Hey, Joel?” Voice dripping with honey and mischief.

“Yeah, darlin’?” He calls back, still watching. Not even bothering to pretend anymore. And he calls you that name again. Darlin’. Your core clenches.

Biting your lip, you give him a coquettish look that’s all sin and wicked intention, “Will you help me put on some sunscreen?”

Straight out of a porno. The oldest trick in the book. Painfully, achingly transparent. You’re inviting him to touch you. And even from afar, you can see his resolve snap. Eyes darkening, posture going rigid.

“You sure about that?” He asks, voice tight and rough.

You nod, biting your lip for good measure, “Uh huh.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and a devilish smile spreads across your face, triumphant. Joel dusts his hands off on his jeans, trudges down the patio steps, and prowls over to your lounger. His tall, broad frame eclipses the sun, casting shade over you. You grin and roll onto your stomach, acutely aware of the way your ass looks in your tiny bikini.

“Sunscreen, there,” you point to the bottle of tanning lotion on the teakwood table next to you. It’s more of an oil with UV protection, but the idea is the same: you want him to rub it all over your body, and then fuck you senseless.

The scent of pine and leather wraps around you as he sits on the edge of the lounger, careful not to touch you. He grabs the oil and huffs a laugh, “This ain’t sunscreen.”

“It has UV protection!” You argue.

“This is nothin’ more than body oil.”

“Still. Please?” You ask, looking back at him and resting your cheek on your arms. He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling against the smile he’s trying to fight off.

“Ain’t payin’ me to lather you up, honey,” he says under his breath, flicking the cap of the oil open and drizzling it along your back.

“That’s okay. You need a break.”

He hums, setting the bottle aside. Your entire body tingles with anticipation, waiting for his skin on yours. You wait and wait, feeling the oil drip along your spine, your shoulders. Then, finally, the coarse surface of his work roughed hand meets your skin and you shiver.

“S’it okay if I untie this?” He asks, voice so low, so smooth, you’re sure you imagined it. But then you feel his fingers playing with the ties at your neck and you nod, frantically, too eager. “Of course it is.”

You almost giggle. He knows what you’re doing and he’s still placating you. You wiggle a little when he unties the neck, then the back, leaving you bare from the waist up. The moment his hands are back on you, you gasp. Pressure firm, but gentle. Sure and thorough as he spreads the oil around your skin. Brushing your hair aside, he massages the oil into your neck. You peek at him to see that concentrated look on his face. Like tearing him away from his task would undo him.

Then, both of his palms press into your back, eliciting a moan straight from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, but the pressure is so divine, you almost do it again. 

“Feels okay?” He mutters, hands skimming down your body, your waist, your lower back, and then up again. His fingers graze the sides of your breasts and you nod again. God, if he stopped now, you think you’d cry.

Every pass of his hands turns you to jelly, and soon, he moves down to your legs, first starting at your ankles, then up your calves, careful not to go much further than the bend in your knee. You’re soaked. Skin humming with the effects of his firm, soothing touch, heated by the sun, and glowing faintly with the sheen of oil.

When you feel his hand inch up the inside of your thigh, you suck in a breath.

”Relax,” he coaxes, moving from the top of your thigh down to your knee and back up again. Over and over and over, pressing a little firmer on the way up, and stopping just short of the gusset of your skimpy bikini. “You told me to help myself to anything I liked.”

You did say that. And then you called him over to you to touch you freely. You grin, peeking up at him, cheek resting against your arms, “And you like me?”

His cheeks dimple, his smile so soft, so sexy, you almost say to hell with your little ruse. Something between a grunt and a laugh escapes him, “Darlin’, you got no idea.”

Darlin’. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it. You feel yourself grow damp as he moves his hands to your other thigh, repeating the same, torturous ministrations. But this time, he goes so much higher, you think he’s going to graze the covered, soaked apex of your desperately neglected pussy. He never does. Massages right below it. There’s no reason to put oil there, but he does it anyway. His thumbs get closer, massaging circles into your skin, very nearly grazing you, teasing, refusing to give you what you want.

When his hands leave you, you almost cry out in protest, but then he’s nudging your hip, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

As you lift up to turn, you toss your bikini top aside, having no desire to feign modesty any longer. He knows it, and you know it. You want him to fuck you.

His eyes spark with interest as they land on your breasts, perky and waiting, nipples tight from your dip in the pool. You lie back, making yourself comfortable as he stares. 

He chuckles, deep and smooth, “Not bein’ shy no more, are you?”

You grin in response as he grabs the oil and drizzles it over your chest, your stomach, and along your arms. He starts at your hands, making sure you’re fully covered, his large ones engulfing them completely in his grasp. The texture of his fingers is rough, but you like it as he moves his way up your wrists, your forearms, and then toward your shoulders, massaging along the way.

“Mm, Joel,” you sigh, his hands rubbing the oil into you completely before moving on. He presses his thumbs into your shoulders, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He still doesn’t touch you there, but then one hand wraps around your throat, resting, thumbing your pulse point where it hammers rapidly against your skin.

“Lookin’ so pretty,” he says quietly, keeping one hand on your neck while the other finally finally covers your breast. The initial touch is feather light, thumb grazing your nipple. Then, he presses firmer, his entire hand covering you with his palm while he kneads and massages. His hand leaves your neck only to cover your other breast, and you’re giddy with need as he works you into a whimpering, keening mess. “That feel good, darlin’?”

“So good,” you nod, grabbing his wrist to keep him there, demanding more.

He hums, keeping the hand you’ve now possessed on your breast, while the other moves down to rub oil into your tummy. His hands are a work of art, skilled in so many ways. You’re trembling by the time he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. His pinky slips under the hem, making you gasp. He withdraws and does it again, rubbing back and forth until your hips move up to seek his touch.

“Want me to take these off?” He asks, tugging at the strings, already knowing your answer before you nod rapidly.

“Off, please. Take them off.”

His reply is a deep grunt, and you think that must be his grumpy little way of teasing you, “Needy little thing.”

The bottoms come off, and you’re bared to him, your center slick with need and ready to be fucked. But you just know he’s going to take his time. Simultaneously, you can’t stand it, but you also yearn for it. Being teased and molded into a whimpering mess, desperate for his touch. Your husband has never made you feel like this. Sexy. Desirable. Loved.

“Fuck, look at that pussy, baby,” he groans, still not touching you where you really, really need it. He’s massaging your hips now, leaning over you in a way that’s almost obscene as he gets closer to your slick heat. His thumbs press into your hips, then down your thighs until he’s rubbing oil into your legs, still neglecting you, even though every pretense of professionalism has all but burned up in the wake of your arousal.

“Joel,” you whine, arching your hips.

“Patience,” he answers sternly. And that’s that. Nothing more. 

Every stroke up and down your leg is torture as he repeats the same teasing he’d done to the backs of your legs. Getting closer and closer to your pussy, but never fully touching. You’re so eager, your slick coats your thighs, and on a final pass, he rubs it into your skin before his fingers finally graze your clit. You suck in a sharp breath, your hand shooting out to grab him again. To keep him there. Because if he stops now, you think you’ll actually die.

You look up at him, his eyes dark, his grin wide. You’ve never seen him smile like that, and it’s blinding, warm, and teasing. He rubs circles over your clit delicately, not pressing too hard, not too light. It’s so perfect and you’re so on edge that it has you on the precipice of your orgasm faster than you can blink.

And then he eases up, halting your peak so quickly, your hips buck, making you moan in protest, “No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Joel.”

“Ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’, baby,” he says softly, “Just need to get a better look at you.”

And then he shifts, gently lowering himself to the ground, knees probably screaming in protest, and grabbing you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the lounger, slightly askew on the cushion, but still comfortable. He lowers his head, making you squirm, lips brushing against your hip, across your tummy, briefly pausing to kiss around the pink belly button piercing. You arch your hips, enticing him.

“So eager,” he grumbles, one hand spreading your thigh, hooking it onto his shoulder, the other running up your opposite leg, kneading and massaging you into a puddle.

“I need — I need—“ you breathe, one hand clutching the teakwood, the other reaching for him, digging into the muscles of his shoulder.

“What do you need, baby?”

Your chest is heaving as he plants another kiss below your bellybutton, still massaging your leg while his other hand keeps your thigh firmly planted over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he sighs, inching down. It’s torture. It’s pure, unbridled torture — waiting for him. You’re a slick mess, oiled up, pussy wet, walls fluttering around nothing. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats.

“I need your tongue,” you gasp, the prickle of his beard on your skin driving you insane. You never would have guessed this. That Joel Miller is a fucking tease. That he’s slow and methodical. That he enjoys making you squirm. But here he is, peppering kisses all across your body, everywhere except your aching core, “Please, make me cum. Please, Joel.”

His chuckle is deep, a hint of red coloring his cheeks and neck, either from the sun or arousal, you don’t care.

“Since you asked nicely.”

And then his mouth is on you, hands spreading your thighs wide, keeping you open for him as he drags his tongue from your weeping cunt to your clit where he sucks, teasing you, making you gasp for air, arching your back off the lounger.

Your burrow a hand into his hair — it’s damp with sweat, but that doesn’t bother you in the slightest. 

His mouth is devastating against you, licking stripe after stripe up your slit, pausing briefly to suck and nibble at your clit until you’re sobbing with need. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, he pushes one, thick finger into you, stretching you. The burn makes you cry out, the slow drag sending prickles of lightning up your spine.

“This is what you wanted, right, darlin’?” He asks, voice rough with arousal, eyes nearly black as he slowly pumps his finger into you. “It’s why you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that. No pants on. Shorts barely coverin’ you, askin’ me to touch you. Askin’ to get fucked.”

You can’t answer. Your voice stalls in your throat. You can only nod, frantically. He adds a second finger and it almost undoes you. You’re so fucking close. He pushes them deep, leaning down to tease your clit again with his mouth, sucking hard, groaning.

“How do you think your husband would feel if he knew his pretty little wife was gettin’ fucked by the help?” 

He twists his fingers, curling them just so. He prods at the sensitive, soft spot inside you, making your arch.

“Ex. Ex — husband. Soon.”

He hums, “Judging by that ring, he’s no ex.”

It takes every ounce of will power you have to rip your hand away from him and tear the ring off your finger. It glints in the sun and clatters on the table next to you when you slam it down. Then your hand is back in his hair, urging him back to your cunt where he grins and licks you again, this time not pausing, not slowing.

Your orgasm is volcanic, blinding. You think you scream. You know your fingers clench around his hair so tight, you’re in danger of pulling it out of his scalp. And he just keeps going. Finger fucking you into oblivion, tasting your release on his tongue, moaning against you as you ride the waves of your climax into bliss.

You’re trembling when he lifts himself off the ground, fingers still probing deep, hunting for another orgasm. He leans over you, bracing his other hand next to your head, and kisses you. You whimper into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips, tongues stroking and breaths mingling.

“Joel,” you moan when he removes his fingers, leaving you empty and limp. But he’s not pulling away. He’s kissing down your neck, sucking a spot just below your ear that drives you crazy that your husband always neglects, and undoing his belt.

“Tell me what you need,” he says into your neck. But he already knows. You know he knows. You’ve been begging for it this entire time.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you whine, hands searching for the end of his shirt. They slip underneath, and you moan at the way his muscles feel under your fingertips. He’s warm and rough and you want to see him. “Off.”

He hums, leaning up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere among your discarded bikini. He comes back to you, lips hot on yours while you concentrate your efforts on getting his jeans undone. He’s hard against your hand as you pull the zipper down, aching and needy.

Once his cock is freed, you break away to take him in, and you almost shrink. He is huge, leaking from the tip, resting heavy against your thigh. Even with how wet you are, you don’t know if he’ll fit. But God you want to try. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” he grunts, shoving his jeans and boxers off. He straightens you on the lounger, making room for himself as he climbs over you. He’s golden and glistening in the sun, slick with sweat and your arousal shimmering on his chin. 

The sight of his broad, hard form over you almost makes you cum again. 

He catches you gawking and you could swear he’s trying to fight off a smug smile, but his lips only twitch in amusement instead. Taking his cock in hand, he drags the tip through your folds, making you shudder and reach for his hips, holding him as he hovers, nails pressing a little harder than you intend. He doesn’t seem to mind.

As his tip catches your entrance, he groans, “Nice and wet for me, aren’t you?”

You can only nod, speech evading you as he slowly, cautiously sinks into you. The stretch is everything. You’re so full, so wet, and inconsolable, it makes you mewl in delight. 

“What’s that, darlin’?”

”So — so big. Your cock is so big, Joel,” you sigh, shifting your hips, taking him deeper. The burn is exquisite, but you need him to move. Need him to fuck you into another reality. ”Please..”

”Such pretty little manners,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly.

The first thrust is devastating. The second is mind numbing. And after the third, you’re holding onto him for dear life. It doesn’t take long for you to melt underneath him, arching your hips so he hits at just the right angle. 

“Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” he pants, leaning down to mutter profanities into your ear, nibbling and kissing your neck, “That husband doesn’t take care of you at all does he?”

”No, no, no, never,” you chant, every part of you ready to snap.

“Bet he hasn’t fucked you proper in years,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping together downright obscene. “That’s all you needed, huh, darlin’?”

“Uh huh,” you yelp, almost a broken sob leaving you as he drives into you, “Fuck me, Joel..”

“Nothin’ to worry about now, I’ll take real good care of you.”

You could cry from the relief of it. The way his hips slam into you, how deep he is, how attentive. Even at the strongest point in your marriage, it’s never been like this, and it’s ecstasy.

Pleasure pools low in your belly, his cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you so perfectly, the precipice of your orgasm is on you in an instant. Just as you’re about to cum, he stills, breath heaving, your walls trembling, clenching around him.

“Joel,” you whine, breathless and wanting.

“Not yet, baby,” he tells you, voice syrupy and thick. Pressing a kiss to your neck, then your lips, he sits up on his knees, takes you by the thighs and lifts your hips to grind against him. The position is utterly indecent, back arched, him holding your thighs for leverage while he begins snapping his hips against you. And it’s like he never stopped in the first place.

Your orgasm crashes into you, hands reaching for his wrists to hold on as he towers over you, giving you everything he’s got. The power of his thrusts knocks the breath out of you.

“Take it, baby, fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he grounds out, sweat slicking his muscled chest, dripping down his temple. “You got me so wound up, darlin’, prancin’ around looking sexy as sin. Now I’ve got you all to myself.”

“Don’t stop, please,” you keen, desperately grasping for air, your climax driving away all rational thought and composure. “It’s so good, please, don’t stop.”

“Gonna make me cum, sayin’ things like that.”

You think, then, that you’d be fine with it. Letting him cum inside you, or paint your oiled up body with his seed. Mark you, stake his claim on you. He can cum wherever he wants, you decide, as long as he promises to do it again.

“Ain’t gonna let that piece of shit husband touch you again,” he declares, pinning you with a solid, steady stare, “You’re mine now, darlin’.”

You tell him, then, “Cum inside me, Joel,” nearly sobbing as his powerful thrusts drive you toward another orgasm with blinding speed. His movements are precise and deliberate, his eyes going dark at your words.

You know he wants to do it, that he can’t stop himself even if he wanted to. Even if you weren’t begging for it.

“Yeah?” He huffs, hooking his arms a little higher around your thighs to gain better leverage. You shift your hips, cry out as his cock goes deeper, spearing into you so completely you never want him to leave.

You’re almost sobbing with the approach of another orgasm, one that will undo you and wreck you for the rest of your life. All you can do is nod and gasp and hold onto him as he fucks you deeper. Your neighbors are going to hate you.

“Shit, darlin’,” he grunts, the buck of his hips frantic as he chases his release. When your nails bite into his forearm, the tight coil of his control snaps like a cable and you feel warm ropes of cum fill you. A final orgasm paints stars across your vision, and you faintly hear a guttural moan leave him as you tighten around him once more. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you’re both spent, your muscles aching and fingers sore from how tightly you have them wound around his wrists.

He collapses on top of you in a heap, your bodies slippery with sweat and oil. His hot breath fans over your neck, the weight of him both grounding and comforting. The scruff of his beard prickles your skin as he peppers kisses along your chin, down the column of your throat.

”Ain’t gonna be able to finish those cabinets today,” he grunts.

A slow smile spreads across your lips, ”Why not?”

He lifts his head to gift you with a warm smile of his own, captivated, even after the way he’d fucked you. Surprised that he gives it so willingly now that you’ve had each other in the most physical and intimate manner possible.

”Wanna take you out. Dinner. Will you let me?”

His offer stuns you into silence. 

Yes, you’d practically begged for him to fuck you. Asked him to cum inside you. Told him you were as good as divorced. And yeah, you have every intention of having sex with him again.

But a date? That says something. It speaks volumes to his intentions. Which both frightens and thrills you.

Despite you throwing yourself at him for weeks on end and finally getting what you want, he wants more. And not just your body. 

Your hesitation draws his eyebrows down, “We don’t have to ––“

”I want to,” you answer quickly. But there’s still that lingering sense of doubt. Of trusting someone with yourself only to be stabbed in the back. Betrayed in the most visceral sense. You didn’t have sex with him because you wanted to move on from Jeremy right into another twisted, sickly excuse for a relationship. You just needed attention. And Joel gave it.

He lifts himself off of you and pulls on his jeans, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna ––“

”Joel.”

”I’m too old to be playin’ games, darlin’. If I wasn’t clear before — I like you. More than I should. And I know you’re married, but that didn’t stop us, did it? So if you want this, I’m here. If not, no hard feelin’s.”

He’s half dressed now, jeans buttoned, belt still hanging loose, t-shirt hanging over his broad shoulder. His wide frame blocks the sun, allowing you to see him clearly. No man has ever been as direct and straightforward with his needs. Not like that. It’s… different. Refreshing. Almost unheard of.

You almost want to pull him back down and let him have his way with you again, but you’re a woman of control and poise. You can articulate your needs just as clearly as he has. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in seeing what manifests.

”Dinner would be lovely,” you begin, keeping your expression controlled, “When Jeremy gets back from whatever trip he’s on, I’m serving him the divorce papers.”

You can see the moment when your words sink in, the pleasant twitch of his lips, the way he leans over you and brushes his lips against yours. This kiss is tender and sweet in a way you haven’t experienced from your own husband in years. But it’s what he says next that turns your body into mush and your mind pliant and docile.

“Good girl.”

I apologize for the length of this